We live right next door to the county mulch pile. Well, I say pile, but another noun would probably be more correct; that mound of lawn clippings, leaves, etc. over there must be over 30 feet high, 20 feet wide, and 40 feet long. When we first moved into this place 11 years ago, I wasn't even aware that it was there. A narrow swath of woods and a chain link fence beyond separates our community from the county property. I'll never forget the winter day a few months later when I stepped out on my balcony. All the leaves were gone, and I did a classic cartoon double take, and although I can't confirm it, I think my eyes popped out of their sockets with that boi-yoi-yoinggg noise, too. How in the hell had that hulking heap of humus happened?
Over the years I've made my peace with it. Such an eco-friendly enterprise has to be located somewhere, doesn't it? That it's hidden from view most months, that I'm not allergic to leaf mold, and that neither do I mind the fragrance of rotting lawn clippings on a hot summer day helps. In fact I think it kind of smells like apples. Well, apples most of the time, except now, which is why I write about the mulch pile at all. In January and early February, it's everyone's discarded Christmas trees that are making their way through the chipper, and so the scent of pine permeates the cold air on these winter days, and I like that.
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