Waste paper compost new hobby | TheFencePost.com

Waste paper compost new hobby

Milo Yield
Laugh Tracks in the Dust, Damphewmore Acres, Kan.

I’ve established a new hobby which proves that the COVID pandemic is causing folks to go to unusual activities to pass the time dodging CV in at least a semi-productive manner.

My new hobby is shredding paper — and then mixing it with chicken manure to make compost/topsoil for the benefit of me and the unfed masses next spring.

What prompted this new hobby is the avalanche of campaign mail and unsolicited solicitation mail that I’ve been inundated with the past few months — and continue to get even after the election is over. It never ends. It’s just like junk telemarketer phone calls.

The old saying is, “When you’ve got lemons, make lemonade.” I’ve changed it to “When you’ve got waste paper, make compost/top soil.”

The best part is that I didn’t even have to buy a paper shredder and the raw ingredient — paper — for my new hobby is sent to me free by politicians I despise and companies I hate.

We already had a shredder that we never used. I set it up in the garage, cut the bottom out of its plastic container/basket, and shred the paper into a big cardboard box.

I set up a new compost pile close to a water hydrant and close to the chicken house — strictly for this new hobby. To make a uniform compost, I’m layering with shredded paper, topped by a layer of chicken manure, then watering the pile down. It should be rich and potent for use in the garden next year.

I admit to getting a sort of perverse satisfaction in shredding junk mail of all sorts, plus shredding all the read and unread newspapers and magazines.


I mentioned “junk” telephone calls. Ol’ Nevah and I were being inundated with such a deluge of nuisance calls on our landline at all times of the day and night that we decided to join the ranks of the “cell phone only” crowd. Yep, we cut the proverbial cord to wired communications.

Until all the telemarketers discover our cell phone number, we might have a little more peace and quiet — although, in a way, I will miss cussing out the thoughtless invaders of my time and my life.

Now, if you wanna email me with a good story, it’s htcsac@gmail.com.


My good extension agent buddy, ol’ Avery Ware, has hung up his spurs and gone into a well-deserved and well-earned retirement. Ol’ Avery must have set some kind of a record by serving 47 years as the ag extension agent in the same county.

Now that Avery Ware won’t have to be “everywhere” on the job, I’m hoping that he’ll have the time for some fishin’ and card playin’ and tale swapping. I might have to change his name to Noah Ware.


Hoorah! After what seems like forever, I’ve finally starting to get a few eggs from my young pullets. It’s about time they started repaying me for all the expense and time I’ve invested in them to this date.

However, on the flip side of the coin, the six young roosters that were hatched last spring have matured, too, and won’t give the hens and pullets a moment of peace. They’re driving the gals to distraction from their egg-laying duty.

So soon, I’m gonna select three for the flock and three for the pot. Three of them are sort of laid-back and three of them have a supercharged libido. Guess which ones are going into the pot?


Since Nevah and I ain’t gonna go to Arizona this winter and I’ve got time to kill, I decided to rejoin the ranks of the old geezer deer and waterfowl hunters. I bit the bullet and bought permits for an any-sex deer and for migratory waterfowl.

Then I stretched the budget even further by buying some new insulated camo coveralls and new insulated gum boots. Then I went to the trouble of building me a new single-man waterfowl blind out of odds and ends lumber and tin and buying a new comfortable swivel “blind” chair — that will double as a fine fishing chair.

Now, I’ll betcha that I probably won’t harvest any venison, nor waterfowl. But, even if that happens, I had fun getting ready to have fun.


A lady client brought a litter of Border Collie puppies to the clinic of my veterinary friend, Dr. Tabson Shotz, for inoculations and worming.

The lady loved the pups so much, she couldn’t keep from remarking about their cute habits.

As the look-alike black and white pups squirmed over and under one another in their box, Doc Shotz, realized it would be difficult to tell the treated ones from the rest. So, he turned on the water faucet, wet his fingers, and moistened each pup’s head after he’d treated it.

After the fourth puppy, Doc noticed his hitherto talkative client had grown silent.

As he wet down the last pup’s head, the woman leaned forward and whispered reverently, “I never realized they had to be baptized, too.”


My words of wisdom for the week: “Think you’re old and you’ll be old. Think you’re young and you’ll be delusional.” Keep dodging covid and have a good ‘un.”

Milo Yield

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