When I was growing up, one of my mother’s favorite expressions was "You never know." We’d have to clean the house every Saturday, because … "You never know." If we were in the midst of enjoying a wonderful meal, we had to make sure there were leftovers, because … "You never know." Small pieces of wax paper were saved, along with brown string and empty egg cartons, because … well, you know.

I kept trying to understand what it was that we didn’t know but needed to know. It was certainly enough to make a child anxious. Maybe that was the point. After all, we did have fire drills at school, and we were in the midst of the Cold War—we were even taught to hide under our desks in case of nuclear attacks. Or maybe a meteorite was going to hit the Earth, which was something that our third-grade science teacher, Mr. Funkhauser, told us could happen.

Maybe my mother knew that something bad was going to happen and we had to get ready. I used to ask her, but she would always counter with, "Someday you’ll see." See what? What was I going to see?

I could deal with most of it, but I really had a hard time not being able to wear my patent leather shoes until Easter—especially since we had bought them in February and I had to just look at them every day. The only thing I was allowed to do was put Vaseline on them so they wouldn’t crack. Isn’t that a thrill? I kept begging to wear them, but my mother kept giving me the same answer—you know what she said, don’t you?

The thing that really pushed me over the edge was the underwear. She always bought me the most hideous underpants. She said that they were on sale and the clerk told her that they wouldn’t wear out. Well, I don’t know what the clerk thought I was going to be doing—maybe going into a mineshaft and not coming out for a month? Why did they have to be so sturdy? Why couldn’t I just have the kind that were pretty and feminine, with little flowers and lace?

Well, my mother finally had a weak moment and bought me a pair. I was ecstatic until she said the usual that I couldn’t wear them often because …"You never know." She added that they were going to be my "party pants." That didn’t ease the pain. How many parties does a nine-year-old go to? It’s not as if I were a movie star or something. So the pants stayed in the drawer surrounded by their ugly step-underpants. I probably got to wear them twice. I still have them; they just don’t fit.

As an adult, I now have a much clearer understanding of what "You never know" meant to my mother and why she needed to say it so often. She and my grandparents lived through the Depression and World War II. These folks have been called, "The Greatest Generation" due to their amazing resiliency. They were the product of a world in which the economic present was bleak and the future was scary. As a result, my mother’s ability to enjoy things fully was tinged with dread and guilt. For example, she had a wonderful set of hand-painted dishes that had been in the family since I was 14. We carried them home from a vacation in Bermuda and almost broke our backs, they were so heavy. They were a 12-piece setting, each hand-painted with a blue cornflower. Each one was different. Now, frankly, I think the whole thing was a little crazy. Who cared about the fact that each one was different? What was going to happen—were we all going to compare plates, and say, "Oh, look, yours doesn’t have a stem?"

My mother thought they were incredibly special. And why not? She’d bought them with her hard-earned money, something she pointed out over and over. They sat in the china closet, waiting for those special individuals my mother felt were deserving enough to eat off them. We, the village idiots, weren’t good enough to eat on these superior dishes under ordinary circumstances. Every once in a while she’d remind me that she was leaving them to me. For a long time, I really relished the thought. One day, two years ago, she asked, "Do you want the dishes?" I thought, You must be kidding. My idea of dinnerware now is some plastic plates to eat takeout on.

I don’t think my mother was mean, and I don’t think she really thought her family was unworthy of the good plates. She was simply living the life she was taught to live. We all inherit a point of view from our families and our societies that, for better or worse, creates who we are and what we believe. We often inherit concepts about life but don’t really understand why.

One of my favorite stories concerns a woman who was in her kitchen preparing a roast beef for dinner. Her young daughter was watching her make the meal, and the girl asked, "Mommy, why did you cut the ends off the roast beef?"

And the mother told her "Honey, that’s just the way you prepare it."

"But why?"

And the mother had to think about it for a second and acknowledged, "You know, I’m not sure why. It’s the way my mother did it, and I’m sure she had a good reason."

"Let’s ask Grandma."

So the woman called her mother on the phone and asked why she cut the ends off the roast beef. The older woman had to admit that she didn’t really know why she did it either, but she did it because that’s the way her mother prepared a roast beef.

So they called the old woman, the child’s great-grandmother, who was now in her 90s, and asked why she cut the ends off the roast beef before cooking it.

"Well," the old lady said, "it’s because I didn’t have a roasting pan big enough to hold it."