Chicken Poop, Red Flags, and Spreadsheets

A tale about the toils of busy work

My parents worked hard to make sure I had the perfect setup. When we visited Auburn University for Camp War Eagle in the summer of 2011, I got to meet some of my classmates, sign up for classes, and interact with people in my chosen major—Biosystems Engineering.

While we were in the Corley building on Auburn’s campus, we got to meet some key people who would potentially help me succeed at Auburn: the professor over work studies, a graduate student in need of some extra help, and the man from whom we purchased my trailer in Ridgewood village.

All of this came together so perfectly.

I was setup with a home, a job, and I made key connections in the department I would be studying in for the next four or more years.

Biosystems Engineering is all about making agricultural practices more efficient. Whether it is producing more crops per acre through genetic engineering or optimizing diets for olympic athletes, the goal is peak efficiency.

One of the things I was most interested in was the GPS technology tractors used to precisely spread and limit the amount of chemicals they used to fertilize the soil. When I was in high school, I actually worked with my dad (an environmental engineer) and my uncle (an agronomist) on multiple projects. I learned how to do percolation tests and identify soil. I learned to prescribe different practices to optimize crop yield through my soil judging team.

I also took a lot of soil samples for my uncle’s farm. When I would take a sample, I would mark the place with a GPS waypoint. We would then put the coordinates on a baggie, drop the soil in, and ship it to a lab so they could return what the best approach to manage the land might be—lime, fertilizer, and all that jazz.

The lab would send back the data which could be put into the computer on the tractor. The tractor could then precisely spread whatever was needed down to the inch…and beyond.

While homeowners and amateur gardeners might liberally spray pesticide, weed killer, or fertilizer—I know you use a whole can of wasp spray on one nest—these agriculturalists were attempting to minimize environmental impact while increasing yield and reducing cost.

And the graduate student I was assigned to was doing his graduate research project on more effectively spreading chicken litter.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a litter spreader. But they aren’t really the definition of precise.

Do you see those fan blades towards the bottom? The litter drops onto those plates, and the fan blades sling the litter out in a cone shape behind the trailer.

So in the summer of 2011, I got to do something I don’t think I ever could have imagined.

I spent hours each day putting small cups of litter into a funnel, cataloging which baggie it came from (kind of like the soil samples), and dropping it through this machine that measured the average size of each and every speck or chunk of litter—which was a…um…crap ton of data.

And it stunk.

These days weren’t so bad. I could play on my phone while the machine did its thing. Once I got into my groove it was actually pretty easy.

But there were also days when we went out into the field to work.

On one particular day, we were on the way to the site when my boss asked me to count the little red flags that were at the ends of some of the rows of a field to the right of the road.

I always knew I was colorblind, but it didn’t really affect me on a day-to-day basis… except for the time I basically got kicked off the yearbook staff because I made all of the ad borders the wrong color. (lol)

So we go to the end of the field, and he asked me how many flags I counted.

“There were around five or so I guess.”

It turns out the only flags I could see (and count) were the ones that were in between the rows… I missed the other fifty.

When we got to the worksite, I figured out where all of those litter-filled-baggies came from. There was a litter spreader parked in a field behind a barn. Behind the spreader were hundreds of rectangular boxes. Within each box was a set of metal dividers that sectioned the box off into maybe sixteen squares or so, maybe more, maybe less.

We cut the spreader on, and it started slinging litter into all of the boxes. We put each section of litter into its own bag and labeled it accordingly. Box A - hole 3 or something. It probably looked more like A-3.

My job was to run all of these particles through the counting machine so the graduate student I was helping out could figure out how evenly the litter was being spread. From this information, he could make changes to the blades or to the rotation or something to try and manipulate the spread and workshop a more efficient way to fertilize a field.

Like I said, it was pretty fun and kind of fascinating.

But then…

You would think I would prefer that job I’m about to tell you about, but the truth is, I grew up on a farm and always had a love for agriculture, especially because of the FFA.

So when I got assigned to take contact data and put it into a spreadsheet, you would think I would appreciate the chance to get away from the crappy job (I can’t help myself. I am so sorry).

Yeah, but I didn’t.

Man, it was so boring. Name, Address, email, and phone. Over and over and over.

I could hear the clock ticking: bang, bang, bang.

The hum of the computer fan sounded like a jet plane.

It was so nice outside. School was starting up. More and more people were coming to class.

Thirty hours a week.

Twenty hours a week.

Twelve hours a week.

I could work as much or as little as I wanted since school started.

Four hours.

One.

None.

Missed calls. Ignored texts. Shame. Embarrassment. Anxiety.

This pattern is so familiar to me…unfortunately.

It’s similar to the sniffing during the chemistry test from a few posts ago or the times when I couldn’t answer my phone when I was experiencing deep depression. It’s almost as if I get locked up and can’t make myself do whatever it is I’m…supposed…to be doing.

Like a switch flicks off and I can’t get it back on.

A mental block I can’t get to go away.

Like when you can’t seem to hit a free throw, so you keep trying and adjusting and tweaking, but you can’t get the ball to go in consistently, and the ones that do go in don’t feel good, but then randomly you can again, and your percentage goes back to normal.

Except in these situations it seems like it never goes back to normal, and the more I try, the harder it gets. And so I put it off and put it off and put it off until there is so much shame and anxiety that I don’t want to even face it or think about it again until here…twelve years later…when I can’t help but think that facing it might just help me move through it.

So, back in 2011-2012, I changed my major…then changed it again…then went into ministry where I would change my major like three or four more times throughout community college and four-year school until I eventually landed on a B.S. in Bible and Ministry.

And there are even some stories with similar patterns I could tell about that journey.

But here I am. And while that version of Daniel seems so distant, in another way he’s right here beside me, within me, while I type this out. One part of him is relieved we are finally getting this out there in hopes it might encourage someone else who deals with similar things, but the other part of him is ashamed that I’m dragging it all back out.

But sometimes it is through bringing things to light, what we might call confession, that we can finally and earnestly deal with them here and now.

I don’t know how to squash this pattern, but I have hope it can be squashed or at least reframed in a way that helps me to live with it in a way that is honest and transparent…and hopefully less destructive.