Unsung icons: Compost heaps Doing our bit for the environment

COMEDIAN DAVID SMIEDT TAKES AN IRREVERENT BUT APPRECIATIVE LOOK AT THE CLASSIC THINGS THAT DEFINE YOU-BEAUT AUSSIE LIFE

BACK IN THE DAY when ‘grey water’ could be mistaken for the aftershave your grandad wore, Australians were already ahead of the eco-trend. We long ago learned that Mother Nature is pretty much the greatest recycler of all, and that even the leaves that had fallen off trees could be turned into compost to fertilise the garden (pronounced com-post as in ‘post office’ if you were a touch on the la-di-da side. Most of us just stuck with compost – as in ‘lost’).

It was an ingenious development for a number of reasons. First up, it cost nothing, nada, zero, zip, which made it alluring for dads who were tighter than a clam with lockjaw. The only expense was time, and there was plenty of that – especially if the cricket was on.

Secondly, while we Australians had no problem retaining water in our bodies, our gardens weren’t as blessed. In a country drier than a Yellow Tail chardonnay, strategically placed compost cut down the amount of water required for a presentable garden.

The compost heap was not particularly pretty to look at. It was never meant to be more than a collection of flora detritus to be used for a greater purpose, which is why it was often relegated to laneways, side passages and hidden corners of the garden.

For kids, however, the compost heap could be anything: a fort to hide behind, a boundary beyond which an annoying younger sibling was not to trespass, or a hiding place for bottles of Malibu your parents would never know were missing. Many young and in love Australians even stole their first kisses in secret while organic matter non-judgementally decomposed beside them.

If you had even the merest hint of wannabe stunt person about you, the compost heap made for a convenient makeshift landing pad – what with its crunchy top and mushy undercarriage. After taking that screamer of a flying backyard cricket catch, there was absolutely nowhere else you’d prefer to come back to earth than this welcoming harbour of squelchy softness. Emerging with that Kookaburra raised in one hand while covered in various brown smears that were both pungent and unidentifiable stamped you as a hero. And who cared if the dog peed on it several times a day?

There was a dark and brooding malevolence to the compost heap. Especially if it stood taller than you did. All but the top levels were invariably dark and there was a trace of rot in its odour. A monster could spring from it fully formed if you were inclined to such terrors and, before we lit our gardens like art galleries, its dusk silhouette could be a forboding one indeed. Wait, did you hear that noise?

Yes, it made noises – mysterious rustlings. Or, more accurately, the myriad creepy crawlies that called it home did. It was a hotel for the biting, stinging and pouncing, with an open-door policy on insects and rodents alike. Retrieving an errant football from the entrails made one feel like Indiana Jones descending into an illlit cavern. Except he didn’t find himself screaming “Muuuuuum” at the top of his voice when some slitheryness brushed his hand.

Some kids didn’t have a compost heap. Some had worms. Or at least a worm farm. These could be knocked together using gaffer tape, a bit of imagination and the willingness to get one’s hands dirty. Regular earthworms – and sinister-sounding nightcrawlers – took composting to the next level. These invertebrates descended on leaves, grass clippings and scraps of food like your relatives at a wedding buffet. The amount of waste your home produced was slashed and what remained brought out the best in the nasturtiums. This was before we started eating them in our salads, mind you.

Of course, composting and worm farms are still around. In fact, they’ve become more popular practices as we strive to minimise our environmental impact. As with all technology, they are now more compact, increasingly efficient and have been marketed as such. Fair call. But you’re not going to want to try to land on one during a game of backyard cricket any more. Ouch!

THE ONLY expense WAS TIME AND THERE WAS PLENTY OF THAT – ESPECIALLY IF THE cricket WAS ON