APRIL 24, 2026 – Late this afternoon I visited our local compost site—after Beth had already hauled a load of leaves to the place earlier in the day. My assigned task was first to corral an unorganized collection of shrub clippings, birch branches, dead day lilies raked out of the garden, and last December’s Tannenbaum and squeeze the miscellaneous “yard waste” into Beth’s Rav-4 (with the interior properly protected with large uncooperative sheets of plastic). The second half of my work order was to transport the sneeze-inducing detritus to the Happy Landing Place for organic material from yards far and wide across Ramsey County.
A sign at the entrance announced, “Ramsey County Residents Only – Photo I.D. Required.” Though my windows were open, I said aloud a word that sounds like “Darn”: I was without any documentary proof of my identity, or more specifically, my qualifying place of residence. I’d left my DL and passport inside a jacket pocket at home. Being quick on my feet—or rather, in my car seat—I reminded myself that I hadn’t graduated from high school for nothing. Plan A would be to unload my “yard waste” before anyone could enjoin me from doing so. Once my odd lot of sticks and clippings and leftover Christmas tree were tossed onto Mount “YARD WASTE HERE – NO LEAVES,” surely the Commander of Compost—preoccupied in a far corner, I could see—wouldn’t make me gather up my debris and take it home. Plan B would be to leverage the “persuasive oration” segment of my junior year speech class.
In the event, Plan A worked without a snag. The Commander of Compost walked by soon after I’d finished the job. He looked like a bandit under his broad-brimmed hat and behind his oversized sunglasses and bandana deployed as a full face mask. His head didn’t turn nor did he otherwise acknowledge me when I said, “Nice day out, huh?”
I bet myself I could elicit a friendlier response from the guy parked next to me. His hair color and weathered face matched the color and age of his silver pick-up, and he went about his work with admirable intensity. I waited for him to finish before I stepped into his gaze and said, “Ya know . . . Fighting nature is a full time job.” That was enough to turn his frown into a smile.
“You’re right about that!” he laughed, and I won my bet. The prize: renewed faith in humanity in our unending battle against botanical growth, nuisance and decay.
Before departing the site, I looked around at the frenetic pace assumed by other homeowners adding their contributions to Mount “YARD WASTE HERE – NO LEAVES,” as well as to the nearby “LEAVES HERE” range. Vehicles of all kinds and sizes came and went, their drivers hellbent on raking, dragging, pulling, pushing yard debris from trailers, truck beds, car trunks, and SUV interiors. How curious, I thought, that we plant and grow, then chop, clip and saw all sorts of shrubs and trees in our yards, then gather up the trimmings like hair off the floor around a barber’s chair. With contempt for such refuse, we load it into our vehicles and haul it to the compost grounds where all manners of “yard waste” are aggregated on a scale large enough to make a person laugh out loud if much thought accompanies the task.
On my way out I noticed the sign, “NO DUMPING.” Irony, I thought, is rarely intentional. It just happens.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
