I am a miser. When I was in kindergarten, my Russian grandmother,
Gasha, lived with us. Her husband had died in the first phase of
Communist persecutions after WWII. She had lost several children
and raised my father, Mitko, her only surviving son, alone. Her
pension was the equivalent of US$30 and she saved almost all of it,
subsisting mostly on a diet of Bulgarian yogurt and plain biscuits.
I was her only grandchild and she used to give me a few pennies now
and then. Learning from
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