In a perfect world, I would have nabbed the compost from my backyard and moved it to the garden before we moved. It would have been a nice end to the growing season, and then
we I could have spent moving day not thinking about how my beautiful compost was going to waste. Of course in a perfect world, I would also be eating supper right now instead of sitting next to the oven listening to supper roast. Sometimes things don’t always turn out like you plan.
For example, we moved to the next town over, to a building without a backyard for our compost bin. We were busy the days leading up to moving day, thanks to my new job and to Seth’s class. And we didn’t have as much help as we thought when it came time to move.
Never one to let minor obstacles deter me, we spent The Big Day transferring our stuff from one apartment to another. We left my compost behind with the promise that I would come back for it. Don’t tell me you’ve never talked to your compost before. I mean, I’m not one to coddle compost and measure temperatures and turn it while reciting sonnets. I don’t stand there holding a boom box up to my compost playing a romantic song (I thought that was creepy anyway). But I do talk to my compost, the way I coax my bike in and out the front door, the way I ask the dog how her supper was.
And Thanksgiving was that day. We heard through the grapevine that no one had moved into our old apartment yet, though that was likely to change by December 1. We figured the downstairs neighbor would be gone for the holiday. We even did a dry run and drove by the house to ensure my compost was still around.
Thanksgiving dinner rolls around, and I scarf down my food as usual. Seth and his mom finish up and prepare to settle into their respective squishy chairs for the requisite post-Thanksgiving nap. “Oh no,” I say, “No sleeping. Don’t forget we have to go get my compost.” I’m thankful my mother-in-law already knows and loves my quirks.
While I shovel the compost into our giant plastic tubs, Seth does the compost bin breakdown and hauling. We load up the car without nosy neighbors giving us a second glance, and we drive over to the garden plot, triumphant in the thought that our compost will feed our five beds and nourish our plants next spring. I have big plans for this compost.
Trouble is, our tubs only cover one bed. But that’s ok. There’s still time to get manure before the snow flies.