Story #1:
Last week, as part of my summertime thinning-out and decluttering phase, I decided to clean out my old compost piles. They were not working, they were an eyesore, and there were suspicions voiced by Cyndi that they might be attracting vermin.
Several years ago I built a frame out of wooden pallets, in the remote corner of our back yard, to dump grass clippings and leftover vegetables and other organic material. It was my compost pile. I was proud of my tiny baby steps into a greener future. I wouldn’t be sending my grass clippings to the landfill, No No, I would be turning them into wonderful compost to fill our flower beds and protect our friend the earth.
I used this framed pile to collect yard waste for five or six years. Somewhere down the line I even doubled the size of my frames to make sure I had plenty of room to toss the pile.
But as a compost pile it wasn’t very successful. As a composter I was a dismal failure. What I mean is, I did a great job keeping my yard waste out of the dumpster and the city landfill, but I was a failure at creating beautiful rich steaming black compost.
For one thing, we don’t eat at home enough to generate a significant amount of organic vegetable waste to accompany the dry grass clippings. Our Labrador, Lady, contributed her share of organic waste, but it wasn’t enough. And I failed to water my pile enough to keep it moist for decomposition.
So I ended up with a compacted pile of six-years-worth of grass clippings and the occasional trumpet vine.
Enough was enough; it was time to clean up. So I hauled the entire contents of my piles to the city yard waste dumping site, hoping the new location would help my clippings find their future. I dug into the piles with my pitchfork and moved the very dry grass in a small wheelbarrow to my pickup. After thousands of wheelbarrow loads, and four trips driving my full pickup to the dump site, I finally finished.
To add insult to my composting injury, my piles consisted of dry grass clippings all the way down to the bottom. None of it had turned into earthy compost. What a disappointment. I’m embarrassed that I handled my little portion of the future so poorly.
Story #2:
The first thing I noticed when I stepped up to the counter at Whataburger on Big Spring Street was the word “closed� on the customer’s view screen of the both cash registers. That was not a good sign for speedy service.
Then a young 22-year-old-looking employee with tattoos on her hand and her name scribbled on a piece of masking tape (meaning she probably started work that very week, maybe that very day) walked up holding a striped orange and white paper bag and a ballpoint pen. I thought she would write down my order and carry it over to the drive-up window cash register to “ring it up.�
I told her I wanted a medium drink and one cookie (I thought I should buy more than just a drink since I planned to stay and write on my laptop for a couple of hours, using one of their premium booths and their electricity.) She wrote down my order, wrote the price for each item without having to look over her shoulder at the wall-mounted price list menu, added the total right there on the paper with actual arithmetic, carrying the one and all that, calculated the tax (she may have estimated the tax, I didn’t check), and told me the total amount.
I was astonished. Every retail establishment nowadays uses computerized cash registers and all a person has to do is push a few buttons or touch the screen to get the total. This remarkable young woman added it up herself on paper the analog way, something I thought was a lost skill.
It gets better. I gave her a five-dollar bill and she counted change into my hand the same way the Woolworth’s clerk would’ve counted change for my grandmother. I, and many like me, assumed the widespread use of computer cash registers that calculate change automatically had pushed the skill of counting change out the back door with the spinning wheels. I, and many like me, have assumed that a power failure would bring all retail to a halt since no one would be able to calculate a total or count out the change. We were wrong. At least today, at this particular Whataburger, the skills of the past were alive and active. I was proud to feel better about the future. Maybe it won’t be so bad.
