Thursday, June 25, 2009 by Hodding.

“Look at this, Dad!” Eliza commanded in a voice loud enough to wake a sleeping 46-year-old man. As I simultaneously bolted upright and wiped the drool from my chin, she continued, “It’s so cute!”

Mere inches from my blurry eyes was a very small egg, obviously from our wild friend, Grousey. This was definitely worth being woken up for. Visions of perfectly roasted young grouse danced in my head because, as luck would have it, Lisa and the kids had given me a 40-egg incubator for Father’s Day. If we could gather a few more of Grousey’s eggs, we might even be able to pay for the incubator in less than a few months. What a marvelously frugal paradigm.

“Where’d you find it?” I asked, half-expecting her to say near or under the hen house.

“In the nesting box on the end.”

“How’d Grousey get inside the …” I began before realizing this was definitely not Grousey’s egg. We hadn’t seen her in weeks. No. This could only have one source.

“It’s Stella’s,” I explained. “Remember when we ate the Scott’s hen a couple of months ago? You guys were freaked out at all those eggs lined up in her oviduct, waiting their turn at freedom. The farther they were from being squeezed out the vent, the smaller and smaller they got.”*

“That’s enough, Dad. I get it. Why do you always have to be so gross?” she said, and then beamed. “Stella!”

While doing a little jig, I called Lisa, even though I knew she was presenting some case before one of the tougher judges around. This was big news. “Stella’s back online,” I said, and then explained as quickly as possible. Stella had once again fought her way back from the edge of defeat. Show me a chicken with as much fortitude, willpower, and joie de vivre, and I’ll show you a cartoon character. They just don’t make them like a Black Australorp, especially this particular model.**

We’ve been having a hard time filling our current weekly egg orders because the hens evidently haven’t appreciate being kept out of the gardens they used to tear apart at will. Unhappy hens, in our case, mean an egg or two a day less. Stella’s return to the production line will just about bump us back into the black.

Stella to the rescue!

Frugal Tip of the Week As I mentioned in my first post, Lisa tried to open my eyes to reality way back, and being sporadically dutiful, I did implement a number of frugal practices, one of them being purchasing a set of clippers—the Conair 20-piece Home Haircut Kit with model HC31BECS clippers, for $18. While I have not yet used all 55 possible settings or watched the surely fascinating instructional DVD that came free with my purchase, I have spent hours studying the unexpectedly mesmerizing paper instructions. I’ve saved almost $900 in less than three years, and I actually get compliments from people other than my own children. And now Lisa has started cutting the girls’ hair. Last week, she snipped some stylish bangs on Helen, saving at least $30, the cheapest local price for female haircuts.

* Like humans, hens are born with all their eggs. They begin as follicles—the actual yolks—which make up a hen’s ovaries, bunched together like grapes. As the hen comes of laying age, these follicles begin their weeks’-long journey down the oviduct, first gaining in size while being enveloped in the protective and nourishing albumen, or white, and then taking on the increasingly harder shell. It’s a fairly amazing feat and is explained in understandable detail on the University of Illinois Extension website.

** We had originally ordered day-old Black Australorps because they are considered to be the most well-rounded and family-friendly domesticated hens. Certainly, this must be the result of higher intelligence and inner strength?

Photograph by Eliza Carter 

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Thursday, June 18, 2009 by Hodding.

Having won his recent battles with the marauding aphids, our Hero of Frugality (known to himself as The Frugal Dude) sought a few days’ rest in his rural retreat, when, unbeknownst to him, another plague munched through his land—even his faithful sidekick, Angus-with-the-Sword, didn’t see it coming. So, as The Frugal Dude slept and lounged before his Verbumtransporter, it was left to the ever-vigilant Lady of the Garden to arrest the onslaught. Spotting the new predator’s senseless carnage, she took immediate action: “Hodding, something’s eating the leaves … on everything!” she bellowed, using mere English so as not to tip off the enemy.

Thus, the war continues…

A close inspection of the damage leads me to believe ants are to blame, but, in truth, I don’t really know at this point. In fact, it’s so bad out there, I’m thinking of growing my own neem tree. Or maybe I’ll just stay inside and let nature take its course. That’s what we’ve always done in our own survival of the fittest experiment, but in the past we weren’t growing food for subsistence. We didn’t have 105 thriving potato plants (yippee!) or 76 tomato plants (all but 8 grown from seeds) or 50 feet of beets, 40 winter squash vines, 250 strawberry plants, countless pole beans, peas, etc. And, yes, the corn has survived thus far, too. We have never cared for anywhere near this many living things. In other words, a garden for us has never been for keeps. Since now it is, I will continue to fight.

Speaking of living things, Lisa’s mother-hen persona is in full force these days. Remember how we donated eggs to the local kindergarten classes to hatch in incubators? Lisa decided we had to bring home all those chicks. “We can’t keep up with the egg demand as it is, and they’re so cuuuute,” Lisa explained as she twisted my heart’s arm. “And Angus loves them.” We now have 14 chicks living in our garage, 3 of which look like their dad, Snowflake, the Rhode Island Red rooster, and the rest like their various Black Australorp moms. Then, a couple days ago, she was at a meeting with a client when a social-services caseworker warned the client she probably needed to get rid of her five kittens if she wanted to get her kids back. Guess who came to the rescue? Somehow—thank you, God—we only ended up with one, an orange male which Angus promptly named George. (He was given to Angus for his kindergarten graduation.) And yesterday, a baby blue jay was stumbling in the grass near the hen house, unable to walk more than a few steps, let alone fly. Birds of all sorts were squawking high above and an adult sparrow lay dead a foot away from it. Lisa informed me we had to rescue the “poor thing” and, as she cupped it in her hands, demanded I feed it. The baby bird, as if by signal, threw back its scraggly head, opened up its preposterously large beak, and waited and waited and waited … until I finished digging up, pinching apart, and feeding it a worm. It’s now sleeping comfortably in its own box in the garage with the chicks.

Of course, it doesn’t end there. As I write this, George pounces on my right foot. and then my left. Lisa says, between quoting from Organic Gardening to prove that we have to water everything as much as she said we did and not as little as I thought, “I was talking to this person yesterday [where does she find all these “people”?] who said we should get ducks. People love their eggs and, even better, they don’t tear up plants. I know somebody who has some ducklings. All we have to do is ….”

Frugal Tip of the Week “You should tell people how most of the kids’ clothes are hand-me-downs,” Lisa said recently. “And how we usually get at least one useful item a week at the dump.” She’s right. Go forth and seek free things! I realize not everybody has free “swap shops” at their local dumps, but those who do or those of you who live in cities where people put unwanted things out by the curb, keep your eyes open. We get clothes, tools, books, utensils, machines, and much more from our swap shop. The kids cringe when we do it, but gladly use the item later. And as far as the hand-me-downs go, it’s an age-old ritual that is best begun early. Lisa and I started getting 40- to 50-pound boxes of clothes from our older siblings when the twins were born, and we have been receiving and sending used clothes ever since. As a result, hand-me-down day has become a celebration instead of an embarrassment, as it would have been if we had tried to introduce the concept anytime in the last few years. Now, when the boxes arrive, our house sounds like a 12-year-olds’ slumber party, and it inevitably turns into an hours-long fashion show. Since we have no older boy cousins—except one, whose mom sends his clothes elsewhere—we enlisted a few friends with boys to send their leftovers our way. With the exception of underwear (for some reason, people don’t pass that along), Angus has enough t-shirts, Carhartts, and fleece jackets to carry him through fifth grade.

Photograph by W. Hodding Carter

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Thursday, June 11, 2009 by Hodding.

It was 6 A.M., and Lisa was showing me how she’d arranged an intricate maze of drip-hoses. She was covered in dirt, and her dark, gray-flecked hair went this way and that—an uncontained mess that has never met a hair-tie it couldn’t defeat. In other words, I was falling in love all over again, when I spotted the foul creatures out the corner of my eye. I sprang into action—arms thrashing, feet gliding upon the ground as if it were carpeted in silk—and became a fluid killing machine. There were thousands and thousands of them and I slapped, pinched, and squeezed again and again.

Jet Li had nothing over me. And, yes, it felt good.

After all, I had coddled and nourished their victims for the last three years. This spring, I had spent even more time with them than ever before: feeding them, protecting them, and tucking them in on more than one occasion. Our well-being depended on their well-being. No one else cared about them as much as I did. No one else was prepared to fight for their lives.

Our fledgling fruit trees were like adopted babies, and their assailants, marauding aphids, were my mortal enemy.

It felt personal, almost as if the aphids were attacking because we are working so hard. Yet it’s still a struggle to pay the bills. Last night after dinner, we had the kids weed for 15 minutes before dessert (Julia Child’s chocolate mousse as prepared by Anabel—perfect!) and, later, between 11 and God-knows-when, Lisa stacked next year’s wood that I had cut and split earlier. This morning, as a supposed two-day rain began to fall, I hurriedly planted another three rows of corn, so we could have a second harvest. We’re putting our all into this new life, and when something threatens a part of it—as clearly these aphids were, judging by all the young apple and cherry leaves that had suddenly vanished—I’ll stop at nothing to stomp that something into the ground.

I finally understand all those farmers who lived and swore by their beloved battery of insecticides and fungicides. I want my DDT.*

After a quick search through our current bible, Organic Gardening: A Comprehensive Guide to Chemical-Free Growing, I rushed off to the nearest nursery and returned not only armed to the teeth but also aglow. Organic farming isn’t for wimps! Even though you might be Green, you can still destroy with the best of them, as long as you use organic insecticides that don’t harm people, animals, plants, or beneficial insects. There’s an organic dust made with bacteria that actually kills Japanese beetles and grubs, for instance. No more paying the kids a penny for every beetle they toss into a bucket of soapy water—although we might maintain that tradition for frugality’s sake. For the aphids, I bought some neem oil made from pressed neem tree seeds from India, mixed up a batch, and sprayed them into submission. (I paid $18 for a 16-ounce bottle that will make 16 gallons of spray; there were also quart-size spray bottles of the same stuff, but premixed, for $14 a pop, making the concentrate I bought almost 64 times cheaper.) Although the neem oil simply repels aphids, I laid it on so thick that I was sure many of them would never see the light of day again. And I’m happy to report that they are completely gone and all is right with the world.

Don’t mess with a man’s fruit trees.

By the way, we ate a salad of radishes, arugula, and lettuces from our garden last night, accompanied by a quiche made with our own eggs and herbs. We’re getting there!

Frugal Tip of the Week

This may be obvious and/or too extreme for many of you: We don’t watch TV. We gave it up a decade ago, and even though it didn’t stop me from blowing things financially, it has kept us all blissfully unaware of the next most important useless thing we can’t live without. The kids know about all the big-ticket items like ipods, wii’s, etc., but have no clue they’re missing the fastest Hot Wheels since last year’s model. We do watch movies three or four times a week, but we’re not constantly bombarded with ads that implore, trick, or guilt us into buying happiness. And we obviously save money on not having cable.

*One of my fondest childhood memories revolves around the loudly screamed words, “The mosquito truck! The mosquito truck is here!” Everyone under the age of 12 in the neighborhood would grab his or her BB gun, maybe an old Army helmet, and go running after the town’s mosquito-killing truck, which sprayed a dense white fog that took minutes to evaporate. We’d dart in and out of the deadly cloud, panting hard from running into battle, sucking down lungful after lungful of those lovely cancerous vapors, following the fog bank for blocks and blocks. Those were the days.

Photograph by Scott Arndt

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Thursday, June 4, 2009 by Hodding.

Back in April, I boasted we’d be getting a good percentage of our greens from our garden by midsummer. But earlier this week, when I found myself hitting three different grocery stores to get the cheapest kale, spinach, and salad fixings, I knew that was not going to happen. Greens are relatively cheap items, of course, especially compared to buying the flash-cooked kale with garlic and sesame we used to get from the nearby co-op or the twelve-dollar (and unbelievably small) garden salad at our favorite restaurant. But since that type of spending doesn’t even come to mind these days, I’m feeling a bit, well, pessimistic about the garden’s chance of success—as well as our own.

Which is probably the clearest indicator that we’ve finally broken free of the past.

Last weekend, we had to rework the soil and replant the kale and spinach—plus a slew of other vegetables that flopped. (We didn’t have to replant the lettuces; while they are taking their sweet time, they are growing.) A successful gardener-friend generously blamed the failure on our seeds, but I’m pretty sure I burned them with too much nitrogen. In an attempt to raise the level of one of our three plots, I had, in retrospect, added way too much chicken-manure-covered straw. Although I hadn’t done a soil test, it had seemed like the right thing to do. I was also fixated on raising the level of the plot for aesthetic reasons: It simply looked too low. Consequently, I spent nearly an entire day transferring soil from a hidden part of our two and a half acres to the plot in question.

Back to my newfound pessimism: It’s probably the best thing that’s happened to me in quite a while. When I look back over all the financial mistakes I’ve made over the past decade or so, my constant companion wasn’t greed. It wasn’t a desire to impress others or buy my way to success. It was unbridled optimism. As I admitted in the beginning, I always knew my next book was going to be a bestseller. What I left unsaid—not on purpose, but because it’s so ingrained in my way of thinking—is that I felt certain things were going to get better. That’s always been my mindset, what I’ve been proud of and relied on to get me out of bed in the morning. And it’s not just me. It’s one key to the American psyche, and it makes our foreign friends shake their heads in both fear and awe.

It is also what allowed me to spend when a sane person—with a healthy balance of pessimism and optimism—would have put on the brakes. Or sow seeds when a more pessimistic (and, yes, wiser) person would have first checked the soil.

So today, I’m heading out to water our plants and seeds with a happy sense that things are not going to get better and, more to the point, that all the watering in the world just might not make this garden grow.

Hope you have a bad day!

Frugal Tip of the Week

Checkbook. Don’t leave home without it. Since last December, when we cut up our credit cards, Lisa has had us only use checks for purchasing, whenever and wherever possible. They’re better than cash: Not only do you have to pause and think before buying, but they leave a paper trail. You can’t slip one by your partner or, more importantly, yourself. Using checks also makes it easier to catalog your spending, helping you target the areas in which you’re succeeding and those in which you’re falling short.

Photograph by Philip Carter

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