Questions For The Master Composter Previously unpublished, I think. Can't imagine why! [The master composter steps up to the dais. The moderator hands him a glass of water. He sips from it. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket, wipes his brow, replaces the handkerchief. He looks up, points into the audience.] Q: When you start a new compost heap, what…what exactly do you do? How do you start? A: I choose a spot somewhere on the ground and throw some rotting vegetables on it. I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but it really is that simple. It’s a matter of experience, certainly, but also confidence—confidence that I’ve chosen the right spot, confidence that the rotting vegetables have landed right. Many would-be composters abandon their heap when they’re disappointed with that first throw—you just have to pick up your vegetables and try again. Q: Why do you compost? A: [rolls eyes ironically] That one again. Well, frankly, because I’m good at it. It’s a thing I can do. The decaying organic materials are out there, there will always be enough, and I will always be drawn to them. I feel most powerfully myself when I’m piling them on top of one another. Q: Some people have criticized your heaps for being gratuitously malodorous, or too large. How would you respond to these critics? A: Well, you should never respond to your critics. [laughter] But I would say, look: coffee grounds, eggshells, melon rinds—these things exist, they’re part of our world. It would be wrong for me to eliminate them from my heaps, simply because someone finds them distasteful. And as for size—you know, I’ve seen six-inch-high heaps that bored the hell out of me, and I’ve seen six-foot ones that I couldn’t get enough of. I hate to say it, but… size doesn’t matter! Q: Do you have a composting degree? A: I get that question more and more these days. Yes, yes, I do. But you don’t need a college degree to make a compost heap. Frankly, I think everyone’s got at least one compost heap in them—you just have to take that leap of faith—or, heap of faith, as it were. Q: I’m no composter, but I have a great idea for a heap, if you want it. A: What is it? Q: Well, I was thinking you could put one sort of in the middle of the yard, kind of off-center, rather than at the edge—and then every other layer of the heap could be leaves. Like, you know, sawdust, leaves, beet greens, leaves, grapefruit rinds, leaves, and so on. A: Uh huh… Q: And then each layer of leaves could be a little different? Like, you know, oak, maple, ash. A: Right. Well, sure. I mean, it’s a good idea, but it’s your idea, not mine. Maybe you should give it a try yourself. You might want to check out Georgia Pesser’s heap, “13 November 1993,” that’s an off-border heap with leaf layers. Or Connover’s “Summer 1961”—even then, people were experimenting with oak and ash leaves. Q: Oh. I didn’t realize… A: [laughter] There’s nothing new under the sun, right? Anyone else? Q: Yes, I’m an avid follower of your work— A: Thank you. Q: —yes, of course. And I have a question about “Spring Pile (Leaning).” I noticed, looking carefully at it, that a few inches from the bottom there is a layer of twigs—they look to me like blue spruce— A: A sharp eye! Q: —yes, I suppose so. Anyway, I see that they’re arranged in a sort of southwest-northeast pattern, while the more obvious maple twigs nearer the top—Norway maple, I think—are arranged north-south. And I’m wondering if you intended—that is, if you meant any particular— A: Sure, I understand. Well, yes and no—I mean, my arrangements are certainly deliberate, but they are not always burdened by some proscribed meaning. In that case, I was inspired to run the spruce twigs on a bias, not to make any particular point but as an aesthetic choice that simply felt right “in the moment.” It’s up to others to interpret what I may have “meant.” And those are sugar maple twigs, not Norway. Q: Ah. I thought Norway. A: Sugar. One more question. Q: So I’ve been composting on my computer, and— A: [holds up hand] No, stop there. You were not composting on your computer. You were engaging in simulated composting. You wouldn’t give a starving man a picture of dinner, would you? Of course not. One more intelligent question? Q: Could you sing for us? A: [laughter] I don’t know, it’s been a long time! Well, how about this. Sing along if you know the words… O lassie, will ya’ go Around, around-o, In the summer-time? In the harvestin’-time? Around, around-o! What comes around, goes Around, around-o! In the rain and the snow, Around, around-o! And a-when I die, My old body a-will go, Deep into the ground, And around, around-o, Around, around-o. [wipes away tear] Thank you, sir, for asking—you’ve reminded me of the finest times of my life. Thank you, and good night. c2002 by J. Robert Lennon.