A Helping Heaping

Compost happens. At least it does at my house. I know its benefits. It has transformed my rocky clay soil into an Eden for vegetables and flowers. For years I have been stacking up my garden debris and letting the rains rot it to a brown mound in a neglected corner of the garden. Occasionally I have approached this heap in a systematic way, mixing it with droppings provided by a friend’s rabbit, watering it, turning it, watching it heat up and steam, and miraculously transform within just a few weeks. But this is a lot of work. The forces of nature will do the same thing for me in just a year. So I don’t sweat it. I just pile garden trimmings, dead leaves and kitchen scraps and let them rest in peace for a while.

This laissez-faire attitude has resulted in quite a sizable heap this year. Not yet reduced by winter rains, the pile has reached a height of about four feet and a diameter of six or eight. In an excess of optimism and zeal, I started watering the heap a few weeks ago with a thought to speeding up the process and intervening in a labor-intensive way. It’s been long enough since I’ve done it that way for the memory of how much work it is to fade.

Last week the little time I had to spend in the garden was used to plant garlic, a prized heirloom German variety, certainly something I needed to do more than turn compost. Suddenly as I was burying the garlic cloves, I became aware of a rustling or chomping noise in the brush. Puzzled, I looked around and could see nothing. Slowly and quietly I walked in the direction of the sound. It appeared to be emanating from the compost pile. As I approached, activity ceased. I stationed myself next to the heap and stood without moving a muscle.

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But my patience was no match for a critter whose ceaseless activity insures its survival. It moved away from me in the dank interior tunnel it had carved. The brush moved almost imperceptibly as it started off on a new vector. I returned to my garlic.

Will I disturb the chambers it has staked claim to in my brush pile? Of course I will, that is if I work up the energy to indulge in active composting. But if I don’t, I can rest secure in the knowledge that my pile will be churned—and without my stirring a muscle—by other creatures more energetic than I who have as much claim to the heap as I do. And compost will happen.