I've worried once or twice that I have an unnatural affinity toward my compost heaps. To don a pair of oversized boots and tramp to the back corner of the yard with a bucket of kitchen scraps, to dig a shallow hole in the actively decaying mound of debris known as Pile #1, to empty the bucket into the hole, to cover it with shovelsful of already rotten and rich compost from Pile #2, and to sift some of the sweet-smelling stuff through my fingers is a process that gives me pleasure.
Often I hold the new bits of earth in my hands and breathe. It smells of fresh summer rain, no matter the season. In Georgia, where we don't get many freezes, composting is a year-round sport. Never mind the satisfaction that comes with using the finished product in the garden, it's enough just to smell it, and of course to marvel at the earth's graceful housekeeping system.
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| Templeton Himself |
Heretofore I've assumed the pleasure came from knowing I was contributing to the greater good of the environment. Then comes this bit of scientific research from Gardening Know How, via childhood friend David Cutrell:
