Aunt Toogie goes green

I could hear the chatter before I reached the kitchen. My lovely wife, Grace, and my Aunt Toogie were engrossed in a lively discussion, with the decibels rising with each exchange. 

 

“I paid $3.20 a gallon here on the island,” Grace stated.

 

“I saw over $4 for high test in Mount Pleasant and I heard it was over $6 in California,” Toogie exclaimed.

 

They paused when I entered the room and asked, “What’s up, ladies?” Which turned the volume back on.

 

“What’s up?” Toogie huffed. “Everything from avocados to zucchinis!” When I didn’t respond, she asked, “What did you pay last time you filled up your car?”

 

 When I confessed that I didn’t look at the price per gallon, Toogie was off again. “Was it over $40 for a fill up?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“And when was the last time you paid that much?”

 

Mouth full of cinnamon roll, I just shrugged.

 

“I can tell you,” Toogie muttered, scrolling the screen on her phone. “Here you go,” she announced, holding the phone at arms-length to read it. “2013. We’re getting close to an all-time high, thanks to those clowns in Washington!”

 

After a pause, Grace explained, now in a calm tone, “We were just discussing how prices have risen on so many things, from food, to building supplies, to gasoline.” 

 

“Plus shrinkflation!” Toogie added.

 

When I gave her a puzzled look, she took the bait and was off again. “Shrinkflation. It’s when a consumer products company keeps the price the same but reduces the size or quantity. Like 14 ounces in the jar that used to have 16 ounces or eight pieces of bacon in a package that used to have 12.”

 

“They do that?” I asked. Grace nodded affirmatively and Toogie sighed, “Wake up and smell the inflation, Dalton, before they pick your pockets clean.”

 

“Well,” I mused, “I guess we tighten our budget belt. I’m not sure what else we can do.”

 

“I’ll tell you what we do,” Toogie declared. “If we can’t beat ’em, we join ’em.”

 

I gave her a puzzled look as I reached for the last cinnamon roll.

 

“We’re going into the carbon credit business,” Toogie declared, snatching the pastry before I did. 

 

Grinning broadly, she explained, “We’re gonna make big bucks doing almost nothing.” 

 

When I didn’t reply, she continued, “Here’s how the scam works. It’s the whole green thing. Companies want to report to the government that they are carbon neutral. But the catch is, they are not. So,” she added, “they pay good money to buy carbon credits from

someone else who has a better green energy report card. Think of it,” she concluded, “like a kid who wants to tell his parents he made the honor roll but had to buy an A off another kid’s report card to get there.”

 

“They do that?” I inquired.

 

“Heck yes,” Toogie shot back. “They pay farmers or land owners money not to cut down trees and claim that reduces carbon emissions because the trees absorb carbon dioxide.”

 

“But what if the land owner wasn’t going to cut the trees down anyway? How does that save anything?” I pondered.

 

“Geez, Dalton,” Toogie groused. “You don’t understand the government much do you? If there is money to be had by doing nothing, it probably came out of Washington.”

 

Now intrigued, I asked, “So how do we get involved in this, whatever you call it?”

 

Taking a big bite of cinnamon roll, Toogie then brushed the crumbs off her hands, pushed her coffee cup aside, and put her palms on the table.

 

“I checked a carbon credit website. They will pay $100 for an acre of trees that we don’t cut.”

 

“We don’t have an acre of trees,” I interjected. “We do have the big pine tree and a few others. Maybe five or six total. But not an acre.” 

 

“Think more creatively!” Toogie replied. “I say we have 15. I’m counting the big, oversized pine as three trees, then we have the big maple, three Japanese maples, and the two trees by the street. Now add two tree equivalents for the holly hedges and another two trees for all the azalea and hydrangea bushes in the yard. They drink CO2 so I say they count as well as trees. That adds up to 15.”

 

“But that doesn’t make an acre...” I started to interject.

 

“Think outside the box, sonny,” Toogie interrupted. “Look around. The golf course is full of trees. All the roads on Daniel Island are lined with a ton of trees. And every yard has trees and shrubs galore. It’s a gold mine of carbon credits.”

 

“But you don’t own them,” I stated.

 

“Didn’t say I did,” Toogie shot back. “I’m just saying they won’t get cut down for a year. That’s all.”

 

“Wouldn’t the POA get upset?” I posed.

 

“Oh, don’t go getting all technical with me,” Toogie groused. “We just need to get out and catalogue all these nuggets.”

 

“You’re not ...?” I stammered imagining where this was headed.

 

“All you have to do is drive,” Toogie explained. “I’ll get out and shoot a few photos of each house.”

 

“I’m not doing that!” I declared

 

“Okay,” Toogie answered, “I’ll do it myself. But I will need your cell phone for the pictures. And,” she concluded, “since you aren’t helping, don’t expect me to share any of my income with you.”

 

With that she popped the rest of the cinnamon roll in her mouth, rose and asked, “Where do we have a street map of Daniel Island?”

 

So may I offer this notice and appeal to all Daniel Island residents. Don’t be alarmed if you see a white-haired lady, around five feet tall, in your front yard (and hopefully not your side or back yard), taking pictures of your house and yard. She isn’t a golden-age bandit plotting a break-in or one more realtor trying to talk you into selling. It is just my feisty, frugal, fun-loving aunt doing her part to fight inflation and save the planet.