Fact: I like the smell of my compost bin. I cannot
accurately describe the smell. Despite years of honing my professional writing
skills, one cannot completely convey the smell of organic decay. And really,
most normal people don’t even try.
 |
| Not author's actual bin |
Let me back up and explain. For Christmas, my dad bought me the coolest little
compost bin so I could start degrading my left-over vegetable matter into rich
organic fertilizer for my flower beds and garden.
Yes. We are garden, compost, rain barrel, solar lighting,
wind turbine people. It happens. Accept and move on.
When the summer months finally arrived, my compost
experiment began. First, I am not doing it correctly. Of this I am sure.
My dad will open his little magic compost door and this
amazing black soil will come out that is then transferred to his tomatoes, which
are the most red, plump and juicy, which he then creates cans and cans of juice
and sauce and salsa. Voila.
I open my little magic compost door and the grass clippings
I dropped in there in May poke out. No black magic.
But as the summer warmed up, as the moisture worked and the coffee
grounds, egg shells and vegetable tops melded, they created this sweet earthy
love note that I will occasionally lift the lid just to enjoy.
I grew up in a rural spec of Missouri just outside of St.
Louis. That earthy smell reminds me so much of home but at different moments in
time. Like in the summer after it rains and the small pond in the back field is
full again and that organic stew at the bottom rises to the top. Or in the
winter when the cows are huddled in the barn, chewing hay, switching their
tails and warming the barn with their solid bodies and warm breath. Or the
musty damp smell of the cellar when you bounce down to get some of last year’s potatoes
from the bin.
When I was a kid, all I wanted to do was move to the city.
Now I live in the city and bring back small pieces of the farm to my suburb.
And occasionally smell the compost, and reminisce.
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