The Norge

 

                We have a very old stove—a Norge from the 1950s. Over the years, Mark has, in consultation with a hardware store in Portland that knows old appliances, kept it working. But, right now, he’s a bit stuck. There are now four challenges to be dealt with.

                The first and second are in the oven. The thermostat blew on it about a month ago. That’s not a huge deal; we can buy a new one and install it. But the roof has begun to corrode and the broiler is hanging down (which is probably why the thermostat went). So, in order to fix the oven, we need to fix the roof and find a new bracket for the broiler.  We have a small oven which bakes a loaf of bread, a pie, or a quarter sheet pan of roasting veg, so we are still eating. But, I miss the efficiency of the big batch big oven. And cookies. I don’t want to fiddle with a quarter sheet pan for cookies.

                The third relates to a burner—one of the big ones. The switch that regulates the heat has broken and it is a seven wire switch. This doesn’t sound like a big deal to me, but it is. There are lots of standard five wire switches out there but no seven. I suspect the Portland guys would know what to do with this, but Mark is still formulating questions about amps and circuits to ask them. He’s been a little nervous about measuring amps since he fried his little measuring gadget by using it wrong a few years ago.  Because I have spent so many years on a camp stove with two burners I’ve been ok with three. But the dead one is my favorite closest to the chopping and rolling spot.  I want it back.

                The fourth is the result of having young cats. One of them caught a rodent and brought it in one night. It set up housekeeping in the side of the stove, coming out at night to eat the cat food. If the oven had been working, it would have been driven out pretty quickly, but it wasn’t. And then I put off moving the stove away from the wall for cleaning for an extra week. It was gross. Mark left the house when I went to take the side panel off because he was afraid of asbestos and lung cancer. I kept going. The insulation that I pulled out was white and fluffy—remarkably new looking. I think someone had reinsulated the stove before we moved in. However in order to clear up the mess, I took out all of the insulation from the left side. Now that needs to be replaced.

                And you could ask—which Mark did, in the middle of the rat pee in the side of the stove debacle yesterday—why we don’t just Buy a New Stove? This is partly aesthetics. The stove has a sturdy, long lasting charm that fits into our very low tech kitchen perfectly. The oven is huge. It is electric, not gas, so it can be powered by our solar panels. It is simple. It’s a beast. And the other part is pride.  We can keep this thing going. It’s going to take some work and some research, but it will last far longer than a new stove. Reduce. Reuse. Repair. Rewire.

Earth Day 2026

 

                Mark and I went down to Finley National Wildlife Refuge this morning, leaving even before “we  had a sip of tea!”  We brought bagels and tea in travel mugs and sat at the prairie overlook to eat. Around us, camas bloomed and red winged blackbirds held their morning conversations under a cloudy sky. The air was still and just a bit cool—perfect for April.  It has taken a long while—half my life—to learn to read this landscape nd I spent some time thinking about the difference between the landscapes we were born to and the ones we come to know.

                I was born to New Hampshire and that landscape is in my blood. The hills, the glimpses of sky, the winding roads, and the crazy highways around Boston where I learned to really drive.  I grew up chasing waves along the tideline on Cape Cod, standing in the center of a huge maple tree in late September, staring at the range of color from green, to yellow, to orange, to red and all of the combinations in between. I watched the stars—and encountered skunks—from granite outcroppings in an old field, followed logging roads and stove walls deep into the second growth of old farms, and buried my nose in lilacs in May. I could smell snow on the air before it started and knew the particular silence that comes with a storm in the night. And thunderstorms punctuated the summer days. Houses had square shoulders and faced the street and, by the time I graduated from college, I could date their construction within 25 years.

                When I moved west, I lost all of the knowledge of place. It has taken thirty years—and a much closer application of plant guidebooks and trail maps—for me to learn my way into the Willamette Valley and the Cascade Range. For a long while, facing north, I wanted the ocean to be on my right hand, not my left. I would walk along trails and feel like the deep place was just beyond my grasp. Someday, it said, you will know. I know now. I know where the first fawn lily will bloom near the beaver dam, just where the elk kicked it down the embankment about ten years ago. I know how dry sunlight feels at elevation, while I stare at the mountains over a high lake where I have just plunged into the water to wash away the sweat of the trail. I know when to plant out the greens, and the tomatoes, so that the slugs will not eat them to nubs before they grow. And I know how the light shifts in my classroom which faces north, from mid-day to late afternoon. The huge high skies, the long, long summer evenings, the endless cloudy days of mist and rain are all part of my psyche now.

                It is Earth Week. Today, at Finley, I made some notes on what was blooming, but not a complete plant list. We will do that in two weeks, on May Day, because we walk the same trail and observe its changes every six weeks. I have notes going back 20 odd years scattered through my notebooks. Thoreau did the same thing around Walden Pond, returning to the same spots close to his home to observe and record what he saw there. First blooms, first birds, seasonal changes of all sorts. Scientists now use his notes to track the impacts of climate change; some plants are blooming two weeks earlier than in 1840.                 We see serious changes happening in real time right now—we could trace them back in our own notebooks if we brought them all together.  

                Thoreau—and many other writers—loved their places so much that they chronicled all of their changes. I do the same. And I wonder, can we possibly love our home places enough to make the profoundly difficult changes in our lives needed to slow the impacts of the carbon we have spewed into the atmosphere enough so that my friend the first fawn lily will survive? I do not know.

 

  For the Children

Gary Snyder

The rising hills, the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us.
the steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.

In the next century
or the one beyond that,
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.

To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:

stay together
learn the flowers
go light

 

               

Laundromat Love

 

                Mark and I no longer have a washer or drier. We bring our clothes down the street three blocks to the remodeled “eco” Laundromat once a week. It is easier.  

                The house came with an avocado colored workhorse of a washer that got the clothes clean and filled two 50 gallon barrels with  greywater which I pumped out of the basement onto newly planted shrubs. We also had a dryer from the 1950s, which broke down once, was repaired, and broke again. We gave up, bought two new stable drying racks, and put up clotheslines in the yard. No more dryer. When the washing machine gave out after 35 years of service we replaced it with an efficient front loader, which used a third of the water, was not as good at getting the dirt out, and no longer watered my yard. It broke down several times in the next 15 years. The last time, the repairman found the needed part in the back recesses of his van and warned us that there were no more repair parts.  

                When I was 12, I was assigned the household laundry. We had no washing machine, so I loaded up some wooden crates and tugged the clothes a quarter mile down the road to the Laundromat—right by my mother’s business. She very quickly bought me a rolling metal cart just like elderly ladies used for groceries. Clothes, soap, change, and a fat novel—I was ready. While the clothes spun and chugged along, I watched humanity and read, sitting on one of the folding tables. When we added the towels from her beauty shop to the mix, my mother bought a dryer and an old wringer washing machine. I no longer had to haul clothes but worked in our kitchen, washing whites and running them through the wringer, rinsing them in another round of hot water and washing the dark clothes in the rinse water, then put them through the ringer, rinsing, and washing another batch of towels. I found laundry with the old wringer to be deeply satisfying; maybe the danger of nipping a finger or sending a button through the air helped.  Our clothes went on the line; the towels went into the dryer.  

                Over the years, I toggled back and forth between laundry in house and in Laundromat. Even when I used the commercial washers, I often took the wet clothes home to dry. I can load an entire week onto one small folding rack—it is a skill. When I finally got my license, I bought extra socks and underwear so I could put off the trip for two weeks. It was a treat to move into a house with a washer and dryer; we put off laundry for a couple of weeks and loaded the machines while we moved furniture ad books into the house.  We used the laundromat down the street occasionally even when our washer worked. In the middle of the rainy season, it was helpful to wash and dry all of the sheets and towels in one fell swoop, rather than doing them every week and having them hang, limp and sodden, for days to dry in the basement.

So, when the washer died for the third time, Mark loaded the laundry into his bike cart and took it down the street. He came back pleasantly surprised. They have remodeled, he told me, it’s nice. The washers spin the water out of the clothes far better than our home washer. It takes 45 minutes to do the entire wash for the week, rather than running up and down stairs while trying to clean the bathroom and sort through the bills. Mark did a quick calculation and decided it was not worth it to buy a new washer between initial investment, repairs, and energy and water use.  His first chore on Saturday is laundry. He washes and we hang—outside when we can on the folding racks when we cannot. No more fussing. No more repairs. We have come full circle. But, if I take the task on, I want a wire wheeled cart.

The Greenhouse in March

 

  

              In Late March, the greenhouse comes into its own. For months, it’s been quiet—chilly and damp, holding the yard’s plants that cannot tolerate frost or freezing as well as the succulent collection that survives without water for the winter. All of the pots line the high shelves. The grow lights are strung up out of the way from the summer house plants, even though they have long moved back to my classroom. The volunteer spider plant crouches between two pavers, but does not grow. No one goes in or out. The door sticks.

                But March is a busy month in this space. The plant shelf is full to overflowing with starts; the first round grows, is bumped up into four inch pots, and moves out just in time for the tomatoes and summer crops to move onto the heating pads.  Extra starts are tucked in on wire shelves under the windows until they find homes. The lights are lowered and set on timers which I shift as the days grow longer. Last week, the succulents started to bloom so I watered them all and topped them off with compost (a few need homes if you are interested…) I started to root a few scented geraniums as well.  Plants are everywhere.

 

               But, the plants are not the only living things using this space now. The cats have both discovered it. One likes the high shelf over the door—the warmest spot—while the other sprawls on the bricks or the bumpy burlap sack that covers the potting soil. They hunt bugs in the corners. It is warm and light but protected from the wind. If we are home for lunch, we carry the tray out and set it on the planting shelf.  In the late afternoon, Mark and I like to read in the space, cat on lap. The desk is a good place to write—sometimes the internet reaches, sometimes not. It’s ok either way.

                The greenhouse also becomes the space to dry sweaters that need to be washed after a long winter. Bread dough rises better out there. It’s a holding spot for hand tools from the garden. Next week, the garden goddesses in their newly painted finery will survey the yard through the milky windows waiting for assured dry weather to be tucked among the plants for the summer. Soon, we will set up the shower with towels, shampoo, and cucumber scented soap and we will slip outside in the moonlight to bathe.

Early Spring Days

 

 

            It ws a beautiful day yesterday—warm and sunny and dry. Rare in western Oregon in late winter. We did the laundry early, hung it all up outside to dry, and walked up to the Farmer’s Market. By the time we got home, we were both humming Greg Brown’s song:

Love calls like the wild birds-
It's another day
A Spring wind blew my list of
Things to do...away

            “I don’t want to clean the kitchen, even though it is a mess,” I told Mark, who did not want to attack the bathroom, either. So we called it a truce for the house and wandered out into the back yard. There was compost to cut up, beds to toss over to help work the leaves and chicken straw into the soil, trimming to do, and cats to chase around. Mark brought us lunch and tea to the sitting area by the arch covered with honeysuckle, and one cat basked in the hooped bed, warm and dry, while we ate and read for a bit. After lunch, we went to the local nursery, bought a columnar apple, and planted it between two raised beds, bringing the number of fruit trees in the yard up to ten.

             It is that time of year where several hours in the yard does not more the dial very far on tidying up. I will come in, look out the back window and wonder “What did I just do?”  So, as I worked, I reminded myself—this is not a garden, full of flowers in matching pots and cute little signs, with perfectly mulched paths where bantam chickens wander and never eat the kale. It’s really a small farm, a homestead, raising food for the household, populated by people, cats, a rabbit, chickens, and, yes, slugs and aphids. Jays claim their space loudly. Squirrels dig up nuts they hid in October and taunt the cats. We’ve had possums for years, although there are none right now, sadly. It is a workshop, a studio, a living room, a meditation space, and a retreat from the world. It is far from perfect. But, on a sunny day in March, it is our home.

 

The Red Hat

 

                I spent part of Saturday at a meeting to discuss what we can do about the chronically homeless in our community—providers and activists together, with cookies, pizza, and carrot sticks, thinking about what has been tried, what are serious barriers, and how much anyone has left to throw into this effort. Everyone in the room is already at 110%, and the experts working directly with the people on the streets are even higher. Even so, being in the room thinking about how to give face and voice to the people sleeping out in January, moving them from data points to human beings in the eyes of the broader community, was healing. After the meeting, I stood in the parking lot, listening to the new moral dilemma: do we house a person who has been a refugee in the U.S. for many years and who has a criminal record? Doing so many soon put the entire shelter operation and the church sponsoring the mircoshelter in legal jeopardy.  How do we answer this question? More lives are at stake than our own.  Deep sighs…”And on that cheerful note,” we both said simultaneously, “I will see you soon.”

                I wandered home thinking about these huge issues. And there, on my doorstep, was a small box. I took it inside, opened it up, and found a beautifully knit red cap—the design that was used in Norway, during WWII to indicate resistance to the Nazi occupations. It was made by an old student who practiced her knitting skills during class 20 years ago this winter. I put it on and went for a walk. It is warm. It is bright. It is beautiful.

                That evening, it was sitting in the living room next to the gnome I had just finished. An anti-fascist gnome (or person) from Oregon, I thought, would also wear a hand-knit wooly sweater. So I made an anti-fascist gnome, complete with hat and sweater, because, sometimes, as Mrs Who observed in A Wrinkle in Time, “the only way to deal with something deadly serious is to treat it a little lightly.”

Mr Beezhold, the bunny

 

                Mr. Beezhold the Bunny—NOT our friend we named the rabbit after—died on Monday night. He had a good long life in our back yard. He was about a year old when we adopted him from the shelter and he bunned around for eight years with us. He spent his mornings basking in the sun while in his hutch and hopped out on his own when the light shifted. Then, he followed the sun in the winter and the shade in the summer, creating little hidey holes all over the yard. One week, he’d be in the asparagus bed, the next, under the garden bench.  He would sneak into the potato bed and cover himself with the vines or tuck in under the tall tomatoes in August. Sometimes, he would just….disappear. We would look all over the yard twice, poking into all of his preferred spots and….no bunny. Then we would go into the house, look out five minutes later, and there he would be, sunning himself in a garden bed. He could shift into the fifth dimension, we decided. At twilight, we would go out and tuck him into the hutch for the night. For years we could herd him in the right direction and he would just hop up by himself (most of the time. Sometimes he liked a good chase around the hutch). Some nights, he liked a nose rub and being carried to bed. As he grew older this past year, jumping up was harder for him and we boosted him in most nights.

                He was a good bunny. He was tolerant of small children, having his butt washed, and kittens stalking him. He shared space—and crunchies—with the chickens regularly. He loved a good nose rub and to have his dead fur pulled out for him. On Sunday, he hid on us for a couple of hours, tucked in the way back among the wild hyacinth greens. Mark brought him in at dusk and dried him off thoroughly with an old towel. And that was it.  We buried him deep in the garden bed, in one of his favorite corners, and I will plant some broccoli, which was his favorite leaf, over him this spring. We will miss him.