Compost

Yesterday I had a memory of turning the compost pile with Jeff at N Street a few summers ago. He was waging a constant battle against sticks and corn cobs and avocado pits, because they took too long to break down. We managed to get this new pile into the middle of the garden somehow, in front of Bob and Thaleon's house, and we had this big space to scrape and turn and scrape and turn and pile it all into a very neat mound. All while pulling a million sticks out, cursing them. I remember it was about 120 degrees outside and Jeff was running around grabbing all these different tools so he could make the pile just right. He'd switch between a shovel and a straight short rake, scraping all the non-obedient pieces back up into the pile. The chickens were working with us, of course. The second we'd pause, they'd jump on the pile and start digging for soldier worm larvae. Jeff would shoo them off patiently and keep scraping and piling, scraping and piling. He was so sinewy - all muscles, his shovel fulls were twice the size of mine, and he moved them twice as fast. Even with the flies buzzing around us and all the sweat dripping off us, we were laughing and chatting and laughing. This was the first time I'd really worked with Jeff, and I was so struck by how fast he was working, how much energy he had, and how meticulous he was about making the pile just right. Oh yeah, and then came spraying it down with water for-ev-er... and drenching each other in the process, "accidentally" of course. Even shoveling compost was fun with Jeff. He managed to bring life and fun to these chores. Jeff threw his body and soul and a little sparkle into everything he did, even compost.