Well, bless your heart, Earl—I heard you squawkin’ over the fence the other day about that “mystery stank” waftin’ off my garden. Said it smelled like a wet hound dog rolled in a possum’s laundry. Son, let me tell you, that ain’t no accident. That’s the perfume of progress, the aroma of ambition. That’s Milorganite, and if you can survive the smell, it’ll make your okra grow so tall you’ll need a step ladder to pick it.
Now, I’ll admit, the first time I cracked open a bag of that fine Milwaukee-made dust, I near about keeled over. My wife swore I’d finally lost my marbles. “Buck Harper,” she hollered, “you done fertilized the tomatoes with moonshine mash?” But here’s the thing about us Southerners: We know good things don’t always come wrapped in lace doilies. Sometimes they come in a sack that smells like Satan’s gym socks.
The Gospel of Good Dirt
See, Milorganite’s like your crazy Uncle Cletus—rough around the edges, but loyal as a coonhound. It’s made from the stuff city folks up in Milwaukee flush down their commodes, bless ’em, but here in the South, we turn it into gold. My granddaddy used to say, “Ain’t no shame in a little stink if it feeds the land.” Course, he also ate pickled pig’s feet for breakfast, so take that with a grain of salt.
But here’s the truth: This stuff works. My roses bloomed so big last summer, Mabel accused me of graftin’ ’em to hydrangeas. The secret? That funky fertilizer’s packed with nitrogen and iron, slow-released so your plants don’t get greedy and burn up like a July firecracker.
A Nose for Nostalgia
Now, I won’t lie—the smell lingers like a sermon on Easter Sunday. But it takes me back. Reminds me of Daddy’s overalls after he’d mucked the barn, or the tang of Mama’s vinegar pie crust. Funny how a whiff can carry you home. One whiff of Milorganite, and I’m 10 years old again, barefoot in the dirt, learning that life—and gardening—ain’t always pretty, but it’s worth the work.
So here’s my advice, Earl: Hold your nose, spread it thick, and let the magic happen. Just maybe don’t apply it before the church picnic. Mabel still ain’t forgiven me for the Great Potato Salad Incident of ’09.
