He saw the ad on Craigslist: “FREE DUNG. YOU COME PICK IT UP AND TAKE IT AWAY.”
Lance had always secretly wanted to be a farmer. His grandfather’s derelict farm had been passed on to him after his father had skipped the country for Dallas. Anybody who did that wasn’t fit to inherit a fine piece of land, his grandfather reasoned. When the old man finally hit the old dusty trail in the sky, Lance didn’t know what to do with the estate and so it sat fallow for several years. But lately he’d been itching for a change in his life; with his wife getting a big promotion, he saw his chance.
“Look,” she said one evening. “You’re middle-aged now, and you’re wondering if you’ve just wasted your entire life. It happens to everybody. I understand, and I love you, so if you feel like you need to do this then you should do it.”
He hadn’t really expected her to be that supportive, but he took that as a sign of Divine Providence. He’d set out for the farm the second Saturday in May, and stay there until the fall harvest—Emily would come and help.
The first thing Lance did when he arrived at the farm was to check out the house. It seemed in good repair. At least, there were no obvious holes or leaks, and the water, electricity, and gas worked once he’d called the utility companies to activate his service. The house itself seemed as if it was straight from a sepia-toned photograph from the Great Depression.
In total, there were twenty-five acres of arable land. Sufficient enough to run a subsistence farm for a small family, with enough left over to pay for their other living expenses. But Lance didn’t have the constitution to till all of that land, so he went looking for hired hands in the nearest city: Cranfills Gap, Texas. Although calling it a city would be extremely generous.
He headed directly for the center of town; on a hunch, he entered the one bar he could find. The place was moderately crowded for late afternoon.
“What’ll you have?” The bartender smiled broadly.
“Uh, your best draft beer.”
“Carlsberg it is, friend.”
“Listen, do you know where I could hire some farm hands?”
The bartender slid the glass across the counter. “You want Knut, in the corner there.”
“Thank you.” Lance took a swig and approached the darkened booth. Several large men looked up at him. “I’m looking for Knut.” The largest one leapt to his feet; he towered over Lance.
“Then found Knut you have!” The other men roared with laughter. “Sit, my brother, and drink.”
“Thank you.” He slid onto the end of the bench. “But I can’t actually stay for very long.”
“Even so, it is always a pleasure to see a new face in Cranfills Gap.”
“I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve got an estate out in the country and I need to hire some help for planting season. Are you interested?”
“My forefathers worked the soil until their knuckles bled and their backs broke. The drive to transform lifeless earth into living things is part and parcel of my very soul. It would be my honor and the honor of my men,” and here he wrapped his giant arms around the two closest men at the table, “to aid you on your homestead.”
“Great.” Lance took out a memo pad and began scribbling. “Here’s the address. Can I expect you tomorrow morning?”
“We will be there. Seven thirty.”
It was a little early, Lance thought, but maybe that was the protestation of the city boy in him. He shook hands with the men; theirs almost enveloped his.
When he got back to the farm he took a nap under a tree.
*
The Norwegians, as Lance had learned to call them, had investigated the land and given a favorable estimate on its eventual crop yield. He’d agreed to let them till the soil, select an appropriate mixture of crops, and plant’ they’d asked him to obtain some fertilizer. Fortunately, he already had a source.
He rented a rickety old truck from a shop in town and drove it to the general store that had advertised the free manure. As he had approached the store, he’d noticed a vaguely foul stench getting stronger as he traveled. The aroma was pungent at the general store, undoubtedly because it was emanating from a giant pile of manure off to one side of the store. He resisted the urge to quote Ian Malcolm.
Lance stepped through the front door and felt warm air wash over and around his face. An old man stood behind the counter; his body was partially obscured by a tub of beef jerky.
“Afternoon,” he said.
“I’m here about the manure.”
His eyes lit up. “The dung? Wonderful. It’s harder to get right of that stuff than you might think. Name’s Elmer.”
“Lance. Hopefully I’ll be able to take a good chunk of it off your hands.”
“What’re you using it for?”
“Fertilizer. I’m trying my hand at farming.”
“Farming’s a tough business, son. You look like you’d have some trouble.”
Lance was offended, but bit his tongue. “I hired some guys from Cranfills Gap.”
“Those Norwegian fellas? Well, they do good work. If that dung’s all you need, go on and load ‘er up.”
“Do you have a backhoe or anything? To load it?”
Elmer walked around the counter and grabbed a couple of wooden handles that were leaning against the wall behind Lance. He brandished them and grinned.
“Pitchfork or shovel?”
*
One month later, Lance returned to the store, in a substantially more disagreeable mood than the first time he’d gone there. He stormed in through the front door.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here about the manure.”
“Sorry. Just gave away the last of it a couple days ago.”
“I’m not here to get some. I want some answers.”
“You picked some up earlier?”
“Yes!” Lance was exasperated. “City boy, remember?”
Elmer nodded slowly. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“I came out here, in a rented truck, to get some shit and move it to my farm. Now, I had a problem getting it there when I hit a four-way stop. But I didn’t know it was, and I didn’t see the stop sign until I was right on it, so I jammed on the brakes. This guy behind me smacked straight into the back of the truck. Some of the manure that was piled high fell right on top of him. It was like in Back to the Future. When Biff hits the manure truck. The fire department came and hosed everything off. Lucky it wasn’t sewage or something.”
“But you managed all right.”
“Oh, yeah. I only lost a quarter ton or so. Now here’s the problem. I put that manure down as fertilizer for my summer season crops and nothing’s come up. It’s the middle of June for Christ’s sake. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that the manure was poor quality.”
“What? You gave me bad product?”
“Well, worthless, more or less.” Elmer bent his head over a tin can and spit a gob of chewing tobacco into it.
“What good is manure if it doesn’t fertilize anything?”
“Somebody ought to have told you more than anyone.”
Lance was silent. He stared blankly at the old coot.
With a smile, Elmer finally spoke.
“Free dung isn’t free.”
Lance had always secretly wanted to be a farmer. His grandfather’s derelict farm had been passed on to him after his father had skipped the country for Dallas. Anybody who did that wasn’t fit to inherit a fine piece of land, his grandfather reasoned. When the old man finally hit the old dusty trail in the sky, Lance didn’t know what to do with the estate and so it sat fallow for several years. But lately he’d been itching for a change in his life; with his wife getting a big promotion, he saw his chance.
“Look,” she said one evening. “You’re middle-aged now, and you’re wondering if you’ve just wasted your entire life. It happens to everybody. I understand, and I love you, so if you feel like you need to do this then you should do it.”
He hadn’t really expected her to be that supportive, but he took that as a sign of Divine Providence. He’d set out for the farm the second Saturday in May, and stay there until the fall harvest—Emily would come and help.
The first thing Lance did when he arrived at the farm was to check out the house. It seemed in good repair. At least, there were no obvious holes or leaks, and the water, electricity, and gas worked once he’d called the utility companies to activate his service. The house itself seemed as if it was straight from a sepia-toned photograph from the Great Depression.
In total, there were twenty-five acres of arable land. Sufficient enough to run a subsistence farm for a small family, with enough left over to pay for their other living expenses. But Lance didn’t have the constitution to till all of that land, so he went looking for hired hands in the nearest city: Cranfills Gap, Texas. Although calling it a city would be extremely generous.
He headed directly for the center of town; on a hunch, he entered the one bar he could find. The place was moderately crowded for late afternoon.
“What’ll you have?” The bartender smiled broadly.
“Uh, your best draft beer.”
“Carlsberg it is, friend.”
“Listen, do you know where I could hire some farm hands?”
The bartender slid the glass across the counter. “You want Knut, in the corner there.”
“Thank you.” Lance took a swig and approached the darkened booth. Several large men looked up at him. “I’m looking for Knut.” The largest one leapt to his feet; he towered over Lance.
“Then found Knut you have!” The other men roared with laughter. “Sit, my brother, and drink.”
“Thank you.” He slid onto the end of the bench. “But I can’t actually stay for very long.”
“Even so, it is always a pleasure to see a new face in Cranfills Gap.”
“I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve got an estate out in the country and I need to hire some help for planting season. Are you interested?”
“My forefathers worked the soil until their knuckles bled and their backs broke. The drive to transform lifeless earth into living things is part and parcel of my very soul. It would be my honor and the honor of my men,” and here he wrapped his giant arms around the two closest men at the table, “to aid you on your homestead.”
“Great.” Lance took out a memo pad and began scribbling. “Here’s the address. Can I expect you tomorrow morning?”
“We will be there. Seven thirty.”
It was a little early, Lance thought, but maybe that was the protestation of the city boy in him. He shook hands with the men; theirs almost enveloped his.
When he got back to the farm he took a nap under a tree.
*
The Norwegians, as Lance had learned to call them, had investigated the land and given a favorable estimate on its eventual crop yield. He’d agreed to let them till the soil, select an appropriate mixture of crops, and plant’ they’d asked him to obtain some fertilizer. Fortunately, he already had a source.
He rented a rickety old truck from a shop in town and drove it to the general store that had advertised the free manure. As he had approached the store, he’d noticed a vaguely foul stench getting stronger as he traveled. The aroma was pungent at the general store, undoubtedly because it was emanating from a giant pile of manure off to one side of the store. He resisted the urge to quote Ian Malcolm.
Lance stepped through the front door and felt warm air wash over and around his face. An old man stood behind the counter; his body was partially obscured by a tub of beef jerky.
“Afternoon,” he said.
“I’m here about the manure.”
His eyes lit up. “The dung? Wonderful. It’s harder to get right of that stuff than you might think. Name’s Elmer.”
“Lance. Hopefully I’ll be able to take a good chunk of it off your hands.”
“What’re you using it for?”
“Fertilizer. I’m trying my hand at farming.”
“Farming’s a tough business, son. You look like you’d have some trouble.”
Lance was offended, but bit his tongue. “I hired some guys from Cranfills Gap.”
“Those Norwegian fellas? Well, they do good work. If that dung’s all you need, go on and load ‘er up.”
“Do you have a backhoe or anything? To load it?”
Elmer walked around the counter and grabbed a couple of wooden handles that were leaning against the wall behind Lance. He brandished them and grinned.
“Pitchfork or shovel?”
*
One month later, Lance returned to the store, in a substantially more disagreeable mood than the first time he’d gone there. He stormed in through the front door.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here about the manure.”
“Sorry. Just gave away the last of it a couple days ago.”
“I’m not here to get some. I want some answers.”
“You picked some up earlier?”
“Yes!” Lance was exasperated. “City boy, remember?”
Elmer nodded slowly. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“I came out here, in a rented truck, to get some shit and move it to my farm. Now, I had a problem getting it there when I hit a four-way stop. But I didn’t know it was, and I didn’t see the stop sign until I was right on it, so I jammed on the brakes. This guy behind me smacked straight into the back of the truck. Some of the manure that was piled high fell right on top of him. It was like in Back to the Future. When Biff hits the manure truck. The fire department came and hosed everything off. Lucky it wasn’t sewage or something.”
“But you managed all right.”
“Oh, yeah. I only lost a quarter ton or so. Now here’s the problem. I put that manure down as fertilizer for my summer season crops and nothing’s come up. It’s the middle of June for Christ’s sake. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that the manure was poor quality.”
“What? You gave me bad product?”
“Well, worthless, more or less.” Elmer bent his head over a tin can and spit a gob of chewing tobacco into it.
“What good is manure if it doesn’t fertilize anything?”
“Somebody ought to have told you more than anyone.”
Lance was silent. He stared blankly at the old coot.
With a smile, Elmer finally spoke.
“Free dung isn’t free.”
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