Compost: The Short Version

A Richer Dust:  The Poetry of a Good Compost

By Robin Ford Wallace

            Shakespeare wrote:  “Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love.”

This is a gardening column and will not unduly burden itself in arguing whether people do, in fact, expire for love, though we are remembering a movie called Lady Caroline Lamb in which the last line was: “She died of a broken ‘eart!”  We were not unwilling, at that point, to bid adieu to Caroline, a mistress of Lord Byron, having never warmed to her somehow, and in any case having finished our popcorn.

No, what interests us is the worms.  When we submit our kitchen waste to the digestive processes of these invertebrates (which are, presumably, ravening about the garden in hope of amorous fatalities), it becomes compost, the crumbly black substance that is to the organic gardener what gold was to the alchemist.

Composting has always existed in nature.  Trees shed their leaves, which decay, creating beautiful black forest soil you would steal for your garden except for the certainty the rangers would nail you.  Little creatures die and enrich the mix with their tiny carcasses.  The World War I poet Rupert Brooke wrote patriotically (and prophetically) of his possible death abroad, “There shall be in that rich earth a richer dust concealed” – meaning Rupert, I’m afraid – “that is forever England.”

Again, this is a horticultural rather than poetical discussion; but if darling Rupert could write so romantically about becoming compost, surely we may be permitted to wax lyrical about its virtues in the garden.

Compost is superior to commercial plant foods in that it not only adds nutrients to the soil but improves the texture, costs nothing, and is an excellent use for elderly groceries evolving into new life forms in the crisper drawer.

There is little disagreement about what to put into the compost pile:  All foodstuffs except meats, which attract rodents.  So:  Coffee grounds, the turnips purchased last January, the bread growing festive blue spots, that unfortunate lentil loaf.

It should, however, be noted that some materials take longer to compost than others.  Eggshells are so durable, one wonders how chickens get born.  And nutshells?  To expand upon our poetical theme:  “Intimations of Immortality.”

There is also consensus that covering kitchen waste with mulch aids the decomposition process and keeps the compost pile attractive.  So:  Grass clippings, hay, leaves.  Toss on a pile of autumn foliage and forget that that sweet potato casserole with miniature marshmallows ever happened.

The only real disagreement about compost is how, precisely, to make it.

Nurserymen advertise innumerable devices to manufacture “black gold”:  wooden crates, metal towers, hay-bale bins.  One commercial composter consists of a ventilated barrel suspended between two poles, with a crank.  One puts one’s biodegradables in the barrel and spins it every day with the crank, looking smug and scientific.

In our youth, we wanted one of these so bad we could taste it.  Unable to afford one, we home-made a facsimile, punching holes in a metal trashcan with our pocketknife, filling it with rotting food and rolling it around our yard, looking half-witted and vaguely inbred. 

Result?  Well, we don’t imagine the expensive kind worked, either.

In fact, what we conclude after 20 years’ subsequent experience is that the best composters are Mr. Shakespeare’s worms.  Dump kitchen waste in a chosen spot close to the garden, cover with hay, repeat.  You’ll have crumbly black compost sooner or later. 

You may water your compost and turn it from time to time, but when you find yourself buying it toys, it may be time for another hobby – say, poetry.

            Robin Ford Wallace lives in Deerhead Cove, where she plays quietly in the dirt, disturbing no one.