Maybe because it’s arriving by bag and by truckload, maybe because it’s the main activity in my neighborhood, maybe because it’s everywhere, I’m convinced we’re buying more of it. I’m also convinced it’s ending up where it doesn’t belong. A case of “overuse abuse” is my guess. Mulch that is. Hey, I could be wrong, but I doubt it.
What I need is market research.
My neighbor to the east is applying mulch right up against her foundation. “Do you really want to trap moisture there?” I ask. She ignores me. “Remember your problem with termites last year?” Now I’ve got her attention. “You better leave at least six inches between your foundation and the mulch or you won’t be able to see signs of termite activity. You know, those mud tubes.” She pulls the mulch away from the foundation, muttering something about pests. Insect, I’m sure.
Around the corner, a retired English professor has just finished mulching under his maple trees. I guess there’s no harm in pointing out the dangers of mulch right up against a tree trunk. He raises both hands in a sign of surrender and offers, “Mulch mea culpa.” (You’d expect no less from a literary mulcher.) I’m starting to see a pattern.
Finally, my neighbor to the west is holding a handful of finely shredded mulch over her perennial beds and sprinkling them, like a baptism. “Is that mulching or total immersion?” I ask. “Oh, so you’re the self-appointed mulch police,” she says as she mulches my left foot. I shake the mulch out of my sandal, unperturbed; research, after all, requires composure and objectivity. I head home as she finishes baptizing a plant that prefers life in the open air: iris.
Research complete, I’m off to visit our three-year-old granddaughter Anna. She too prefers life in the open air. And she’s against anything that gets in the way of it, especially underwear. Her parents have explained, unconvincingly, you can’t go outside without underwear. Given the chance, Anna will wiggle her way into a dress and head to the backyard slide before either parent knows she’s not fully clothed.
So she comes flying off her slide, dress billowing with air as she hits the mulch her dad has piled to cushion her landing, and she gets mulch in, well, that cute little fanny. Speed combined with the force of her landing drives it in fairly far. She attempts to dig it out as she runs to the backdoor to seek sympathy from her mother, who offers the most convincing argument so far: “Maybe that wouldn’t happen if you wore underwear.”
So there you have it. My research shows there’s a lot of mulch out there. Let’s try and keep it out of places it doesn’t belong.