A Heath Springs almanac for turning kitchen scraps, autumn leaves, and old stories into next spring's soil.
Well now, bless your heart for stopping by. Pull up a chair — I’ll put the kettle on. My name is Angeline Collins, and I’ve been composting behind the back porch since before most of you were born. What I want to share isn’t fancy. It’s the same thing my mother taught me, and her mother before her: waste is just a story that hasn’t finished being useful yet.
You don’t need a tumbler that costs more than my first car. Three wooden pallets stood on end, wired together, divided into thirds. That’s it. Here’s how it works:
| Bin | Job | How long |
|---|---|---|
| 1 — Active | Add fresh scraps, turn weekly | 2–3 weeks of filling |
| 2 — Curing | Let it rest, stop adding | 3 months |
| 3 — Ready | Scoop the black gold for the garden | Use as needed |
The trick is turning. Every Sunday after church, I’d take my pitchfork and move bin 1 into bin 2. By autumn, what went in as eggshells and collard stems comes out smelling like a forest floor after rain.
Think of it like making a pot of soup — you need the right balance. Too much of one thing and the whole pot turns sour.
Every fall, after I’ve turned the garden under, I layer leaves over the sleeping beds like patchwork. By February, the earthworms have done most of the work. Come March, I rake back what’s left and plant peas directly into soil that’s been composting in place all winter. My grandmother called this the lazy woman’s quilt, and I’ve never been ashamed of a bit of lazy in my old age.
I lost my reading glasses last week. Found them in the compost bin — on my nose the whole time, I suspect. That’s the trouble with getting old, dear. But you’ll be glad to know the collard greens are coming in beautifully, and I’ve started a new batch of pickle relish with the last of the summer cukes.