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.