After 25 years, my compost heap, a living, breathing, continuing adjunct to my garden, is the answer to my anticipation and loyal work by Curly.
Curly knows a compost pile is not a haphazard pile of smelly, organic material, is not just a bunch of leaves, is not just a scattering of grass clippings, is not just a dumping of kitchen scraps, and is not just a cluster of thrown down weeds. No, he knows it is a pile of all those things combined in a 6″ layer, 5′ long, covered by an inch of manure or fertilizer, dusted over with top soil, dampened lightly and repeated until the pile is many layers reaching 5′ tall. He knows to turn it in 6 weeks, turn it again in 12 weeks, and in 3 months he knows it is finished and needs to go into the box located at the end of the piles between the garage and fence.
Scene: Time, 4:00 p.m. Place, in my back yard. Weather, hot and humid. I am carrying a plate of pungent hot stew with potatoes and carrots, standing waiting for Curly, who is sitting on a grass cutter, smoking his pipe, driving slowly around my yard, cutting grass, going forward, backing up, making a noise, turning in circles, bumping against the brick flower border, wiping sweat from his brown face. Finally he sees me, stops the cutter, and walks over.
I love Curly. We are earth partners. He anticipates good friable dirt from the compost as much as I do. Sometimes I go back and watch him turn the compost. When he stops to rest and leans against the bin or the pitchfork, we talk about how things are going.
“Curly, do we have many earthworms now?”
“Nome, hardly enough. It’s been so dry. Maybe that’s why.”
“Well, you better spray extra water on the compost.”
Then when the earthworms do come, he’ll say: “There’s lots of them. I sure would like to take some and go fishing.”
“You know you are welcome to have some,” I say.
Then sometimes he tells me about his youth, how poor he was as a boy; how they didn’t have shoes sometimes in winter and how when the end of the week or month came, the boss man would pay them in syrup. He said his family lived in Louisiana where sugar cane grew so there was plenty of cane syrup.
After Curly went home, I went in the back to the bin with the finished compost, took the pitchfork and lifted a handful of compost up. I saw the black dirt, felt thelightness, smelled the effluent rich smell (only a true plant-grower appreciates) and put the pitchfork down. What will become of this wealth of dirt if Curly has the operation he’s expecting?
A month later I’m calling Curly’s number.
“Hello, Josephine. How is Curly?”
Josephine thanked me for the money I’d sent them and said, “They operated but they just went around the tumor and left it. But he does feel a little better. He wants to speak to you.”
“Hello,” he says in a weak voice. “Thank you for being so kind to us.”
Trying to assure him, I said, choking back my feelings, “Curly, I don’t want you to worry about my yard. I’ll get the grass cutters next door.”
Then Curly answered before hanging up, “That’s good. Tell them it’s just temporary.”
When I hung up I felt sad and knew Curly was too sick to come back.