Enough

 

I burned the stollen. I blame it on the school district, who, in their infinite wisdom, and despite considerable feedback this year AND the last time they made the same bad decision, kept us in school until December 22^nd.  Students were dropping off like flies—sick, tired, leaving early for planned vacations and rescheduled flights as the weather turned bad and everyone tried to get somewhere while they could. “Why are you here?” I asked one miserable looking junior on the last day. “I didn’t want to miss anything,” he said. “”Why are you?” “There are no subs,” I replied, equally miserable with peak cold and a slowly fading sinus/ear infection.  “I was praying for an ice storm.” He nodded. The ice storm came the next day, when we were already out of school.

It has been that kind of December—nothing catastrophic, but just off. The Winter Lights on our arch and fence shorted out because I did not fix the duct tape that kept the rain out this summer, when it was dry. I was late with the cards and struggled to find an idea that stayed positive. I was just a little sick for weeks before I finally broke down and went for antibiotics, so I miscounted the number of eggs I needed to do all of the Yule baking, and was baking the stollen on Christmas morning, when I was tired and unfocused. I (wisely) decided against attempting anything complicated for dinner and we had leftover latkes instead.

When I realized that the fence’s lights were out for the duration of the rains—which could be months in the Willamette Valley—I found the small strand I bought for a night bike ride a few weeks ago. A dozen of us decorated our bikes and cruised around our neighborhood, waving at cars and dog walkers. They are battery operated and remarkably bright and cheery. I wrapped them around the wreath we have hanging on the front porch and turned them on. It’s not perfect—they will not guide someone through our yard on a dark evening—but they will do. Some years, a small strand of lights might just be…enough.

 

Goal Setting: Winter hikes

 

     

           Every year, at the Solstice, Mark and I review the past and set our intentions for the coming cycle of the sun, usually on our walks through Finley Wildlife Refuge in the rain. Some years, we have lofty goals to change the world (Mark, at one point, wanted to learn three more languages), but, other years, they focus more on our daily lives. In 2004, I bought a black hard cover spiral notebook and took notes on all of our walks, forcing us out into the natural world every Sunday that winter, to look closely at the changing seasons. These notes led to long lists of wildflower blooms as well as close observations of moss and lichens and grounded us in the Pacific Northwest as our home bioregion.  It may have been our best goal setting ever.

                I want to revisit this goal in the coming year. Although we regularly walk around town for our daily lives—work, groceries, meetings, library visits-- we have not moved off pavement as much as we would like in the past few years. So, this is my goal for the year: off pavement every Sunday, somewhere between four and ten miles of trails, mostly local. And I am announcing it publicly, in case you all wish to hold us more accountable--or join in.

Chicken Tractor

 

The garden is quiet these days. There is a lot of pruning waiting to happen—hedges and trees--  and a few more leaves to rake onto beds, but, for the most part, if I don’t get out there, it will wait. The only thing that has to happen regularly is moving the coop, which is a chicken tractor.

When we first designed our gardens, I found a book on our co-op’s lending library shelf: The Chicken Tractor. The basic idea was a moveable chicken coop that would shift from garden bed to garden bed over the course of a year. Because we live in the Pacific Northwest, where we can garden all year round, this was a great idea. We proceeded to build out our garden beds four feet wide by ten feet long, and overbuilt the first coop as a four by five by five foot square with plywood sides. It weighed a ton. It did, however, sit neatly on the garden bed frame. We learned our lesson, and, when we rebuilt the coop five years later, the design—from Mother Earth News—was a much lighter A frame, still sized to sit on the bed. When there are two chickens, they root around on half of the bed and we slide the coop over after two weeks, then, two weeks later, move it to another bed. When there are more than two, we fence the entire bed off and let them at it for a month.  If I pay attention, we can rotate through all of the beds between late September and late May.

We moved the coop this afternoon. The ladies were thrilled to be let out for a bit. They ran, flapped, and flew over to the rabbit hutch to root around in the fallen straw. We cleared the way, lifted the coop, and moved it over two beds, then re-fenced it, leaving a space for the ladies to move in when it grows dim and dusky.  I turned over the old bed so that the straw and leaves, mixed with poop, had more surface area with the soil underneath, disturbing several fat earthworms in the process. Sometimes Aussie will come over to “help” with the soil turning and eat the worms, but, today, she was jostling for straw and missed out.

This combination of chicken, straw, composted in place old veggies, and leaves keeps our beds full of organic matter year after year. We have not had to purchase “fertile mix,” which is half compost, for 15 years, at least.  The soil tilth is lovely and rich. The garden is lush all summer long and I can save the compost Mark generates from the piles of trimmings in the far back corner for all of the beds that are not tractored by the chickens. And, even when a chicken is too old to lay an egg, she is still contributing to the household economy.

Early Winter

 

              We are fermenting in our kitchen. Yesterday, I had sourdough bread rising, beet and apple kvass to be sampled, beet and horseradish kvass chopped and resting on the top of the fridge, and two jars of cabbage chopped, massaged with salt, and packed full, then pressed down with the glass fermentation weights.  We started with sauerkraut right before the pandemic and I was convinced that the live bacteria kept us healthy all spring that year. When yeast was scarce, we started a sourdough culture because I always wondered about wild yeasts in the air of my kitchen. Now, along with kombucha and yogurt, the live yeasts are wildly multiplying, usually on top of the fridge.

 

                When the heat was out for two weeks, we returned to our old habit of closing the curtains at night to keep in the heat. Mark wandered around for several days, pointing the covid pruchased forehead thermometer at everything he found—the wall, the cat, himself….one day, he hit the window with the curtains open followed by the window with the curtains closed. Four degrees difference! “Hey,” he called out, “that is significant!” Now, when I am late coming home, he closes the curtains himself. The room feels more cozy, especially with the heat back on.

 

                In winter, our bedroom is cold. I shut the heating vent into the room and hang a heavy curtain over the door.  We open the window by our heads every night. The cat loves it; she curls up on my pillow, right over my head, sucking in the heat radiating off of me and loving the cool air on her full fur coat. We snug down under a heavy pile of blankets, lots of layers so that we can adjust to a warm spell moving in with the rains.  I sleep better on these  long cold  nights than any other time of year, like a bear hibernating in a den.

 

The Furnace is Down, Still.

                 Our furnace has not been functional for 12 days and we are pretty sure it will be off until after the Thanksgiving weekend. It’s chilly in here.

                On the positive side, we have small old house—there are doors to the bedrooms and bathroom that we have shut so that we are only heating the living room with some overflow into the kitchen. Years ago, we insulated the ceiling, floor, and walls, and replaced the storm windows so our house is much tighter than most—my New England training came to the fore as we planned for energy efficiency. I pull the curtains closed at night. We don’t have a modern, open floor plan with vaulted ceilings. It’s easier to heat with the space heater. The bedroom is in the 40s, but we burrow under the blankets and its fine. I’ve had some experience with cold houses.

                One winter, the landlord paid for the heat in our duplex, but added a surcharge to the rent if it exceeded a certain cost; heating oil was skyrocketing that winter and he needed a plan. We wandered around wrapped in old shawls and my baby blanket all winter. No surcharge. A few years later, I moved into an apartment with a full tank of heating oil free from the last tenant. The winter’s goal quickly became—make it last. We did. Lots of movies from bed. Weeks of fleece jackets in the house. Mornings spent snuggling up to the bakery oven at work to warm up. Even now, I keep the heat down in the house and put on a sweater. When I am gone, Mark nudges it up a few degrees. He calls me an Ice Princess. I call him a wimp.

                We count our blessings here, coming into Thanksgiving. We are not living in a tent using a dangerous propane heater. We are healthy and our bodies have adjusted to cooler temperatures (ok, mine does better than Mark’s). We can afford to repair—or replace—our furnace when the parts finally arrive.  We have soft wool hats. We are not trying to work from home; we both have jobs with decent heat all day. We have gone for long walks on these sunny afternoons to warm up and the world is lovely this cold and bright November. We are thankful.

 

November Silence

     

November 11^th—Veteran’s Day—has always been a quiet break in my life.  In college, it was the time to catch up on back reading. As a teacher, it is a time to catch up on silence. This year was no exception. Mark went to work, leaving me alone in the house, a rare occurrence since the pandemic began and he moved his office into the basement. The morning was sunny, but chilly, with rain clouds on the western horizon. I headed outside right after breakfast. The cat followed.

For the next three hours, I puttered around the yard with trimmers and a wheelbarrow, cutting back perennials and piling  the leaves in the front beds, spreading compost, and  and generally tidying up.  Kayli sat in the neighbor’s driveway and washed, hoping for a college boy to stop and worship her. No one did.  When I moved around back she gave up,  wandered after me, and climbed up on the roof of the garage, one of her favorite spots. I took out the last two tomato plants and raked leaves, moved some plants into the greenhouse and rearranged them, and dumped the compost bin into the back hoop. The rabbit ate fallen jujube fruits and the chickens carried on their usual conversations about wanting to be let out. The clouds gathered and, just as I finished, cold rain began to fall. I propped up the wheelbarrow, coaxed the cat off of the fence, and fled inside.

Even though the furnace is out, the house is cozy. The yellow walls glow against grey light outside. There was an excellent bit of left-over casserole for lunch with the latest National Geographic article on a new museum in Egypt. After lunch,   I made a second cup of tea and moved into the living room, where the cat had discovered the space heater. Perfect. Rain outside. Juncos discovering the seed I had just spread on the ladder in front of the window. Blanket, tea, couch, cat, book inside.  We spent the second half of the day in companionable silence.

Seasonal Changes

 The season has been slow to shift this year, but the clouds came in on Friday and brought some long awaited rain; I fell asleep to the sound of rain on the roof of the house and the greenhouse, with a cool breeze blowing through the windows.  Because of the change in weather, we have been breaking down the summer rituals and supplies.

1.       The tomato plants came out of the ground on Friday afternoon.

2.       I made pesto and applesauce with the last of the summer harvest.

3.       I whacked back a laurel hedge to bring more light into the yard.

4.       The plum is pruned.

5.       We put the table and benches away for the winter; it grows heavier with each week of rain.

6.       Folding chairs are in the shed, not out in the rain.

7.       In the back hall, we washed and put away the racks for the food dryer and the steam canner, as well as the long strands of canning lids.

8.       The larder is cleaned out for the winter onions and seed potatoes and squashes.

9.       The greywater bucket and basin are washed and stored away.

10.   Some of the storm windows are on and the rest will go up this week, over several days.

11.    There’s an extra blanket on the bed.

12.   The clothes are drying in the dining room, not on the line.

13.   The cat really wants a lap. All the time.

14.   I put on socks and a sweater. Mark dug out his heavy wool hat.

15.   Mark took a shower in the bathroom, not in the greenhouse, for the first time since May.

The light is deep gold through dying leaves. The clouds are deep grey. The world is, as always, beautiful.

Breakfast Fires

 

                What is the best thing about campground camping in the fall? The breakfast fire, even in the backyard.

                It was a cool and bright morning, and quiet. No traffic. No sirens. The Cedar Waxwings were flying overhead in a huge flock, settling on the highest branches of the fig tree, coming to the backyard plum to rest, swarming the fruit once again. We could hear their wings and the gossip about meals still to be eaten in the neighborhood above. The chickens held their own conversations as they stretched their wings into the morning sun and pecked at the dried artichoke heads for seeds. Mr Beezhold found the carrots tops I had laid out for him in the asparagus bed after the market on Saturday. The fire sent shimmers of heat into the sky. The sun worked its way across the garden, which is tangled and fading in the cool autumn air.

          

      Down on the ground, Mark and I sat by the fire, warming our toes. I had brought out the New York Times. The cat shifted back and forth from lap to lap, depending on the temperature of the flames. We drank our tea and ate fried potatoes and scrambled eggs with onion, and a slice of toast. Mark brought out a piece of chocolate to finish it off and we reached for the Sunday paper. I added a few more chunks of wood to the fire, but then leaned back to stare into the deep blue sky.

 

Get There Another Way 2022

 

Get There Another Way week is coming up this week. Rather than registering and logging trips online, I am resolving to not drive—or be a passenger—this week, October 1^st through the 8^th. I will log trips and thoughts here, every day, for the week.

 

Sunday, October 2nd: Climate Friendly Rule-Making

Walk—five miles

Bike to Burgerville five miles, there and back

The state of Oregon, following the executive order on Climate Change from Governor Brown, has been working on our land development codes to no longer encourage, but to direct more dense, transit orientated housing stock. One requirement is to remove all parking requirements for any residential development within a half mile of Robust Transit. I have always questioned the logic of the “if we don’t provide parking, people won’t want cars” in Corvallis because the only time I drive is when I leave town to travel or camp. There is no public transit to Camp Sherman and it takes five hours to travel to Milwaukie Oregon by transit from my house. Until gas prices are so high that they can no longer afford to drive, people are going to drive.

A better place to start regulating parking and thus, travel alone by car might be commercial and office lots. According to the “Maryland Transportation Institute  and “an anonymized national panel of mobile device data from multiple sources,” in 2021, 52% of all trips in the US, using all modes of transportation, were for distances of less than three miles. Some 28% of trips were for less than one mile, and just 2% were for greater than 50 miles.”  If we made it more difficult to park at stores and work, which are often short jaunts of one to three miles (especially in Corvallis, which is only about three miles wide at its widest point!)  we could significantly reduce driving. When it is more difficult to park, and easier to walk or ride a bike, people will shift modes.

Monday, October 3rd: Buffered bike lanes

Walk to and from school: 3/4 mile total

Bike to City Council and back: 2.5 miles total

This evening, I will bike home from city council via one of our new buffered bike lanes. It starts after Ninth street and runs up Harrison until King's, where I will turn off into my neighborhood. A buffered bike lane  is created by paint-- a full bike lane with a double line a foot apart, giving the rider a little more space separated from the cars. It works really well  on medium trafficked streets, especially the one I will be riding tonight, which is one way. What makes this one very nice is the pavement; the road as recently redone and the asphalt is smooth and uninterrupted by a gutter line all the way home. 

In high traffic areas, bikers need more protection-- physical divisions between where they are riding and the cars are moving. 

Tuesday, October 4: Walking as a daily meditation

Walk to and from school: 3/4 miles, round trip

Walk to the grocery store (plus a bit of a wander): 2 miles

I prefer walking to biking. The movement between spaces clears my mind. To and from school, or a meeting... the walk provides a break between lives. Years ago, Mark was un employed and walked me to work in the morning. It was great for him-- got him outside, moving in the morning. After a week, I was so cross and nasty that he asked me why. I realized that the time and the walk between home and school was when I did my short term planning and mental prep for the day. Without that time, I was not mentally prepared for the day. He has never walked me to work since. 

Wednesday, October 5: Grocery shopping

Walk to and from school: 3/4 mile, round trip

Walked to a meeting-- about three blocks, one way

Yesterday, I picked up the groceries for the week. I walked to the co-op with my backpack, filled it up, and walked home. Once a month, we do a Big Shop, buying all of our bulk items and filling jars. I have a shopping list that I use to decide on what we need. That week, Mark hitches up the bike cart and we ride up. I fill the two canvas bags that fit perfectly into my baskets and the rest piles into the cart. And we get a owner's discount. We are so lucky to live close to our co-op and a Fred Meyers, as well as other services. 

Thursday, October 6:

Walked The Loop: home to school, to downtown for council meeting, then home again, 3 miles

I walk this loop several times a week when we are meeting in person. Because our core downtown has small, gridded blocks, it is never boring. I can swing down a street I have not walked in several months, veer towards the river if there is construction, and admire all of the old houses and front gardens through my neighborhood. Usually a cat wanders out to greet me or I see an old-- or recent-- student along the way. Sometimes I get questions from people out watering their yards. Walking allows me to be part of the community I represent without going out of my way to set up spaces and meetings and tightens the web of connections throughout the community. 

Friday, October 7:

Walked to and from school: 3/4 mile, round trip

Walked to and from the library: 2 miles, total

Young woman on bike.

Late afternoon, October

Arms outstretched, flying.

Saturday, October 8:

Morning walk to the top of Bald Hill and back, 6.5 miles or so

Sunday, October 9:

MLK Park and back: 6 miles

Ad on the way I picked some berry branches for the mantel, stopped at an Open House to check on how they were marketing their buildings, watched a small child in a cargo bike gobble with turkeys as they crossed the road, and talked to an older man who had picked up a bunch of trash in the park and was wondering where he could put the bag so it was not flung all over again tonight.  I love long walks through town. 

Monday, October 10:

Work and Back 1 mile

 

Search for Balance

     

“It was the Equinox on Wednesday,” Mark commented this weekend. “And we didn’t even notice.”

“I did,” I pointed out. “I changed the mantel and table. We just didn’t do much because…” I sighed. Wednesday night was, after all, the night I came close to a full on panic attack.

This transition from summer to fall is always difficult. School begins. The harvest pours in. My work with City Council keeps on going for at least a few weeks at summer speed. OSU students are back, bringing increased traffic, parking problems, and loud party complaints. I am pulled between mountain hikes and papers to grade, the desire to sit still in the sun and the need to keep on working. Knowing this, we have created several rituals that require slowing down, watching the world change, and breathing. We climb to the top of Chip Ross Park to watch the harvest moon rise. We travel to the other side of the mountains to camp by the Metolius river for a few nights.  We have backyard fires and eat s’mores.  Without these pauses, I have a tendency to spin into chaos.

This year, smoke from wildfires hid the full moon for several nights; we drove through the results of the huge fires two years ago on our way east to the river. Even considering the amazing rejuvenation that we could see from the side of the road, we were stunned by the devastation—and the community’s desire to rebuild ever larger and more expensive houses. When I came home, I listened to Sunrise Corvallis students talk to City Council about the emotional toll Climate Change is having on them and their entire community.  Merged with our growing awareness of the intersections between climate change, homelessness and climate refugees, and growing inequality,  I feel the same deep and abiding dread of the future myself.

Where do we go from here? I know what I need to do to root myself in the earth, to feel grounded as I move forward in the fight. But, when our places to ground ourselves are destroyed, what do we do? How do we keep on? How do we work to heal the earth when we are losing the places where we heal ourselves? How do we engage more people so that so a few are not carrying the burden?

Rosh Hashanah is beginning tonight. I am not Jewish, but the rituals of the faith are lodged in me.  I will bake a round loaf of challah and toss the crumbs upon moving water, as I hope for a sweet year to come, for my sins to be forgiven, to see a way through.

 

Water Access

 The air is really dry and there is ash on the windowsill. It is nothing like 2020, when the sky was a lurid green, but it is dry enough to have me thinking about water…who has access to clean water and who does not.

Until this summer, I understood the lack of water in homeless camps in an abstract way. Unless you are camping in a park, water is a long way away, maybe  a couple of miles. Even in a park, you may have to haul it from the central bathroom (if there is one) to your camp. It’s like backpacking, only every day without end. But, this summer, I spent time on Street Outreach, going to camps. I hauled bottled water in my old backpack when the temperature was heading for the high 90s and lack of water began to take on a new meaning. We use water to cool down, not only by hydrating, but also by misters, cool cloths on our necks, sticking our heads in water… When you are camping on the rail lines, this is not an option. We told everyone about the misters set up around town and reminded them about the library, but…it was hot.  Everyone hunkered down in place, with very little water. Water access.

Later, I was interviewed by a young woman earning her Master’s in Public Health. Hunched in the supply closet, bottled water piled around us, we talked about water access. People taking water from the river to drink, knowing that human waste was running downhill from a camp  nearby. People trying to stay clean while camping and looking for a job—because who is going to hire a dirty person? Whole families showing up for showers at the Hygiene Center when it used to be mostly men.  How hard it is to cook real food when you do not have water, so nutrition suffers. And then, how do we change our policies to improve the situation.  Water access.

On my last day, we were asking people what they would need to come into settled and sanctioned camps, rather staying on ODOT land. Water, they all said. Drinking water.  Showers. Toilets. Laundry would be nice. We’d like to be able to cook something, so we need water.  Over and over. At first, I thought it was because I was along the railroad lines, were there is no water nearby, not even a river. Then I talked with people who had been in the city parks—the same answer everywhere. Water access.

Then, it was my last stop of the summer. Three people sitting by a rail line, slipping down the slope. They had a tarp rigged up, two battered garden chairs, a pile of cans to be returned. Two were chatting and called out to us as we approached. Sure, they would all love some coffee. Oatmeal? Yup. Do we have any water with us? Of course. I handed over a couple of bottles. While two chatted about a bad song from the fifties, I watched the third unwrap an old sock from his hand. He had a nasty and bloody gouge on it—the kind of accident that sends me into the house for the hot water and soap, followed by clean gauze and a bit of tape. Nothing life-threatening, but painful. He winced. Poured water from the bottle over the wound.  Studied it for a moment. And then wrapped it back up in the same sock.

Water access.

The Ark's Kitchen List

 

               Last weekend, we went camping in the Ark. I’ve been cooking out of the van for thirty years now, so I have the equipment down—and it all fits into one large milk crate under the bed. Most of the items came from Goodwill.

2 plates

2 bowls

2 tin mugs

2 ceramic mugs

Silverware in a cloth bag

3 pots—small, medium, and large—with lids

2 cast iron frying pans—small and large

Big plastic bowl

Cutting board

Bread knife and kitchen knife

Flexible  steamer

Wooden spoon, soup ladle, spatula

2 cup and half cup measure and measuring spoons

Small grater

Can opener

2 tea strainers

Tin full of small jars of spices, baking powder and soda, olive oil, red wine vinegar, honey and sugar

Tablecloth

Two burner Coleman stove, fuel

Lighter, potholder

5 gallon bucket for water and an old fish bucket for a sink

2 mouseproof containers for food

 

 

 

 

Climate Friendly code and the Anti-Christ

 

                Saturday morning Mark was contemplating the political situation while brushing his teeth.

 “Is Trump the anti-Christ?” I asked.

“Well, the Anti-Christ is an idea, not a person, I believe,” he replied and wandered over to his bookshelf to pull out his Concordance of the Bible to check. “Yeah, John I and II. ‘This is the spirit of Anti-Christ.’ And it only shows up in this small section of the entire Bible.” What would the theoretical anti-Christ be like? We considered the concept while cleaning the house.

 At dinner, my mind wandered back to the theory of Anti-Christ, a book on the impact of investment firms buying up housing that I read earlier this summer, and the new Climate Friendly rule-making that has just come down from the state. According to our community development director, Corvallis will need 35 buildings the size of the Sierra, which has 228 units and seven stories, to meet the requirement of 8,200 units in Climate Friendly areas by 2036. Very few, if any, builders in Corvallis can build such tall structures—so the construction firms who will benefit will be from out of town. They may hire locals to do the actual construction, but the firm making the money will not be local. Big blocks of apartments, at least in Oregon, are almost always rental units, owned by someone outside of the community. “Rental leakage” where rent is paid to someone who lives elsewhere, will be even greater than it is now. These buildings will be owned by investors, who will profit from higher rents in town. Renting also makes it harder to grow roots into a community and to build equity from owning a home. The economic gap between homeowner—and the houses in Corvallis are rapidly heading to the 500,000 range—and the renter will grow.

Who benefits from this decision? Clearly not renters, who face higher rents because of investment purchases and will not be able to save to purchase a home, either freestanding or an apartment. Clearly not our local builders, who do not have the technology to build the huge complexes. Maybe the city, from increased property taxes; you can see the increases tied to several new complexes that have been built in the last ten years. I am afraid that most of the economic benefits will accrue to out of town, out of state, developers and investors, not locals, continuing to increase the gap between those who have money and those who do not, that is the root problem in society. And, maybe, that is the Anti-Christ.

 

 

Corvallis Green New Deal

                 On Monday night, the Corvallis Green New Deal is coming before the city council. And, although I opposed the earlier, much less focused, version, I am supporting this one. It feels, to me, like the 21^st century version of the fundamental problem of our impact on the environment—beyond pollution and burning rivers, beyond the energy crisis of the 1970s, toxics  from refineries and mining, peak oil and global warming. We have begun to observe and articulate how the impacts of climate change will hit the poorest first and hardest. I have always known, in my mind, that the poorest countries and peoples would bear the brunt of the Climate Crisis. I have nodded in agreement, thought about rising sea levels and island nations, seen photos of oil refineries and the small towns huddled up near them. But that felt abstract and distant. In the past two years, I have seen how climate change impacts the poorest people in our communities, here in Oregon, more directly.

                In 2020, a huge fire burned through Talent and Phoenix Oregon. It started on the far end of Ashland—a wealthy small town—and raced through the manufactured homes, cheap small apartment complexes, and trailer parks that house most of the low income residents of two neighboring towns. It was frightenly fast moving, driven in part by very dry vegetation along the greenway that links the region; residents drove through the neighborhoods, filming the flames. All of Oregon watched in horror. In the end, three thousand homes were destroyed—and the vast majority were “affordable” for the residents. When it came time to rebuild, the state allowed the developers to build to 1994 codes for insulation and other energy measures, which are cheaper, in the short run, than the more energy efficient, tighter homes the more recent code requires. This action bakes in, for fifty to seventy years, higher energy costs for the occupants, mostly renters, of the new housing.

                Here in Corvallis, tree cover in neighborhoods is becoming an indicator of wealth. Poor neighborhoods have fewer trees. Partly because the sidewalks were designed to older standards and the planting strip, if there is one, is too narrow to accommodate a healthy tree. Some apartment complexes were not required to plant trees when they were built and sit is a sea of asphalt parking. Near campus, the trees planted by university professors when their houses were built are coming to the end of their life cycles and must be taken down. Now that the houses are student rentals, trees are not being replanted in the yards. An old large tree comes down and nothing grows in its place. That house becomes harder to cool in the summer; the sidewalk is less appealing for an afternoon stroll; the entire neighborhood is hotter. This is a small example, but one I see every day as I walk my neighborhoods.

                The news, this summer, is full of photos and stories of extreme weather events across the globe. Heat waves. Downpours. Fires. And, in story after story, who is suffering the most? The people who do not have the resources to buffer themselves. This is only going to grow worse. We need to take action. Now.              

Work Parties!

   

            I have been thinking a lot about the power of the occasional work party this last week. Because of a very rainy May and June, the school garden was not set up to move into auto-pilot when school let up. The rain stopped us from going out to work during classes or after school and it encouraged weed growth for at least a month longer than the last two years. Despite best efforts, it was a mess. A couple of larger projects (and smaller needed tasks) were not completed. A crow came in and pulled out most of two beds worth of starts. I called for help.

                The first morning, two friends showed up with weeding gloves. Where do we start? We methodically worked our way from one side of the garden to the other, pulled 95% of the weeds from the beds. Then we mulched with the bale of straw that had been sitting on the patio for a month and a half, waiting. After two hours, we stood up and nodded. Nothing like weeding someone else’s garden, one woman observed. Mission accomplished. Two days later, another group appeared on Saturday morning to tackle the future compost area. We finished clearing out blackberry vines using clippers, loppers, and shovels and covered the ground with plywood and cardboard. Two people dug out under the chain link fence and chopped out a couple of huge vine roots; one promised to come back and take out another. Someone wandered home and found the right tools to remove a trip hazard of an old wire fence.  We harvested a potato bed and sprinkled buckwheat for a cover crop. Once again, two hours of work and the area was transformed. Finally, a friend showed up on Thursday and we took out the raspberry bed which had been taken over by blackberry and weeds, pulled out the posts, and laid down a huge piece of black plastic to solarize the weeds. Five and a half very full yard debris bins later, the garden is not only on auto-pilot for the summer, but two larger projects are done and I no longer have to warn people about the lurking wires between the school’s track and the garden area.

                We all have times like this—when our lives and projects take on a life of their own and overwhelm our abilities to complete the task at hand.  It is hard for me, especially, to admit that I cannot do it on my own. I was raised to be independent and to follow through on promises made. But, occasionally, we need to ask for help.               

another use for a wheelbarrow....

 

                For many years, the autumn starts rested on a funky wooden table/bench under the plum tree. It was right next to the bike shed, so we checked on them several times a day. The tree provided a dappled sun in the afternoons. The occasional blue jay planted a tree seed in with the cabbages, but, for the most part, the system worked. Then, the bench started to rot away….I propped it up on blocks for several years, but, before our last yard party, Mark was concerned. “What if someone sat on that thing?”  I tried to block the seat with some plants, but found myself calling “NO, don’t sit there!” several times. This spring, I took the whole thing apart, pulled out the metal and cut it up for firewood. It was time.

                Three weeks ago, I bumped up the fall starts which were leggy and weak from being in the greenhouse without lights on them. I set them on the end of the dining table, but they dominated the space. I moved them to a low bench and then realized that they were right at rabbit munch level and he was heading that way. My eye fell on our wheelbarrow collection…. A dead wheelbarrow worked for strawberries, why not the starts? The oldest one leaning against the wall was broader and more shallow than newer designs and already had a couple of “drainage” holes in it. I moved it under the plum tree and popped the trays of plants in. Perfect fit. The rabbit cannot reach them, although he likes to sit under them on warm days. They move easily from one spot to another. I can even just wheel the whole thing over to the garden beds in a few weeks after the potatoes come out. When I am done, the wheelbarrow returns to its spot on the wall, ready to hold something else.

Summer Nights

 

                The days around the Solstice lead to long, peaceful evenings. We spend them deep in the back garden, watching the bats come out at twilight. The space has been carved out of the gridded garden beds by angling the ends of two, which creates a diamond of grass big enough to hold two chairs, the chiminea, and a small table (once a bird cage stand) that can be pushed into the ground for added stability. Last year, we placed an arching trellis between two beds and planted a jasmine vine on one end and the cucumbers on the other. A string of solar powered lights, shaped like bees, clicks on at dusk and glows for hours into the night. The artichokes, now eight feet tall, at least, block the space from the back alley; the asparagus ferns and borage volunteers keep the kitchen light from shining in our eyes. We sink into our chairs before the daylight fades, tea and books in hand, and read until we can no longer see. Then we sink back, pat the cat, and watch the night arrive.

 

   

                             On Solstice evening, Mark and I went out to Finley Wildlife Refuge for a dinner picnic and our traditional cross quarter day hike. We took all of our local, seasonal food—rhubarb cake, frittata with eggs and mustard greens from the back yard, salad from Sunbow—to eat on the bench overlooking a pond full of ducks, with swallows swooping overhead in a sky that had, just that day, turned summer blue. We were the only people there. After we finished, we walked the Mill Hill loop, singing out to the blooming oocow and checker mallows, slipping through trail mud, rejoicing in the soft warm evening air. As we turned the corner away from the marsh, two young owls moved off the trail, but stayed close, watching us watch them for five minutes before we moved on. We need to do this more often, we thought, climbing into the Ark for the ride home.

                I’ve spent the week, after we finished up some scope and sequence planning in record time (projected time 12 hours, time taken five—and we were not as efficient as we could be), bringing the gardens into summer order, weeding, trimming, mulching. Yesterday, I turned on irrigation at school and at home and nothing blew up anywhere.  The vines are all growing a couple of inches a day. The pea vines are loaded; the favas are bending over and breaking. The rain brought on a lot of vegetation which is now bearing fruit.

                All of the outdoor chairs are out. Books, shoes, and empty water glasses are scattered everywhere. The cat has scoped out all of her dappled shade spots and moves from one to the next on a predictable schedule. The rabbit has dug a cool burrow under the bleeding heart—the chickens are hanging out in the tangle of blackberries in the far back of the yard. The heat we were dreaming of, just a week ago, has arrived. Summer.

Cycles and Seasons

 Graduation was Friday night. The week before, my Honors ninth graders rocked their final presentations and ate an inordinate number of cookies afterwards. We are almost ready to put out projects in American lit. The playing fields are quiet—no one is prepping for districts. Kids are just messing around outside. The school year is winding down.

                In the morning and evening, the light lingers. I wake up early, when the sun leans into my bedroom windows. Because of all of the rain, the sunlight is almost green and the air is rich with the scents of earth and mulch. We are eating later every night because the “start dinner light” is slipping later and later every night. We are reaching for the longest day of the year very soon.

                The garden, too, falls into its familiar cycle. Yes, it is a very rainy June, but still, the peas are reaching for the sky in my backyard and we picked a wooden salad bowl full of peapods from the school garden on Friday, right on schedule. The plum tree branches are loaded with hard green fruit which rattles on the roof of the van when we pull in. The grape vines are knocking on the kitchen window—tying them up is next on the list of chores between the downpours.

                My life, as a teacher and a gardener, follows the seasons of the year, turns around the months. In January, we read Malcolm X; in May, we read Romeo and Juliet. In January, I browse seed catalogs, dream of new varieties; in May, we have the first harvest between mowing and weeding. There is a deep and abiding comfort in these rituals, in these cycles, in the changing light moving through my classroom and my garden. These cycles, these rituals, have been followed by millions of teachers and students, and gardeners and farmers, reaching back centuries in some places on our planet. They ground us, literally, to our place in earth.

                I wonder, looking forward, how many of these grounding cycles and rituals will reach the end of this century. Even now, I can see the impacts of climate change on my gardens and the larger ecosystem around me. Planting and pollination, reliable fruiting and harvest, feel less tied to our skill as farmers and more to the uncontrollable weather patterns. We struggle to adjust, observing closely, choosing crops and seeds carefully, but the seasons are changing.  This change, this constantly shifting ground, impacts my students as well. They know that their future will not look like mine did, and, unlike Henry Adams in the 19^th century, they do not feel like the constant speeding up of the world is a good thing. It is hard to look forward to a world of Climate Chaos.

                And so, here I am. Knowing that a deep connection to the rituals, cycles of the earth will keep us sane in difficult times and also knowing that those cycles and rituals are being destroyed—and that my students are scared, worried, looking for guidance going forward. How do we hope, work for change, not give into fear and despair, going forward?  

 

               

               Graduation was Friday night. The week before, my Honors ninth graders rocked their final presentations and ate an inordinate number of cookies afterwards. We are almost ready to put out projects in American lit. The playing fields are quiet—no one is prepping for districts. Kids are just messing around outside. The school year is winding down.

                In the morning and evening, the light lingers. I wake up early, when the sun leans into my bedroom windows. Because of all of the rain, the sunlight is almost green and the air is rich with the scents of earth and mulch. We are eating later every night because the “start dinner light” is slipping later and later every night. We are reaching for the longest day of the year very soon.

                The garden, too, falls into its familiar cycle. Yes, it is a very rainy June, but still, the peas are reaching for the sky in my backyard and we picked a wooden salad bowl full of peapods from the school garden on Friday, right on schedule. The plum tree branches are loaded with hard green fruit which rattles on the roof of the van when we pull in. The grape vines are knocking on the kitchen window—tying them up is next on the list of chores between the downpours.

                My life, as a teacher and a gardener, follows the seasons of the year, turns around the months. In January, we read Malcolm X; in May, we read Romeo and Juliet. In January, I browse seed catalogs, dream of new varieties; in May, we have the first harvest between mowing and weeding. There is a deep and abiding comfort in these rituals, in these cycles, in the changing light moving through my classroom and my garden. These cycles, these rituals, have been followed by millions of teachers and students, and gardeners and farmers, reaching back centuries in some places on our planet. They ground us, literally, to our place in earth.

                I wonder, looking forward, how many of these grounding cycles and rituals will reach the end of this century. Even now, I can see the impacts of climate change on my gardens and the larger ecosystem around me. Planting and pollination, reliable fruiting and harvest, feel less tied to our skill as farmers and more to the uncontrollable weather patterns. We struggle to adjust, observing closely, choosing crops and seeds carefully, but the seasons are changing.  This change, this constantly shifting ground, impacts my students as well. They know that their future will not look like mine did, and, unlike Henry Adams in the 19^th century, they do not feel like the constant speeding up of the world is a good thing. It is hard to look forward to a world of Climate Chaos.

                And so, here I am. Knowing that a deep connection to the rituals, cycles of the earth will keep us sane in difficult times and also knowing that those cycles and rituals are being destroyed—and that my students are scared, worried, looking for guidance going forward. How do we hope, work for change, not give into fear and despair, going forward?  

 

               

                

Graduation was Friday night. The week before, my Honors ninth graders rocked their final presentations and ate an inordinate number of cookies afterwards. We are almost ready to put out projects in American lit. The playing fields are quiet—no one is prepping for districts. Kids are just messing around outside. The school year is winding down.

                In the morning and evening, the light lingers. I wake up early, when the sun leans into my bedroom windows. Because of all of the rain, the sunlight is almost green and the air is rich with the scents of earth and mulch. We are eating later every night because the “start dinner light” is slipping later and later every night. We are reaching for the longest day of the year very soon.

                The garden, too, falls into its familiar cycle. Yes, it is a very rainy June, but still, the peas are reaching for the sky in my backyard and we picked a wooden salad bowl full of peapods from the school garden on Friday, right on schedule. The plum tree branches are loaded with hard green fruit which rattles on the roof of the van when we pull in. The grape vines are knocking on the kitchen window—tying them up is next on the list of chores between the downpours.

                My life, as a teacher and a gardener, follows the seasons of the year, turns around the months. In January, we read Malcolm X; in May, we read Romeo and Juliet. In January, I browse seed catalogs, dream of new varieties; in May, we have the first harvest between mowing and weeding. There is a deep and abiding comfort in these rituals, in these cycles, in the changing light moving through my classroom and my garden. These cycles, these rituals, have been followed by millions of teachers and students, and gardeners and farmers, reaching back centuries in some places on our planet. They ground us, literally, to our place in earth.

                I wonder, looking forward, how many of these grounding cycles and rituals will reach the end of this century. Even now, I can see the impacts of climate change on my gardens and the larger ecosystem around me. Planting and pollination, reliable fruiting and harvest, feel less tied to our skill as farmers and more to the uncontrollable weather patterns. We struggle to adjust, observing closely, choosing crops and seeds carefully, but the seasons are changing.  This change, this constantly shifting ground, impacts my students as well. They know that their future will not look like mine did, and, unlike Henry Adams in the 19^th century, they do not feel like the constant speeding up of the world is a good thing. It is hard to look forward to a world of Climate Chaos.

                And so, here I am. Knowing that a deep connection to the rituals, cycles of the earth will keep us sane in difficult times and also knowing that those cycles and rituals are being destroyed—and that my students are scared, worried, looking for guidance going forward. How do we hope, work for change, not give into fear and despair, going forward?  

 

               

               

Planting the Corn

 

The garden is planted. The last bed went in this afternoon—and it might have been the worst of the season. It is the edge of chicken run, so it has a six foot high fence attached to the side. And I planted the corn, which requires extra protection. The afternoon went like this:

1.       Turn over the bed, pull out all of the apple mint that has crept in, and break up the clumps. The ground is still remarkably wet. Have a long conversation with the chickens on the other side of the fence about all of the worms in the bed. Toss a few their way.

2.       Consider the soaker hose. Someone cut the hose in half last fall during an energetic session with the loppers and the sunflower stalks that once ran along the back fence. Of course we did not fix it then—or any other time in the last six months.  Find the last ½ inch hose repair kit, the screwdriver in the basement, and commence repairs. Brush off ants which have decided that the hose is an excellent nesting spot. Lots of ants. So many ants. Lay the repaired hose down. Brush off the last of the ants (I hope).

3.       Consider being done for the day. Decide that, really, the corn is not getting any younger in the six packs that it sprouted in and it can’t wait until Thursday. And the birds might find it….

4.       Find the pole bean and sunflower seeds. Hunt for the digging fork and fail. Bring out the fertilizer and spread it for the beans. Use your hands to work it into the soil. Long reaches and balances. Awkward.

5.       Long reach across the four foot bed because the beans go against the fence as a trellis. So awkward. Consider taking the fence down, but remember that you are alone and there is no one else to chase the chickens out of the garden beds when they make a run for it.  Continue the long reach. Beans planted. Sunflowers tucked in.

6.       Bring the corn over to be planted. Lay down three rows of fertilizer and plant. Try and keep the lines straight. Fail. Pat the corn into place.

7.       Because birds love to swoop down and dig up the corn, find five hoops and the really big piece of plastic in the shed. Cover the bed. Wrestle the clamps into place through the chicken fence. Catch a chicken making a run through the gate.

8.  

     Once the hoops are up, consider the rabbit fence. Might as well. Unroll the two foot wire fence that surrounds every bed in the garden, staple it in place. It just fits.

9.       Step back and consider the project completed.