In the Dumpster, Against the Wall and On the Money

The stories in this column are true. Averett lives a dull life in rural Southside Virginia with his wife Management, two children and a rotating assortment of goats, dogs, cats, snakes and other local fauna.

Earlier this week the daughter and the grand-brat were visiting. It is always fun to see them. We had just finished cleaning the kitchen and were cooking for a church program. The g-brat was playing on the floor. When I looked up, there was the grand-brat leaning over into the green trashcan, pulling out stuff and throwing it on the floor.

This was one of those emotional times when you just can’t find words to express the emotions. Your chest gets tight, tears flow and you can’t speak.

For years I have heard other mothers and fathers talk about this. They talk about when little Johnny or Susie-Belle killed their first deer or caught their first fish. They talk about when little Roscoe or Roschette hit their first home run. They talk about when little Willie or Willimena got the lead in the school play or made the honor roll, won the forensics meet, joined the Marines, received a scholarship, won the beauty pageant or got expelled for the first time.

It seems there are two types of events that make this happen. One is when your progeny or the progeny of your progeny redeems the family genetics by being successful where you failed such as making the All Stars when Dad spent his baseball career sitting on the bench. The other is when the genetics come shining through in yet another generation.

You can imagine the pride of a Masai daddy when his son kills his first lion. You can imagine the pride of a concert pianist when little Joe Hann sits at the piano with his little legs swinging and playing, or the cannibal father who watches his son barbecue his playmate.

There I was watching MY grandson, (created as the byproduct of the hobbies of generations of men and women who love each other) my grandson, not yet a year old, my grandson, who can barely stand alone, my grandson making his first dumpster dive!

I get choked up just thinking about it. While the other granddads are watching their grandkids at bat or on the stage, I- I will be boosting my grandson over the side of a dumpster.

Years ago, one of the attendants at a dumpster site called me Mr. Buzzard. He said I just circled around and when I saw something I thought was good that everyone else thought was trash, I swooped down and got it. Imagine the excitement of teaching a grand-squab to circle and swoop.

There is only one problem with dumpster diving and making useful things out of junk. That is silly things like business plans and budgets don’t work which upsets normal people like my bride Management.  For example, I am working on my little honey house.

The total cost of buying new equipment would be a little over $10,000.  According to normal business practices, I should set up a budget, arrange financing and a bunch of other stuff. The only thing I did was set up a budget. Then I started watching dumpsters, junk piles, yard sales and other folks’ barns and sheds for the things I need.  I am planning on completing this project for a total expenditure of $100 or less. So far I am about half through and have $96.00 left in my budget.

You should keep in mind that my budgets are fluid. Earlier this year I spent $600 (of my hundred-dollar budget) on some honey extractors. I sold two of them, paid for all three and added $145 to my budget. I spent $235.00 of that for a part that I couldn’t use which I resold for my usual one percent profit. Then I used all but the remaining $96 dollars for a bottling tank that would have cost me several thousand dollars new. All I can say is my way works for me and your way would make me crazy, just like my way makes Management crazy.

I have received multiple reprimands for saying I was not going to have my colons scopyed. I am not concerned. Over the years I have been called lots of things. One of my college friends (before I was requested to leave) always called me a blivit, which he claimed was 200 pounds of manure in a 100-pound sack. I couldn’t keep track of the many variations of this theme people have used to describe my character or me.

If by some small chance they are correct then the preparation for the scopy just might make me disappear.