Sam the Man & the Rutabaga Plan Read online

  “Sounds like you already have a chicken manure pile, Sam the Man,” his dad said. “All you need to do is add leaves and vegetable scraps. I’m sure Mrs. Kerner won’t mind.”

  Wow, Sam thought, that was easy.

  Now all he had to do was ask Mrs. Kerner if he could add things to her pile of chicken poop, like carrot peels and bread crusts and potato skins.

  “I’m going to make you some great dirt,” Sam told Rudy that night before he turned his bedroom light out. “You’re going to be the happiest rutabaga in the world.”

  Rudy smiled at him, and Sam zipped up his backpack.

  “Good night,” Sam said.

  Rudy didn’t say good night back. Sam guessed he was already asleep, and then Sam remembered that rutabagas didn’t talk.

  Or maybe Sam just didn’t understand their language.

  Yet.

  Sam the Man and the Compost Business Plan

  The next morning Sam emptied out his trash can onto his bedroom floor and then took it downstairs.

  “This is my scrap-collecting bin,” he told his mom. “So that I can grow dirt. I’ll need all your eggshells and vegetable scraps. No meat or dairy products, please.”

  “You know, Sam, you could probably make a deal with some of our neighbors to collect their vegetable scraps too,” his mom said. “You could start another business.”

  “A scrap-collecting business?”

  “A compost business. People like to use compost in their vegetable gardens. It has lots of good microbes and nutrients in it. You could collect their scraps, add them to your compost pile, and then give them some of the compost when it’s done.”

  “I’d need a bigger trash can.”

  “I’m sure we have a bucket or two around here you could use,” Sam’s mom said. “And we can dig out your old wagon from the garage. You could use it when you’re collecting scraps.”

  Sam told Gavin about his new business plan on the bus ride to school. “Rudy will have the best dirt of any rutabaga ever,” he said.

  “You know he’s done growing, right?” Gavin asked.

  “I know,” said Sam.

  “So just how long do you plan to keep Rudy? I mean, after we’re done with our vegetable unit in science?”

  Sam shrugged. “Forever, I guess.”

  “I don’t think vegetables last forever,” Gavin said. “By the time you have really good dirt from your compost pile, Rudy might be, well—”

  “Well, what?” Sam asked, even though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  “Have you ever looked in the vegetable bin of your fridge?” Gavin asked. “You know, when it hasn’t been cleaned out in a long time?”

  Sam nodded.

  “So you know stuff gets kind of brown and mushy?”

  Sam looked down at his lap. He knew.

  “You could just eat him,” Gavin said. “I mean, when we’re done with the unit. Emily said her mom told her she had to eat her green bean by tonight or throw it away.”

  Sam was shocked. “I don’t eat my friends,” he told Gavin.

  “You would if they were carrots,” Gavin said.

  At school, Sam looked around Mr. Pell’s classroom and wondered if everyone was planning to eat their vegetables. Was Caitlyn going to bake her potato and eat it with sour cream and butter? Was Will going to chop up his cabbage into coleslaw? Was Rashid going to make pumpkin pie?

  “Don’t worry, Rudy,” he whispered into his backpack. “You’re safe.”

  But for how long?

  That afternoon, Sam told Mr. Stockfish about his new business plan.

  “How are you going to make money doing that?” Mr. Stockfish asked. He was holding Leroy in his lap and scratching her head.

  “I’m not doing it for the money,” Sam explained. “I’m doing it for the dirt.”

  “That’s not much of a business plan,” Mr. Stockfish said. “But okay.”

  “ ‘Okay’ what?” Sam asked.

  “Okay, I’ll help. When we finish with the chickens, we can walk down the street and knock on doors.”

  Sam wasn’t sure he wanted Mr. Stockfish to help. Mr. Stockfish was grumpy. Sam didn’t think regular people liked to do business with grumpy people.

  “Maybe I should go up to the door by myself,” Sam said when they reached the first house. “So the people will see me as a real businessperson and not just some little kid who needs a grown-up’s help.”

  “I suppose you have a point,” Mr. Stockfish replied. “But call me if you need to do any wheeling and dealing.”

  Sam didn’t know who lived in the house, but he could see that whoever did liked to garden. There were four rosebushes in the front yard and a potted plant on the steps.

  A woman with white hair and glasses hanging from a chain around her neck answered the door. “Are you selling popcorn?” she asked when she saw Sam.

  “No,” Sam said.

  “Candy? Raffle tickets? Band T-shirts? Because I don’t need any of those things. And I’m allergic to nuts.”

  “I’m not here to sell you anything,” Sam said. He was starting to wish they had skipped this house, even if there were four rosebushes in the yard and a potted plant on the steps.

  “I’m here because I have a compost business,” Sam explained. “If you give me your vegetable scraps, I’ll put them in my compost pile, and then I’ll give you some of the compost when it’s cooked.”

  “How much?” the woman asked. She sounded suspicious.

  “How much what?” Sam asked. “How much compost?”

  “How much are you going to charge me for the compost you make out of my vegetable scraps?”

  “Nothing,” Sam said.

  “Aw, make her pay something!” Mr. Stockfish called from the sidewalk. “At least a dollar!”

  “Nothing,” Sam repeated. “I need good dirt, and your vegetable scraps would help me make it.”

  “Do you have a garden?” the woman asked. “Compost is excellent for growing flowers.”

  “I have a rutabaga,” Sam said.

  “You’re growing rutabagas?” the woman asked. She sounded excited, like growing rutabagas was one of the best things a second-grade boy could do with his spare time.

  “No, it’s grown already,” Sam explained. “I have it at home in my backpack.”

  “You know it won’t grow anymore, right?” the woman asked. “Even if you put it back into the dirt?”

  “I know,” Sam said with a sigh.

  The woman was quiet for a minute. She had a look on her face that seemed to say, I am the sort of person who thinks very carefully before I act.

  Finally she said, “Okay, count me in. My name is Stella Montgomery. You can collect my scraps every afternoon. I’ll keep them in a bucket.”

  “No meat or dairy, please,” Sam said. “Meat and dairy attract pests.”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, young man,” Stella Montgomery said, and then went back inside.

  Sam knocked on five more doors. No one was home at three of the houses, but at the other two houses, the people said Sam could collect the scraps and keep the compost.

  After five houses, Sam was ready to go home. So was Mr. Stockfish.

  “Did you ask Mrs. Kerner about the compost pile?” Mr. Stockfish asked when Sam dropped him off at his front door.

  Sam had not asked Mrs. Kerner. One, Mrs. Kerner had not been home that afternoon. Two, he was afraid she would say no. If he didn’t ask her, she couldn’t tell him it wasn’t okay.

  “You need to ask her, Sam,” Mr. Stockfish said. “It’s her yard.”

  “I’m going to surprise her,” Sam said. “I think she has a birthday coming up.”

  “You’re going to surprise her with a compost pile for her birthday?” Mr. Stockfish asked. He sounded like he didn’t think this was a very good idea.

  “Yes,” Sam said, pleased that he’d thought of it. “I’m pretty sure it’s what she’s always wanted.”

  The Birthday Party
Plan

  “I have never wanted a compost pile in my backyard for my birthday,” Mrs. Kerner said the next day. “What I want is a 1965 Ford Mustang convertible. A red one.”

  “I don’t think I can afford that,” Sam said.

  Sam’s plan had been to surprise Mrs. Kerner on her birthday with a wonderful compost pile. But his mom had said this was not the best plan.

  “People like to be surprised with flowers and jewelry, Sam,” she’d said. “They do not like to be surprised by rotten vegetables and moldy bread crusts.”

  So Sam had to promise he would tell Mrs. Kerner what he had planned for her birthday. As it turned out, her birthday was only two weeks away. Unfortunately, she did not want a compost pile for a present.

  “There are any number of things I’d like,” Mrs. Kerner told Sam. They were sitting in her kitchen. Mrs. Kerner was drinking peppermint tea, and Sam was drinking milk and eating a lemon cookie with lemon cream icing. When he looked out the window he could see Mr. Stockfish in the backyard talking to Leroy.

  “I would like a new pair of bowling shoes, for instance,” Mrs. Kerner continued. “I would like an ice-cream maker. I have always wanted a pony. But a compost pile? A compost pile has never been on my list.”

  Sam was disappointed. Now he would have to ask Mrs. Kerner’s permission to make a compost pile in her backyard. This was not as fun as giving it to her as a surprise. Also, now she could say no.

  “One thing I would like this year is a party,” Mrs. Kerner said. “With games.”

  “What kind of games?” Sam asked. “Like tag and dodgeball?”

  “No,” Mrs. Kerner said. “I would like to play charades and Authors and bingo.”

  “We could play the game called ‘Let’s Build a Compost Pile’!” Sam suggested. “It’s really fun.”

  “Sam, you are obsessed with compost,” Mrs. Kerner said. “Would you care to explain why?”

  Sam told Mrs. Kerner about Rudy the Rutabaga and how he wanted to make Rudy a nice place to live, and yes, he knew Rudy wasn’t going to grow anymore, but Rudy still might like some nice dirt to spend his time in.

  “And compost makes the best kind of dirt, am I right?” Mrs. Kerner said.

  “Yes,” Sam said. “I think Rudy deserves really good dirt.”

  “Sam, let’s make a deal,” Mrs. Kerner said. “If you help me plan a birthday party, I will help you compost. I don’t want a pile, though. Raccoons will get into it, and then they’ll eat our chickens.”

  “So what will we do?” Sam asked.

  “We’ll get posts and chicken wire and then build a proper compost bin. But can I ask you one thing?”

  Sam nodded.

  “Do you know you can go to a garden store and buy a bag of compost?”

  Sam did not know that. Maybe that’s what he should do, he thought. He had money saved up from his jobs, so he could probably afford a bag of compost. It would be faster than waiting for the vegetable scraps and bread crusts and chicken manure to heat up and rot and turn into dirt.

  The fact was, Sam didn’t know how much time Rudy had before he started getting mushy and brown.

  “Maybe I could do both,” Sam said. “Maybe I could buy some compost and also make some compost.”

  “That’s a good plan, Sam,” Mrs. Kerner said. “So you’ll help me with my birthday party?”

  “I’ll help,” Sam said. “Do you want a cake?”

  “I would prefer cupcakes,” Mrs. Kerner said. “With sprinkles.”

  “I like sprinkles too,” said Sam. “Especially red ones on top of vanilla frosting.”

  “Those are the most festive kind,” Mrs. Kerner agreed. “Now, who should we invite to my party?”

  “Who do you want to invite?” Sam asked.

  “You and Mr. Stockfish of course,” Mrs. Kerner said. “And I would like to invite the mail carrier, Francine, and also Curtis, who bags my groceries at the Shop ’n’ Save Grocery.”

  “That’s it?” Sam asked. He didn’t think that seemed like very many people.

  Mrs. Kerner was quiet for a minute. Then she said, “That’s it.”

  Sam drank the rest of his milk and finished his cookie. “I should go feed the chickens,” he said. For some reason, he felt sort of sad, and he thought seeing the chickens would cheer him up.

  Mrs. Kerner stood up. “Yes, and I should—do something.”

  But Mrs. Kerner didn’t do anything. She just kept standing there.

  “Maybe you could come out and talk to Mr. Stockfish,” Sam said. “That way he won’t get lonely while I’m taking care of the chickens.”

  “I think that’s a good idea, Sam,” Mrs. Kerner said. “I would hate for Mr. Stockfish to get lonely.”

  When they got to the backyard, Mr. Stockfish was sitting in his usual lawn chair. Leroy perched in his lap.

  “You sit there, Mrs. Kerner,” Sam said, pointing to the chair next to Mr. Stockfish. “I’m going to clean out the coop.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that Leroy is an odd name for a girl?” Sam heard Mrs. Kerner ask Mr. Stockfish, who growled but didn’t actually answer the question.

  Sam thought he’d better hurry. He wasn’t sure Mrs. Kerner and Mr. Stockfish should be left alone together for very long.

  Sam crawled into the chicken coop. The chickens came running, clucking and looking like they were happy to see him. They knew Sam was the person who brought them their food. He was like a rock star to them.

  “I have to clean out your mess first,” Sam told the chickens. To clean the coop he had to carry out the dirty straw from the ground and the laying boxes and put it in a wheelbarrow that he wheeled to the way back part of the backyard. After that, he shoveled up the chicken manure and put that in the wheelbarrow and wheeled it over to the same place he’d put the dirty straw.

  He wondered what the bottom of the pile of manure and dirty straw looked like. He decided to poke at it with a stick.

  A long stick.

  Sam found a stick and poked at the straw. The bottom of the pile was black. It was goopy. Was it . . . turning into dirt?

  If it was, then making dirt was a much slimier process than Sam had realized.

  Sam turned around to ask Mr. Stockfish to come over and take a look. He wanted to know if this was really compost or something gross they should call the garbage men to come and haul away.

  But Mr. Stockfish was busy talking to Mrs. Kerner, who now was holding Queen Bee, the head chicken, in her lap. Mr. Stockfish was pointing at the comb on top of Leroy’s head.

  Mrs. Kerner was laughing.

  Mr. Stockfish was not frowning.

  Sam decided his question could wait.

  Every Vegetable Has a Story

  “Would you like to come to a birthday party in two weeks?” Sam asked Gavin on the bus the next day.

  “Who’s it for?” Gavin asked.

  “My neighbor Mrs. Kerner,” Sam said.

  “The one whose chickens you take care of?” Gavin asked.

  “Yes,” Sam said. He wanted to point out that when he went to Mrs. Kerner’s, he was taking care of his own chicken too, not to mention Mr. Stockfish’s chicken, Leroy. But sometimes with Gavin it was better to keep your answers simple.

  “Can we play with the chickens at the party?” Gavin asked.

  “Chickens are not toys,” Sam said. “But there will be games and cupcakes with vanilla icing and red sprinkles.”

  “Those are the best kind,” Gavin said. “Do I need to bring a present?”

  “Of course,” Sam said.

  “I’ll think of something good,” Gavin promised. “Maybe I’ll bring her some carrots.”

  Gavin’s mom had bought a two-pound bag of carrots at the grocery store, and now Gavin brought a new carrot in to school every day. So far Mr. Pell had not caught on, though he had mentioned the day before that Gavin’s carrot had stayed remarkably fresh. “Some of you might not be as lucky as Gavin,” he’d told the class. “In fact, I’ve heard from a few
of your parents that your vegetables are starting to droop. It’s okay if you want to leave them at home in the fridge.”

  “Don’t worry,” Sam had whispered to Rudy, who was snuggled down inside his backpack. “I’m keeping you right by my side.”

  Their latest vegetable assignment was to write a vegetable story. Everyone had to write a story about their vegetable that could be true, or at least mostly true. So if your vegetable was a cauliflower, you could have your cauliflower talk, but it had to talk about things that actually happened to cauliflowers. Your cauliflower could talk about getting rained on and eaten by worms, but it couldn’t describe going to the state fair and eating a fried candy bar.

  Emily Early was the first one to read her story. She walked to the front of the classroom with her pencil box. When she opened the box, she took out a picture of a green bean. “This is my bean before I ate it,” she said, showing everyone the picture. “He was delicious. Now I’m going to tell you the story of my green bean’s life, beginning with his days as a seed and ending with how he got digested inside of me.”

  Gavin leaned over to Sam and whispered, “This could be supergross.”

  “I hope so,” said Sam.

  After Emily was done, Marja took up her eggplant. “I have some shocking news. An eggplant is really a fruit!” She turned to Mr. Pell. “Did you know that?”

  Mr. Pell nodded. “So are tomatoes and bell peppers. But most people think of them as vegetables.”

  “Most people are wrong,” Marja said. “A fruit has seeds on the inside. Vegetables don’t.”

  When Will brought up his cabbage, he asked Mr. Pell, “Is a cabbage a fruit or a vegetable? Because it’s sort of the same size as one of those little watermelons, so maybe it’s a fruit.”

  That’s when Mr. Pell explained that fruits were the flowering part of plants that contained seeds. Vegetables were the rest of the plant—the leaves, roots, stems, and in the case of broccoli and cauliflower, the flower buds.

  “I’m still confused,” Will said.

  Mr. Pell laughed. “It’s confusing,” he admitted. “Mainly, we divide fruits and vegetables along the lines of sweet and unsweet.”