Mulch. What is it?
That is a question I have been pondering all week from the comfort of my Mackintosh rocker, where I sit most afternoons doing important journalistic thinking. Koko was sitting on the dictionary at the time, which I took as a sign. My moustache tingled. Something was afoot.
Mulch, for those of you who don’t know — and I suspect that includes most of Moose County — is a substance one puts on the ground. It goes around plants. Why? Who can say. But people do it, and therefore it merits my attention, which I assure you is not easily given.
I was moved to reflect on this topic when I noticed that Lori Bamba’s husband had delivered fourteen bags of cedar mulch to the grounds of my barn-turned-residence, which the K Fund maintains at absolutely reasonable expense to the taxpayers of nowhere, since it is a private charitable trust and none of your business. The invoice seemed high. I made a note to have the Fund’s accountant reclassify it as a wildlife habitat preservation cost, which it essentially is, since the mulch attracts beetles, which attract birds, which steal my birdseed.
Speaking of theft, there was another suspicious fire on Ittibittiwassee Road last Tuesday. That makes eleven arsons this year in a town of three thousand. Curious? Perhaps. But not as curious as the fact that Koko knocked a book about combustible organic materials off the shelf the night before. Coincidence? My moustache says otherwise.
Yum Yum, meanwhile, has been sitting on a bag of mulch on the back porch and staring at it with an intensity that suggests she understands its molecular composition. She is a remarkable cat. They both are. I do not deserve them, though of course I do.
Is mulch attractive? Not particularly. Is it necessary? Probably not. Did I enjoy writing about it? I think you know the answer. But Moose County needs The Qwill Pen, and The Qwill Pen needs a topic, and today that topic is mulch. You’re welcome.
Mulch.
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