NANCY CAROL MOODY
  • Home
  • Books
  • Publications
  • Poems
  • About
  • Coming Up
  • Contact Nancy

Bin There, Doin' That

3/18/2013

2 Comments

 
Picture
Turn me into compost, Baby!
I'm lazy.

Not a huge revelation, but since admitting this to a friend last week, I've a had the opportunity to reflect on just how slothful I've really become.

Let's talk about composting, f'rinstance. I live in a region that is very conscious of—conscientious about—its stewardship of our natural resources. This isn't just noise at a governmental level; it's a cultural value that extends to the everyday of households. Homeowners are installing solar panels to capture heat; we swap out our incandescent light bulbs for the fluorescent variety; our waste is sorted before we put it out at the curb—a container for recyclable materials, one for yard debris, another for the landfill. The system works. My large barrel of recycled materials is emptied every two weeks, but my smaller-by-half landfill container is only picked up once a month. Even then, only rarely is it filled to capacity.


Five years ago I moved from a neighborhood house with a decent-sized yard to a lower-maintenance house with a yard so small I can't even call it a yard without choking on my own hyperbole. There's a strip of grass up front and a patch in back which is planted up with lackluster shrubs that I only have to tend to twice a year. It's a lazy girl's dream, allowing me to idle on the interior side of the windowglass with my cup of hot tea and not-much-to-do when the mowers and rakes and shovels and hoes begin their spring flights off the hardware-store shelves.

And so I now confess that my do-the-right-thing genes have been hunkering down indoors as well. For five this-house years, I've been tossing my vegetable scraps blithely in the trash can under the sink. Every slime-gray potato peel, each boomerang of watermelon rind, all the inedible rowboats of celery—the whole biodegradable shebang has been going right into the can that's emptied into the barrel that rides in the truck where it's dumped into a hole and compacted to a loaf that will last longer into the eons than that proverbial holiday fruitcake and all those other unkillable clichés.

Recycling kitchen waste is not an activity alien to me. I kept a compost bin at my last house. I'd made it myself with cedar boards measured and cut and configured in such a way so that the contents would breath. I filled it with kitchen waste and grass clippings and the autumn trees' dropped leaves. I didn't even begrudge the dogs their scrubbings when, after a wet mowing, they'd bound their way into the open bin, making chlorophylly green leprechauns of themselves. I watered the heap and fed it and turned it. I laced the black harvest back into the soil in the yard.

In my current life I've donated uncounted cat litter buckets to friends who've employed them for their own composting needs. When asked, I wrote a poem lauding the another neighborhood's composting efforts. And with each small gesture I've carved a notch in the expanding waistline of my own inertia.

Fiction writers talk about "consistent inconsistencies," those at-odds-with-themselves traits that legitimize a character's humanity on the page. I've tried to run this scam on myself, explaining that my failure to compost is one of those exceptions that proves the rule of my humanness. But a scam is a scam, and after a while, even I get tired of sniffing out the ones I'm selling to myself.


So last week I bought a compost bin. A recycled plastic one that took, if I puff the numbers, approximately 5 entire minutes to assemble. I installed it in the back patch, behind a threesome of pampas grass that, guaranteed come fall, I'll again be whining about having to cut back. And I'll admit  I'm feeling a little proud of myself—for finally coming to do that which I know I should have been doing all along.

Oh, I'm not delusional. I'll be annoyed in short order, grumbling about how quickly my kitchen container seems to fill up, about the long walk down the stairs to empty it out. A clearer conscious does not shake off the lazy blues. But a life is about choices, I think, about trying to make the better ones—one slippery banana peel at a time.


(with thanks to my confessor, Q)

Picture
The author, with Kobi, self-composting
2 Comments
Lynn link
3/18/2013 09:11:32 am

Ah composting . . . it's actually a good fit with "lazy." To me, it seems almost daring to just throw those peelings into the compost pile, an act that, if we were driving down the road, would otherwise be considered littering.

Reply
Serifina
3/18/2013 09:17:08 am

Compost bin. Brava. Très bien cet effort. Ça vaut la peine.

Reply



Leave a Reply.

    RSS Feed

    Nancy Carol Moody

    I'm a poet and a letter-writer. Yup, that kind. The kind who uses pens and paper and actual stamps. The kind who will leave the house with nothing on the agenda but to get to the mailbox before the scheduled pick-up time. The kind who understands that technology is a wondrous thing, but nothing quite beats finding a real letter with a real stamp on it amid the credit card solicitations, pizza coupons and seminar catalogs.

    Picture


    Archives

    August 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    May 2013
    April 2013
    March 2013
    February 2013
    January 2013
    December 2012
    November 2012
    October 2012
    September 2012
    August 2012
    July 2012
    June 2012
    May 2012
    April 2012
    March 2012


    Categories

    All
    Animals
    Art
    Eugene
    Happiness
    Mail
    Medical Stuff
    Monday Morning
    My House
    Mysteries
    Negative Space
    Nostalgia
    On Writing
    Oregon
    Poets And Poetry
    Sports
    The New Yorker
    The New York Times
    The New York Times Magazine
    To Do Lists
    To-Do Lists
    University Of Oregon
    Work


    Blogroll

    All About Oregon
    Anita's Poetry Blog
    Anvils & Edelweiss
    Colette Jonopulos
    Evelyn Searle Hess, Author Blog
    Haiku Oregon
    Off the Page
    Poetry & Popular Culture
    Stone Soup
    Writer's Island

    RSS Feed

© 2022 Nancy Carol Moody
Photos used under Creative Commons from marc falardeau, Sedona Hiker, juggernautco, jetheriot, Jaime Olmo, Lucas Guimaraes, titanium22, Benimoto, Tim Green aka atoach, quinn.anya, gadl, rjs1322, photosteve101, Epiclectic, Bert Kaufmann, Dave Hamster, Nesster, WarmSleepy, Double--M, appadaumen_de, Epiclectic, x-ray delta one, Krikit ♥, Hey Paul Studios, Steve Snodgrass, andydr, One From RM, Dusty J, IIun, out of ideas, claumoho, Marxchivist, AtomDocs, TheCreativePenn, acnatta, ell brown, Dyanna Hyde, katerha, ThrasherDave, highwaycharlie, photoverulam, opensourceway, mas_to, opal nova, kk+, Spigoo, quinn.anya, Flóra, Wonderlane, MaretH., JD Hancock, sunshinecity, dollen, cliff1066™, Epiclectic, PinkMoose, DebMomOf3, Jonathan Daroca, Family Art Studio, Gonmi, Jilligan86, Epiclectic, Infrogmation, christine zenino, j_lai, Andrew Morrell Photography, anemoneprojectors (getting through the backlog), exfordy, andy_tyler, psd, mikecogh, "T"eresa, Epiclectic, TheGiantVermin, cybrariankt, Sergei Golyshev, Epiclectic, Kate Cooper, Ray Larabie, kathia shieh, Homini:), Robert Banh, Hitchster, squeezeomatic, marfis75, katerha, Chrissy Olson, flikr, jenny downing, snapp3r, BazzaDaRambler, Robert Couse-Baker, leppre, Marcin Wichary, jeff_golden, jpockele, Paul Lowry, Nina J. G., Lincolnian (Brian), Epiclectic, peasap, juggernautco, cogdogblog, U.S. Embassy The Hague, gui.tavares, Wonderlane, stu_spivack, Bitterjug, puroticorico, wayne's eye view, The Travelling Bum, HockeyholicAZ, david.nikonvscanon, Paul Lowry, OnTask, net_efekt, oswaldo, donireewalker, Sister72, herval, teadrinker, James Nash (aka Cirrus), jaqian, Yosemite James, Tim in Sydney, C.K.H., Nadia Szopinska, Walraven, ArmandoH2O, Peter Blanchard
  • Home
  • Books
  • Publications
  • Poems
  • About
  • Coming Up
  • Contact Nancy