What happened to thrift?

Prosperity and technology have fed decades of consumerism. But some are second-guessing our throwaway culture.

Jerry Stifelman is thrifty.

But that doesn't mean he's a skinflint, tightwad or cheapskate. He doesn't practice thrift to save money. He does it to help save the world.

During the past decade, Stifelman has reorganized his life to align it with his environmental beliefs. He left an advertising agency whose clients included Chrysler and Reebok to work with companies trying to "change the world for the better." He traded his SUV for a Prius -- though he usually zips around town on his bicycle. He doesn't shop much and recycles everything. And he bought one of the 33 environmentally efficient homes in Carrboro's Arcadia Cohousing development. The 1,050-square-foot house offers ample room for him, his wife and child, because Arcadia also has a common house with a library, a guest room, a kitchen and a dining room where residents share meals two or three times a week.

"Eating together is not just less expensive and less wasteful, it's also incredibly fun and satisfying," he said.

Stifelman represents the changing face of thrift in America. Sure, many people still scrimp and save, clip coupons and do without simply to make ends meet. For others, like Stifelman, cutting back is not a matter of economic necessity but a choice -- a way to help save dwindling natural resources and stave off pollution and global warming.

Though many Americans share Stifelman's concern, many find it hard to emulate his environmentally thrifty lifestyle, especially during the buying frenzy of the holidays.

"The problem is that we're addicted to stuff," said Rob Jackson, director of the Center on Global Change at Duke University, who added, "People view frugality as a negative thing. The cultural norm is that if you save, or cut back, you're a bit eccentric. It's hard -- but possible -- to change that."

Historians and environmental experts say broad cultural forces make the simple life a daunting challenge for Americans. Our consumer society -- which prizes convenience and immediate gratification, in which name brands confer social status -- is at odds with the bedrock principles of thrift.

Though rooted in the 19th century, the consumer society took off during the 1950s, historians agree. After almost two decades of sacrifice imposed by depression and war -- and enabled by a steady rise in income -- Americans were eager to unleash their pent-up demand for stuff.

"Fashion and trends drove the market as people sought to replace old things with new ones that were modern and disposable," said Gary Cross, a history professor at Pennsylvania State University and author of "An All-Consuming Century."

All that stuff represents major environmental problems -- from the resources and energy needed to manufacture and ship these throwaway goods to the landfills they overstuff. But we've embraced the disposable culture because it provides instant benefits.

"We feel strapped for time, and we turn to products that offer convenience," said Susan Strasser, a University of Delaware history professor. "Unwrap it, use it, throw it out, forget it. This ease is very appealing."

Even as we have embraced a throwaway culture, we have also attached more meaning to those short-lived objects, according to James Twitchell, a University of Florida professor whose books include "Living it Up: America's Love Affair with Luxury."

Since the 1960s, he argues, our traditional sources of identity -- family, ethnicity, faith, the schools we attend, the organizations we belong to -- have faded. Today, people often define who they are by what they buy.