Rotting Dead Things

There was a deal at our local Green recycling center; Encinitas residents could get a brand new Smith and Hawken Compost Bin for only $30! Naturally, we had to have one. $30! For a big plastic bin! Which would hold our compost heap! To be sure, we did not currently have a compost heap, nor would we know what to do with one if we actually did have one, but $30 seemed a small price to pay to do our part to Help The Environment. Plus we could use it to teach the kids all about composting, and how important it is. (I was a little fuzzy on this as well; will composting save the whales? The spotted owls? Humanity? Who knew?) 

The guy at the Solana Center was a Composting Expert. He gave us the rundown; what to put in (leaves, coffee grounds, some fruits and veggies, untreated sawdust), what not to put in (dog shit, citrus, the neighbor's cat), how often it should be stirred, when to add water, what it should smell like. What will we be able to do with our compost? Why, use it as fertilizer. Or build a hut out of dried compost bricks. Or build a compost-powered rocket - out of sheets of pressed compost, of course - and fly off to some faraway planet, there to start the human race anew. He held the title of Master Composter; he was a scientist and alchemist, and a True Believer. Compost will save us all, his eyes said. Only the Composters will survive - and when the world becomes one vast desert, the non-Composters will be consumed by the giant sandworms that will rule the planet.

I was excited. Invigorated, even. My new responsibilities as a Stay-At-Home-Dad would now be expanded to include Steward of the Avant Ecosystem. Think Globally, Act Locally. I felt the thrill of Purpose. We rushed home and I immediately began assembling the Compost Bin. The sides popped together nicely. It's made of recycled plastic, and could easily double as a child's playhouse, which it might if the whole composting thing doesn't work out. 

The compost bin was assembled, and I carried it to the back of the yard, just past the orange trees, where the breeze would blow any offending odor towards our neighbors, who used to have pet roosters and turkeys that would wake us up with their maniacal rooster and turkey shrieks at the crack of dawn, so fuck them. I began to fill the bin, first with the shredded remains of the cardboard box, then with some lawn clippings, the coffee grounds from this morning, some dead leaves. I hosed it down. Then I closed the lid. It felt good. Like I'd done something. The dog trotted up to the box, gave it a cursory sniff, then pissed on it. 

Each day I go out and check the Compost Bin. It's been a couple of weeks, and I've since added more coffee, some banana peels, strawberry stems, and I think there might be some eggshells in there as well. It looks the same. There are little gnat-like bugs who've found it and turned it into a new, pungent home. It doesn't smell too bad, and a part of me is disappointed. I keep looking at the compost to see if anything's, you know, actually happening. Science tells us that there is. The eye says otherwise. There's no metaphor here; watching compost is like watching compost. Lucas has seen the compost box, and a few days ago he asked me about it.

"Daddy, what's the box for?" 

"It's for compost. That's when you take a bunch of stuff like grass and leaves, and put it in a pile, and it decomposes - kind of melts - and turns into compost, and you can use the compost for stuff." 

"Do you eat it?" 

"No. We would never eat compost, son. We're the good guys. We carry the fire." 

"You're funny, Dad."

"You have no idea."