is a nitrogen-rich soil amendment and fertilizer. Sometimes in the fall, farmers till green (that is, fresh) manure into the soil, giving its nutrients time to be released before the spring planting. Otherwise, it can “burn,” or dehydrate them.
A more efficient way to spread manure is by first composting it for a time, with a carbon-rich bedding, such as hay, wood shavings, or straw. You’ll know it’s ready when it’s a beautiful, crumbly, black, odor-free substance.
Should you be holding some bad guy hostage and interrogation is necessary, I’m sure that your methods will lead to the release of his own fresh manure. By all means, save it for your garden! Your roses and ranunculus will appreciate your thoughtfulness!
And should your prisoner expire during the course of your interrogation, never fear: a decomposing body makes for a nutrient-rich fertilizer too!
Abu already has a truck pulled in front of Farm Fresh Ventures when Jack and I get there. The produce brokerage, owned by Barnaby Phillips, is located outside Bakersfield, right off its principle highway, Route 99, not far from Interstate Highway 5. These two roads run the length of California’s agriculturally rich central valley. We are parked in front of a warehouse surrounded by several silos of different sizes. Giant plastic blow-up corn is tethered on the warehouse’s roof. The wind is brisk, making the loose green husks sway like a hula skirt, and its polyester corn silk shoot straight up over its head.
Polyester is the fabric of choice for Barnaby Phillips too. Considering his territory is all of California and Arizona, I’m surprised his suits don’t melt into his skin. Thank goodness for cotton undershirts and tighty-whities.
Before we go inside, we call Ryan to discuss a strategy, since Jack and I are split on what will work best. “Should we level with the guy?” Jack asks.
“But, if we tell a civilian, it’ll cause a panic,” I counter. “Why not just buy the Exodus seeds outright?”
Ryan thinks about it for a moment. Finally, he says, “I agree with Donna. POTUS’s mandate is that this mission be wrapped up without the public knowing there was even a possibility of an outbreak, let alone an outbreak because of an act of terrorism.”
“Yeah, okay. So, what price do we offer him?”
“Give me a moment, so that I can look up the going rate for a bushel of corn…okay, it looks like it’s around three dollars and eighty-four cents per bushel.”
“The Clements’ ledger showed only seven acres of the stuff was planted. It yielded an average of one-hundred and fifty bushels per acre,” Jack points out.
Ryan pauses to calculate a dollar total. “That’s four-thousand and thirty-two dollars.”
“That was chump change for the Clements. No wonder they jumped at the opportunity for that extra million bucks Wellborne paid them to be the ‘test farm’ for the Exodus seed,” I add. “By the way, Ryan, I don’t think he’ll take my Visa card.”
“Very funny. When the time comes I’ll do a direct deposit into his account.”
Jack and I exchange looks. I’m sure he’s thinking what I’m thinking: If the time comes.
It may not, if the corn has already been sold.
What a nightmare that will be.
Barnaby Phillips sits at an old metal desk in the middle of the warehouse’s reception area. The twenty-by-ten paneled room doesn’t hold much else, except for a couple of vertical file cabinets and a broken couch that sags against the far wall.
Barnaby is so busy good-ol’-boy-ing somebody on his desk phone that he doesn’t hear us enter. Jack lands on the couch so hard that it groans as it rocks back onto its hind legs.
This certainly gets Barnaby’s attention.
I elect to stand against the wall.
He holds up a finger, signaling us that he’ll only be a moment longer.
By his chuckles and comments, he’s being optimistic. “Yeah, boy, I hear ya…Yeah, boy, that was one whopper of a yield…the name of
A more efficient way to spread manure is by first composting it for a time, with a carbon-rich bedding, such as hay, wood shavings, or straw. You’ll know it’s ready when it’s a beautiful, crumbly, black, odor-free substance.
Should you be holding some bad guy hostage and interrogation is necessary, I’m sure that your methods will lead to the release of his own fresh manure. By all means, save it for your garden! Your roses and ranunculus will appreciate your thoughtfulness!
And should your prisoner expire during the course of your interrogation, never fear: a decomposing body makes for a nutrient-rich fertilizer too!
Abu already has a truck pulled in front of Farm Fresh Ventures when Jack and I get there. The produce brokerage, owned by Barnaby Phillips, is located outside Bakersfield, right off its principle highway, Route 99, not far from Interstate Highway 5. These two roads run the length of California’s agriculturally rich central valley. We are parked in front of a warehouse surrounded by several silos of different sizes. Giant plastic blow-up corn is tethered on the warehouse’s roof. The wind is brisk, making the loose green husks sway like a hula skirt, and its polyester corn silk shoot straight up over its head.
Polyester is the fabric of choice for Barnaby Phillips too. Considering his territory is all of California and Arizona, I’m surprised his suits don’t melt into his skin. Thank goodness for cotton undershirts and tighty-whities.
Before we go inside, we call Ryan to discuss a strategy, since Jack and I are split on what will work best. “Should we level with the guy?” Jack asks.
“But, if we tell a civilian, it’ll cause a panic,” I counter. “Why not just buy the Exodus seeds outright?”
Ryan thinks about it for a moment. Finally, he says, “I agree with Donna. POTUS’s mandate is that this mission be wrapped up without the public knowing there was even a possibility of an outbreak, let alone an outbreak because of an act of terrorism.”
“Yeah, okay. So, what price do we offer him?”
“Give me a moment, so that I can look up the going rate for a bushel of corn…okay, it looks like it’s around three dollars and eighty-four cents per bushel.”
“The Clements’ ledger showed only seven acres of the stuff was planted. It yielded an average of one-hundred and fifty bushels per acre,” Jack points out.
Ryan pauses to calculate a dollar total. “That’s four-thousand and thirty-two dollars.”
“That was chump change for the Clements. No wonder they jumped at the opportunity for that extra million bucks Wellborne paid them to be the ‘test farm’ for the Exodus seed,” I add. “By the way, Ryan, I don’t think he’ll take my Visa card.”
“Very funny. When the time comes I’ll do a direct deposit into his account.”
Jack and I exchange looks. I’m sure he’s thinking what I’m thinking: If the time comes.
It may not, if the corn has already been sold.
What a nightmare that will be.
Barnaby Phillips sits at an old metal desk in the middle of the warehouse’s reception area. The twenty-by-ten paneled room doesn’t hold much else, except for a couple of vertical file cabinets and a broken couch that sags against the far wall.
Barnaby is so busy good-ol’-boy-ing somebody on his desk phone that he doesn’t hear us enter. Jack lands on the couch so hard that it groans as it rocks back onto its hind legs.
This certainly gets Barnaby’s attention.
I elect to stand against the wall.
He holds up a finger, signaling us that he’ll only be a moment longer.
By his chuckles and comments, he’s being optimistic. “Yeah, boy, I hear ya…Yeah, boy, that was one whopper of a yield…the name of
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