This column, written by LVEDC President & CEO Don Cunningham, originally appeared in The Morning Call and on the newspaper’s website on Aug. 2, 2026.  

“You’re not saving that, are you?” 

“Absolutely.”

“It’s probably expired and it’s not good when new,” I told Keith, my brother-in-law.

It was a can of Spam. That mystery minced meat packed in a squishy gel, which I ate far too much of during childhood.

Me, Keith, my sister Kathy and my wife Lynn were spending the weekend cleaning out the Florida retirement home of my father and stepmother Val. They died unexpectedly within nine months of each other, both just after turning 80, Val going first.

In the whirlwind of pain and change, funerals and finances, hospital bills and document searches that follows the death of a parent, comes the undesirable task of cleaning out the remnants of someone else’s life.

We only had three days. We decided on three piles: save, donate and throw away.

Kathy and Keith volunteered to drive their SUV to southwest Florida from Lancaster County to take back to Pennsylvania the contents of the save pile.

To me, all items in the pantry, refrigerator or freezer were immediate throw away pile. Dad was old school frugal, and Val was full-blooded Pennsylvania Dutch raised in Fogelsville. They lived the “waste not want not” credo. Food expiration dates were suggestions.

There was meat in the freezer labeled in 2024, Jell-O packets that expired pre-pandemic, and a pickled can of something that dated to the Bush Administration. The dad’s.

Keith couldn’t find an expiration date on the Spam.

I suggested that was because it starts expired.

My dad loved Spam. Kathy and I grew up on it as a regular part of the dinner rotation after our mom died when we were young. Dad would pair it with instant mashed potatoes from a box and a can of green beans. Not exactly haute cuisine.

But, as a single parent steelworker, he was doing his best. The food kept us alive, exactly as he intended. I was grateful but reached my lifetime Spam quota by 17.

Keith arrived after that.

With Kathy not looking, he assigned the Spam to the save pile.

It was fortunate that the save pile was limited to the size of the SUV. It caused us to be very discerning. Nonetheless, Kathy and Keith rolled out on Sunday afternoon like the Clampetts headed to Beverly Hills, with the backend riding low.

The throw away and donate piles were about equally split.

I enjoyed the trips to Goodwill. In southwest Florida, where a lot of people with good stuff die, Goodwill stores are like an industrial operation. They are about the size of a Target with a retail store in the front and a warehouse drive-thru with a porch roof in the back.

On a summer Saturday the line is like a Chick-fil-A — and just as efficient. Workers appear wheeling large bins as soon as you pull in. They go to work helping you unload the once-cherished items of someone’s life and ask if you want a donation receipt.

You can see the relief on the sweaty faces of your fellow rummage warriors as they take in the relief of both a helping hand and the end of the uncovering, sorting and hauling journey.

There’s also a glint of pride in both keeping something out of a landfill and knowing that while the original owner is gone that something will live on.

After my final trip on Sunday afternoon, I parked and went in the store. It was my first visit to a Goodwill retail store. I’d visited a few small thrift shops and antique stores with my youngest son Brendan in recent years, who like a lot of the next generation of young people buys a lot of his clothes and household items on the secondary market. It’s something his frugal grandfather and grandmother admired.

And quite a market it is.

Driven by need, the rising cost of living, and the desire for the authentic and unique items of another era, the U.S. thrift store market is valued at $13.7 billion while the broader second hand and resale apparel market is nearly $56 billion, according to IBIS World market size statistics.

The Goodwill store in Florida was extraordinary. Laid out like a department store with a wide range of products from clothes to books to furniture and small appliances, everything was clean and polished and neatly displayed. And the prices were so affordable. It reminded me of going into a Two Guys store in the 1970s.

I wanted to buy something. Then I remembered that would be counter-productive to the mission of Florida Cleanout Weekend.

But I searched the aisles to see if I could find any of my dad and stepmom’s stuff that we’d dropped off the last several days. I hoped to see what value the marketplace assigned to an item of their life. No such luck. The operation was too big to clean, tag and turn around product in just a few days.

I headed back home satisfied with playing a role in this multi-billion market.

Then, I saw the can of Spam on the countertop.

I asked Keith once again if I should drop it in a garbage bag. He told me he didn’t plan to eat it but thought for my sister it would be a little reminder of a day and a time and a life that had passed on and it would make her smile.

I couldn’t argue with that goodwill.