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First published in Countryside magazine, circa 2009.
My father was, as fathers go, often a Man of Vision and Imagination, particularly when it came to new and innovative money-making schemes. One Father’s Day, when I was about 14 or so, the rest of the family came up with the grand idea of giving this 58-year-old man, a former Louisiana parish government president and later a state senator, a damn parakeet as a gift. Believe it or not, the old solon was tickled pink with the bird, and scoured the pet shops, buying feed, dietary supplements, and bird toys by the bagload. I think he named the bird “Elmer”, but as the years go by, my memory’s not what it could be.
After a couple of weeks of futilely trying to teach Elmer to speak (Is it parakeets or parrots that talk? Neither of us was sure.), and exhausting all the purveyors of parakeet paraphernalia in Morehouse Parish, Dad realized that there were really very few retail outlets in our area which catered to the bird fancier. He started getting that faraway look in his eye, and I knew what was coming.
In the 1960s, we lived way out in the country, far from “consolidated water systems”. Our household water came from a well drilled in our yard, and brought to the surface by an electric pump which was sheltered from the elements by a 5’x5′ wooden “pump house”. First Dad went down to the feed and seed store and bought a bunch of concrete mix and poured a 8’x8′ slab in the back yard, about twenty feet from the door to my bedroom. Then he built walls, about four feet high, all around the perimeter of the slab. He then (with the help of several farm hands) lifted the pump house off the ground, and placed it atop one of the corners of the new structure. This gave him a 8’x8′ building, with four-foot walls, and a 5’x5′, snug, wooden “penthouse” perched on one corner. He then roofed the remainder of the enclosure, installed screening, and put in a double door “airlock” system. This would prevent anything from escaping whenever the front door was opened.
He then proceeded to buy up Every Parakeet in Northeast Louisiana and turn them loose in the building. He had little nest boxes built in the penthouse. He hung little beak sharpening gizmos from the ceilings. He put in little watering devices, with special chemical supplements added to the water. He fed them copious amounts of expensive food, invested heavily in parakeet husbandry literature, and waited for the profits to begin rolling in.
After a couple of months, we noticed that the profits were rolling noticeably slower than anticipated. “Dad,” I questioned, “are you sure you can tell the difference between a boy parakeet and a girl parakeet? Your birds don’t seem to be particularly …er…romantically inclined, and have yet to produce Egg The First.”
My father was not a patient man. He swore colorfully and vigorously, then proceeded to assure me that the gender mix in his aviary had been carefully regulated. By this time, I was leery of even stepping inside the enclosure, due to the vast number of colorful, chirping inhabitants, and their prodigious organic output. I somehow then planted the notion that, perhaps, some of his male parakeets were not as …er…manly as necessary for successful reproduction. Convinced that he had somehow managed to buy every homosexual parakeet in the area, he began hanging out around the birdery, swearing occasionally, spitting, scratching, and doing other macho stuff, hoping to create a sorta John Waynish influence on the “girly boys” and inspire them to their duties.
After six months or so, all the birds had become more or less morbidly obese, cheeping happily and expectantly at Dad’s arrival, and producing a grand total of one egg. He was so happy, he could just spit. We watched the egg faithfully. And watched. And watched. And watched for a long time. “Uh, Dad,” I ventured cautiously, “how long is the gestation period for a parakeet egg?”
“About two damn months ago,” he answered patiently. He then opened the front door of the airlock and propped it open with a brick. He then opened the interior door and propped it open with another brick. He studied the egg carefully, as though considering a tiny omelet, before flinging it across the yard, where it shattered emptily.
He then grabbed a broom and began chasing birds out the door. “Get your fat asses out and live on your own. The gravy train is over!” The birds looked at their penthouse, at the overflowing food containers, at the toys, at the central heating. They cowered. They begged. They cried. He was firm, sweeping the last of the rotund bodies out into the yard. After a few moments, they finally managed to get their corpulent carcasses airborne, never to be seen again.
“Now, George, sweep this toolshed out, and start moving the stuff out of the garage and into this building.”
With Christmas bills coming due, I can always use a little additional income, not to mention that I can retire soon, and need a rewarding second career to keep my mind active. My father has been dead for thirty-one years, but I flatter myself that his spirit lives on in me. Despite his setbacks in the Parakeet Bidness, I think I’ve finally hit upon a sure-fire moneymaker that he would heartily endorse. He was just that kind of guy.
I am not a much of a farmer, nor even a very capable gardener. I do manage to mow the grass occasionally, but I do not rake leaves. God put them there. If He wants them moved, I’m glad to let Him take care of the job. I do, however, enjoy reading these “Back to Nature” magazines. You know, the ones dealing with organic gardening, composting, and building elaborate homes from scavenged materials. Countryside is, of course, my favorite.
Recently, I ordered a free catalog that I found heralded in one of those mags. It’s from an outfit in Vermont that advertises “Books for Sustainable Living”. One of the offerings is called (I am not making this up!) The Humanure Handbook: A Guide to Composting Human Manure.
What an untapped market! What an opportunity! I’m still busy working out the details, but this is a virtual Money Printing Machine. The way I envision this project is like this: First, I’ll have to form a company, so as to have a place to hold all the profits. My son (who is named after my father, incidentally) is named Hubert, and I often call him “Hu”. I suggested that we name the company “Hu Manure”, despite his silly objections. He seemed to fear that his associates would make mock of the enterprise, and that he would be teased mercilessly, despite his newly-realized wealth. “Hubert,” I reassured him, “I thought that school uniforms were supposed to eliminate teasing at school. Surely the other scholars wouldn’t stoop to crude jokes at your expense.” He still politely declined, despite my offers to include his photograph on the bags and to use him in the television advertising.
Here’s how this thing is going to work. I work for the city. First, I’ll call my friend Benny, who is in charge of the public sewer system. After sewage is treated at the town’s plant, the …er…treated solids are dried in outdoor beds until they are the consistency of powdery ash, and absolutely odorless as long as they remain dry. I remember when we built our new City Hall about twenty years ago. They hauled several truckloads of the powdery ash to fertilize the municipal flower beds, but did not mix it into the soil. The next day, a rainstorm came, and the stuff re-hydrated. Heads rolled.
Benny will surely give me all this stuff I can haul away. Hell, he’ll probably pay me to haul it away.
Uh, oh! No public servant shall solicit or accept…any thing of economic value…from any person… Damned old Code of Governmental Ethics. What’s this country coming to, anyway?
Okay, how’s this? I get a bunch of cheap lawn and leaf bags from Sam’s. Then I get Maggie and Hubert to drive around the parish, and distribute them to willing residents, whom we will now call “Humanure Associates”. Since Maggie just has a learner’s permit, we better limit this to backroads and less-patrolled highways. Then we sit back and wait. When the associate has managed to fill his bag, he’ll call our toll-free Humanure Hotline, and Mag and Hu will drive back out, collect the “deposits” and give the associate a quarter and a new bag. Come on, folks, the stuff was just going to waste. Two bits is better than nothing!
Then, they can drive around to groceries, restaurants, hospitals, and the like, and collect old spoiled produce and decaying vegetable matter–lettuce, bread butts, coffee grounds–and pile this stuff up in the yard. The kids can sift through the collection, discarding any non-organic material, and piling all the components together into moneymaking strata.
What am I doing all this time? Why, filling out paperwork, arranging for advertising, making public appearances, selling stock, and “maintaining the vision” for the company.
Under the self-supervision of Maggie (Vice President for Transportation and Sales) and Hu (Vice President for Procurement and Manufacturing), they’ll have to thoroughly stir and aerate the piles regularly, wait for the natural composting process to finish, package the final product into bags, load the truck, make deliveries to the customers, and collect the money (delivering it to the President and CEO–Guess Who?)
I’ll have to design a logo for the packaging. I’ve got some great ideas. We’ll just run them up the flagpole, and see who salutes, as we say in the ad game. Maybe we can branch out into specialty products. How about an Extra Strength variety (made exclusively with deposits from politicians)?
What a super idea! I am, indeed, a Man of Vision and Imagination. What a legacy to pass on to future generations! In time, our family name will be as firmly linked with Humanure as that of…er…Mr. Kleenex with the tissue industry. Surely, the Rockefeller children got their starts in the family business in much the same way. I just wish my dad were around to see this. He’d be so proud, he’d just spit.
Since this story was written, he’s retired from his municipal job, but is still tweaking this fantastic moneymaking idea. This is not a stock offering. Stock will be sold strictly by prospectus, which I am still working on. Do not send any “deposits” to this address. Don’t call us. We’ll call you.