IT MIGHT HAVE been the American philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson who was credited with saying, “build a better mousetrap and the world will beat a path to your door.”
I can’t think of a more poignant example of his enduring legacy than the path of destruction beat to my door in a vain attempt to help my fellow man. Proving that enduring truism from another literary smart guy, no good deed goes unpunished.
I suppose you could say I am a connoisseur of compost, after the years spent creating a composting dynamo that would completely dissolve a fish head into compost in only one month finally paid off.
I built the world’s most advanced composter.
With its stainless-steel vapor barrier, hermetically sealed rot chamber and carbon-fiber splatter shield, it was the envy of the composting industry.
Then, something beat a path to my door and wrecked my beloved composter.
I’ll never forget the shock and awe of that nocturnal raid that destroyed this vital infrastructure.
I was up at daylight, checking to see if the compost was still steaming. All in an effort to develop a compost-powered steam turbine to lessen our dependance on foreign energy sources.
This revolutionary new composter would have transformed the art of composting from a disgusting, smelly chore into a fascinating outdoor activity the whole family can enjoy, while reducing energy costs.
Instead, I saw the mangled remains of my composting dream, the offal and half-rotted fish heads, scattered across the lawn like so much garbage.
The superstructure was lifted off its foundation. The ventilator tubes, heat sensors and sphincter valve were tangled together in a twisted heap of scrap metal and plastic.
Naturally, I suspected a competing composter. You don’t rise to the top of the composting heap without making a few enemies. They’re jealous types, the composting cabal, not above wrecking another’s dream for their own glory.
Undeterred, I rebuilt my composter then sat back to watch for wreckers and saboteurs.
Then, I saw her one evening. She was built like a brick smokehouse, an enchanting creature with beautiful jet-black hair. She was a drop-dead beautiful bear.
Do you believe in love at first sight? I’m certain it happens all the time.
I remember the good times, but there’s a period of adjustment in any relationship.
She used to go on eating binges. Maybe it’s my fault, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. Like the time she ate an orchard full of apples.
It must have upset her tummy, judging from the mess in the yard.
Then there’s always those who stick their noses in other people’s business.
They said I should shoot her for her hide. I thought she needed her hide more than I did.
She didn’t want to be shot, even with a camera. I took her picture while she was climbing a tree. She growled at the flash.
I’d crossed the line. I knew the honeymoon was over the day I ran out of fish heads.
She overreacted by eating an entire hornet’s nest in one sitting. It made her cranky.
I blamed myself, but couldn’t help wondering if she didn’t just like me for my compost.
I started making crazy plans for the future.
I mentioned hibernating this winter, how it would be great with the extra weight she was putting on. I meant it in the nicest possible way.
I had no idea what a hurtful and cruel remark it was. She stayed away for days on end.
I built a new composter, but it must have soured. So far nothing has bothered it.
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Pat Neal is a Hoh River fishing and rafting guide and “wilderness gossip columnist” whose column appears here every Wednesday.
He can be reached at 360-683-9867 or by email via patnealproductions@gmail.com.
