When you're a kid, you don't know you're lower-middle-class. You just know your life; I knew my father came home tired every night from his pipefitter job, hands still dirty even after washing them three times. Moreover, I knew we fixed everything ourselves because calling someone cost money we didn't have, and I knew hand-me-downs from my older brother and that vacation meant visiting relatives.
Growing up, the sound of aluminum foil being carefully smoothed flat against our kitchen counter was as familiar as my mother's voice. Each piece would be washed, dried, and folded into a neat square for the drawer where we kept our collection. The same drawer held plastic bags from the grocery store, rubber bands from vegetables, and glass jars that once held jam but now served as drinking glasses.