Most self-supporting people come from hard times. We could have grown up anywhere, but somewhere in our lives, we have had to get by on little or nothing. Instilled within us is a conservative yet creative mentality combined with a “git ‘er done” attitude. Below you will find five traits common among those of us who would prefer to live a simpler life.

1. The habit of taking what you have and making it what you want. At age ten, I was fascinated with gas engines and go-carts. My buddy “Fatty” had an old go-cart frame that was missing an engine, steering wheel, and gas pedal. I had a push mower that I ran the wheels off mowing yards. I drug the mower to Fatty’s house, and we went to work. Soon we had a running go-cart with a lawn mower throttle for a gas pedal and a mower blade for a steering wheel.

2. The habit of spending hours fixing something that cost $10 new. My wife is an engineer. She also was raised in a big family, having to make do with what she had. That trait never left her. I watched in awe one night as she completely disassembled and re-assembled our twenty-year-old toaster. It had nothing to do with the cost of a new toaster; it was like a puzzle to her, and she would never throw away something that could be fixed.

3. The habit of “repurposing” things. As I look out across the back yard, I see a swing set, two trellises, three raised garden beds, and a half dozen flower boxes that used to be our front porch. Need I say more?

4. The habit of saving things. My wife saves every yogurt cup, coffee can, and milk jug she ever bought. I use some of them for gardening, but most will never see the light of day. When she asks if I need more, I always say “yes.” I don’t have the heart to tell her that even a big-city greenhouse couldn’t use all the crap she saves.

5. The habit of owning transportation that belongs in a museum. To date, I own a 1951 flat boat, a 1969 Opal GT, a 1973 pleasure boat, and our “good” car, a 1998 Buick. All have been completely rebuilt, and I have torn each one apart so many times I could be a certified technician on these specific modes of transportation.

By now, the only readers I have left are giving me a cyber “high five,” agreeing with every word I wrote. To those people, I say carry on and good luck. We’ll see you after the apocalypse, I’m sure. Have a great day, folks– we’ll see you next week!

I had just interviewed with a major independent newspaper and was driving the back roads looking for a new home outside of town. I love living near water, so I was looking for a place with ponds or a creek running through it. As I traveled down the gravel roads, I stopped at each bridge, culvert, and creek. Each time I got out, I could hear a soft thumping noise just out of sight. At first, I thought nothing of it, but after hearing this sound several times, I recognized the noise. It was the sound of blades whirring on a small helicopter. Then I saw it. The whirly-bird was in camouflage, and ironically, it stuck out badly in the skyline of blue, making me wonder who these guys were actually trying to hide from.

I have to admit, I then used my powers for evil. I figured they were looking for pot, as it was harvest time, so I went under the next bridge, put on my gloves and pulled the biggest thistle bush I could find. Then, as the agents got curious, I quickly threw the thistle bush in the back of my truck and high-tailed it down the road. I turned right, then turned left, and within three minutes I came into direct contact with a road block just for me. They were not amused as I told them I boil thistle down for tea, calling me a trouble-maker.

I did find a lovely home to rent, with 2,000 acres, four ponds, and a big creek running through it. I also found a new friend in the county tax man. He didn’t like my sense of humor, either. He taxed my truck, my motorcycle, my car, my flat boat, and even my old camper. He was not the kind of neighbor I was looking for in Missouri.

As I set up for deer hunting, I found a few more friends. I hunt with a re-curve bow, which means I have to get within twenty yards of my prey, so I have to be creative. I had a rancher drop a round bale of grass beneath an old apple tree near our field, which happened to border a nature preserve. I made a nice home in the middle of that round bale, and spent many an afternoon hunting right there.

One day I noticed a flash just across the property line. I watched closely and soon I realized I had a DNR agent watching me. All he could see was the top of my hat, so I propped my hat up with a stick and backtracked around to the fence and commenced to scare the daylights out of him. We eventually became friends, and he even showed me his “stuffed” deer that he puts out to catch road poachers. That poor deer looked like Swiss cheese, with holes everywhere. I got a kick out of that.

Soon after living in Missouri I realized if I want the government out of my business I must use different tactics– one of them being, “never make a government agent look stupid.” That lesson cost me my anonymity– the opposite effect I was looking for.

Have a great week, Off-The-Gridders!

In Missouri, we lived on 2,000 acres, complete with woods, creeks, and pastures. Many of my buddies from work asked to hunt after visiting my little piece of heaven. I have a rule about this: I always go with new guys the first time they hunt my ground. I want to show them around, and I want to see what kind of hunters they are.

One of the first things I do when I get a “city” guy out there is head straight up the bluff as quickly as I can. If the guy is a smoker, he usually won’t make it up the hill. Then, while he’s sucking for air, I explain to him how old the oak tree is that he’s clinging to, and how long it would take to get a fire truck out here if an ash off his cigarette happens to start a fire. That is usually enough to keep them from smoking while they hunt my ground, and once it was even enough to cause a guy to quit those cancer sticks.

I had a city guy ask to go deer hunting a while back. His name was Glen. He came from Ohio and was a self-proclaimed great hunter. Now, Glen pulled up in his truck all dressed in camouflage, and I have to say, he looked like he knew his stuff. He was ground hunting with a compound bow, and he was blending right into the woods completely with all that camouflage. So I let him go ahead, telling him I would catch up. “You’ll never find me,” were his words as he disappeared into the trees. “Don’t worry, I’ll find you,” I told him.

I waited a few minutes, then started tracking him. I lost the trail after he crossed our creek, which told me he was walking up the middle of the creek just to lose me. I walked around for an hour without finding him, so I sat down on a stump to take a little break before I back-tracked again, when the tree next to me suddenly came to life. It was Glen.

“Hey Glen” I said calmly, as if I knew he was there all along. Truth be told, he scared the daylights out of me, but I would never let him know that. “How did you find me?” he whispered with a puzzled look on his face. “These are my woods, my friend. Nothing happens in here that I don’t know,” I told him quietly.

When I came into work the next Monday, Glen had told the guys his story, and he left nothing out. He said I was a throw-back from the old days of Indian scouts. I never told Glen the real story, but I never lied either. What harm could it do to let them all believe I was a great hunter?

From then on, when my work buddies came out to hunt, they were very careful about what they did and how they carried on within the boundaries of my land, for they never quite knew where I might be.

That was fine with me. I imagine that is how legends get their name sometimes– with a little luck and a buddy who can tell a great story. Old Glen may have embellished a bit, but it all worked out for the best.

We’ll see you all next week!

My first attempt at raising poultry was in Missouri. My neighbor talked me into going halves with him on fifty chicks. “You raise them for the first six weeks, Bob, and then we’ll bring them to my house to finish them out,” were Roy’s words. I thought, “That seems like a good deal to me, since the chickens don’t eat much at first.”

So I built a little chicken wire cage, lined it with paper, and put it in the basement, much to my wife’s disdain. “You’re not keeping those chicks in the basement?” she asked rhetorically, to which I answered, “Sure, just for the first couple weeks.” The look on her face told me I had not yet convinced her, so I added, “Chicks need to stay warm at first, and we can save money by keeping them in the basement.”

My wife shook her head, knowing this was just one more crazy scheme that would turn to disaster quickly, but also knowing I could not be stopped at this point. She went up the steps mumbling something about marrying a hillbilly and something else about her mother being right. I didn’t catch everything, but it seemed she was doubting my skills as a chicken farmer even before I tried.

When the chicks came, I was ready, or at least I thought I was ready. I kept a close eye on those chicks, watering, feeding, and caring for them. They were so cute, and soon the whole family fell in love with the little yellow balls of fur. The kids named each one with names like “Hopper” and “Orville.” I replaced the newspapers at the bottom of the cage every day, but immediately a terrible odor crept into the air ducts on the main floor, sending my wife into a tizzy.

By the third week, Hopper and Orville teamed up in more than a few attempted escapes, eventually teaching the others how to free themselves successfully. Soon it was mayhem in the basement, with Hopper and Orville giving flying lessons to the others. But it wasn’t until the chicks found their way up the stairs that my two worlds collided.

I remember well the look on my wife’s face as she noticed Hopper and Orville perched on her curio cabinet, watching Sesame Street with the kids. They would have been fine, but the moment they saw Big Bird, they began to peep, and that’s when my wife kicked the whole bunch of us out to the garage– me included.

After six weeks, the chicks were getting big, choosing to roost in the garage on my wife’s car. It’s like they knew she didn’t like them, and they were getting her back by doing what chickens do all over her hood and windshield.

So I took them all to Roy’s house, where they could run free without the constraints of our garage or my wife– all except for Hopper and Orville, which my wife cleaned, dressed, and cooked for us the day the chickens left, in what seemed to me to be some kind of twisted ceremony celebrating the end of her cohabitation with Hopper and Orville. We never talked about this again, my wife and I, but the next time we ordered up chickens, she built her own chicken coop in the barn, complete with a straw bed for me. I got the hint.

Our first attempts to tip the scales toward getting the government out of my life came twenty-five years ago, when I lived in Missouri. Within a few months of moving to the “Show Me” state, I had built a cistern, collecting water from our roof. I no longer needed the county’s water, and it sure didn’t take them long to come investigate. Funny thing– the tax assessor showed up, wanting to welcome us to “his” county. Frank was friendly enough, until I would not let him in the house. As my pop used to say, “Never let the tax man in your home!”

Frank started writing down license plate numbers for my boat, my old truck, and our good car. When I inquired as to why he needed this information, he stated, “We tax all your personal property here in Missouri,” to which I replied, “Then you better tax the bank, because they own it all.”

Frank found no humor in this, and it seemed as though he was getting a little upset at my attitude, and that gave me an attitude. So when Frank wasn’t looking, I took the glass of lemonade my wife had given him and poured it out. When he looked at the empty glass, he popped an ice cube in his mouth, and I explained to him, “The dog must have drank your drink; he does that all the time,” to which he quickly spit the ice out, and ol’ Harley swallowed the ice cube up quickly.

Then came the questions. “You seem to have quit using our water,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. That sent me over the edge. I kept calm though and led him to my new underground water tank. I told him, “You really have to get below ground to see how I plumbed around your system.” I knew that would get him. I got the ladder out, and he went down into the tank. As soon as he got down there, he started barking orders at me, things  like, “It’s dark down here; get me a light!” That was my cue. I quickly pulled the ladder up, leaving him alone in my new cistern. Well, he wasn’t completely alone– ol’ Harley was peeking down and howling like a hound dog does when there is a skunk in the yard, slobbering all over Frank‘s head.

I left Frank in the well for about twenty minutes, until he was good and upset, then dropped a treble light down to him. “I don’t want the light, just put the ladder back!” he screamed. When he climbed out, I explained to him how I needed the ladder to get my treble light out of the garage, but he really didn’t want to listen at this point. He left without thanking my wife for the lemonade, and within a week, the county sent me a bill for all my personal property, along with a copy of the pet laws and a fine for not applying for a permit to build a cistern.

I learned a lesson, and so did Frank. I learned that messing with a tax man can cost a lot, and Frank learned never to ask for a light when he is in a well.

See you all next week!

Our oldest dog, Zach, is fourteen years old now. He is a very docile animal, unless you happen to be riding a bike on the road in front of our home.  Then he turns into a ferocious tiger until the time when he catches you, at which time he turns back into the mild-mannered dog we love again. He is a very passive-aggressive dog.

Zach lives outside in a forty-by-sixty-foot pen and passes easily through a hole into his castle in the barn, complete with an automatic feeder, a heated water dish, and straw from wall to wall.  He has decided he doesn’t have to listen to us anymore when he is out, wandering aimlessly and ignoring our commands completely. I know he can hear because he still reacts to the sound of a potato chip hitting the floor from a hundred feet. So to keep him safe, we began looking into an “invisible fence” for the yard. I should have known I would lose this battle. He has never been one to let fences stop him before.

We had a salesman out to the house, and he assured us his fence would work if Zach had proper training. When the estimate for the fence came in, though, I got sticker shock and decided to install the fence myself. We (my wife) read all the directions, and started the project on a sunny Saturday morning. I fired up the lawn edger, thinking I could cut a groove in the earth while my wife dropped the wire in along the perimeter of our yard.

After thirty minutes, I looked back at my progress. I had managed to throw the belt off the edger twice and kill the engine ten times, netting a whopping twenty feet of ditch. At this point, I abandoned the edger and dropped to my knees and dug the remaining ditch by hand. After seven hours and three trips around the yard, we had the wire buried and it was time to put the collar on Zach.

I turned the fence on low and walked the dog around. He strolled back and forth over the wire like it wasn’t there. I went to the barn and set the fence to medium, with the same results. The machine came with a “tester,” but I didn’t want to read the directions, so I grabbed the collar and held it in my hand while I crossed the fence. You can imagine what happened. Needless to say, the fence was working fine.

So I turned the fence to high, and put the collar back on Zach, walking him across the fence one more time. When he got to the fence, he looked up at me and began convulsing from head to toe, laying down in his passive-aggressive way. I drug him away from the fence, convulsing right along with him until we both cleared the fence. At this point, my vision had blurred, but I think I saw Zach wagging his tail at me.

My wife came out of the house– tears in her eyes– with the instructions, highlighting the part about the hours of training that would be involved, even before turning the fence on, to which I explained, “If I wanted to spend hours training Zach, I wouldn’t have needed the fence.”