night soil
In the 1930s-50s, a French Canadian Indian named Joe squatted on an island on a small lake in Maine where my family has a summer camp. He built up the island by hauling dirt and rocks over the ice that would settle on the shore in the spring. (He also ran a moonshine operations — my cousin found it while scuba diving off the island.)
My mother likes to talk about how his vegetable garden was lush and productive — and about the standing family rule, “Never eat Joe’s tomatoes”.
!