Compost

There was a big pile of compost in the so called »plot« of ours. And in my country a »plot« is a kind of garden, or orchard, or whatever you make of it, a plot of land to grow things on. Old people do it most, but if the old people are your grandparents, then you do it too.
So the compost pile was big, and surrounded with a kind of wooden fence. It didn't smell bad, and cucumbers grew next to it. And on the other side there were some nasty bushes and raspberry bushes too.
But the compost itself, hey, I don't remember anything special about it! We would throw them compost on the ground, and that would make the ground nice and fertile and the cucumbers would grow nicely, or anything else that we would decide to plant on our »plot«.

When the circus comes to town, I always try to get some elephant manure for my compost heap.

I have heard it recommended that Christmas morning is a good time to turn your compost heap. Personally, I suggest taking care of turning your roast potatoes instead.

Good compost is the food which creates a wonderful garden. The worms love it, your plants will love it. Good compost always grows the best tomatoes.

My compost pile once spontaneously combusted. I've heard of this happening before, but never in the middle of fall when the temperature is below fifty. The compost pile was large and endangered a nearby line of pine trees. The firefighters insisted that it was spontaneous combustion and couldn't have been lit by the neighbor's kids, since the neighbor was the chief of the volunteer fire department.

To me there is something particulary satisfying about tending a compost pile. That rich earthy smell, all the fascinating little organisms that live there in various symbiotic relationships... It's a perfect metaphor for the Earth and life in general.

Man has given a false importance to death. Every man, animal, or plant that dies simply returns to nature's compost heap.