We have needed a compost pile, or pit, or station, or area...whatever it might be called.
Shortly after moving onto the estate, I cleared out a space near the southeast corner and using fallen cedar logs formed a three sided box. Into it we tossed the occasional organic scraps and covered them with dirt hoping they would rot into rich organic material for the gardens. The compost pile was never tended to so its organic processes were all natural and never accelerated through proper composting techniques.
Today I decided to clean out the area and construct a new pile. I relocated all the dirt from the area and into a bed of spiderworts I am developing. The dirt had certainly taken on the characteristics of rich soil: sand transformed by generous helpings of broccoli stems, unused portions of carrots and collards and the hard cores of purple cabbage and white cauliflower.
To construct another three sided box I used 30 feet of old landscape timbers cut into sections about three feet long. To hold the timbers together I used the 60d nails I had left over from a long ago project. The heavy 6” long nails would be sufficient to hold the corners together, but for an infrequent nail driver like myself, slamming hammer head onto nail head with consistent precision and force is always a bit of a challenge. Lack of practice results in misses, partial strikes and nails bent past the point of straight driving.
My driving was going well. Six big nails had been driven right where I wanted them, straight and true through the timbers. Then, on the seventh nail, as I came down hard on particular swing, a thought flashed before me: if I were not careful after such confidence from my success thus far with my bold hammering, I could hit my hand.
The next swing brought the hammer head full force squarely down on my thumb nail.
Ten minutes later, having shivered in pain as I washed the blood from my hand, then held an ice pack wrapped around my thumb as I rocked back and forth in a chair on the porch with Panther and Midnight watching in empathic curiosity, I was back with hammer in hand to finish the job. I put the tools away and showered with the decision that the chore part of my day was over.
As I dressed, I was acutely aware of the simple pleasure of buttoning a shirt with speed and thoughtless effort, for now, at that moment, pushing each of the half dozen fasteners through the tight loops was slow, clumsy, and very painful.
Ignoring the foreshadowed warning to be careful gave me a small incapacitation that reminded me of a simple delight taken for granted, and we now have a compost pile, or pit, or station, or area...whatever it might be called.
