November Weather Forcasts

 

On Thursday evening, I looked at NOAA weather so that I could plan the weekend. Fog. Showers and clouds. Rain. From here until eternity. It’s November. Then I looked out the window at the half moon in the mist. Something did not quite line up, but I figured the rains were coming.

Friday morning, there was heavy fog. One of my most avid gardeners stopped into my classroom before school to ask if we were still going out to tackle blackberries. “Yes!” I assured him. At nine thirty, the clouds broke and we had a glorious 45 minutes planting favas, pulling blackberry, weaving leaf crowns, and mulching. The sun stayed out the rest of the day. Rain tomorrow, I thought.

Saturday morning. Heavy fog. We better go out now before it rains, we decided, and walked down to the market. The fog lifted as we bought our veggies and shopped for Thanksgiving presents (I found an excellent pair of blackberry loppers for the school garden). It was lovely. After scanning the sky, I spent the entire afternoon in the front yard, harvesting persimmons, trimming grape vines, and raking leaves. It has to rain on Sunday, I thought as we came inside for the night.

Sunday morning was cloudy and humid but dry. We spent an hour on the paper and headed out for a hike before the weather changed. We climbed to Dimple Hill from Oak Creek, admiring the deep golden leaves of the Big Leaf Maple and the greeny gold on the alders. The deciduous trees really stand out against the firs in November. At the top, we looked out over waves of puffy grey clouds and blue green hills and listened to people pose with their dogs for a photo and headed down for lunch. No rain.

It is Sunday evening. We have to go grocery shopping and it looks like the rain will hold off until we come home.  We may even big good through Monday.

 

 

Tom McCall

         I may have a new hero.

For the last three weeks, I have been working my way through Fire at Heaven’s Gate,  a biography of Tom McCall, Oregon governor from 1967-1975. I am not done, but it is a compelling read.  Living in Oregon I  see his legacy every day. It’s not a “cradle to the grave” biography, with no narrative peaks—it focused on his political life and there’s lots of drama. It may be fair to say the subject drew drama to himself, but it was also the era. As I read through his list of accomplishments, I find myself muttering “this man was a republican” over and over and wondering how we have shifted so far away from these values.

 While in office (and I am not done) the man supported:

·         Protecting Oregon beaches and public access

·         Cleaning up the Willamette river by regulating pulp mills

·         Keeping poison gas from being stored in the state (and transported by rail through the state)

·         The Bottle Bill

·         DEQ

·         Air and Water pollution restrictions on industry, even if it meant that the industry might locate in another state.

·         A Land Use process that put citizen involvement as Goal One and focused on protecting farmland from suburban sprawl.

·         Publicly speaking about his son’s struggles with drug addiction.

On Earth Day, he said “It’s obvious that a change in attitude is vital, and the first desirable change would be the realization that the problem of environment and pollution is not the other fellow’s, but the responsibility of everyone.”

 

 

Winter is coming

     It is raining. The house smells like cookies and granola, oat bread and yeast bread, as I work my way through food prep for the week. Solas plays on in the living room, drowning out the sounds of the rain. Outside, the cat is sleeping in the greenhouse—a golden ball of fur on the plant shelf, beside the geranium I moved in a few days ago. The rabbit is in his hutch with an apple; the chickens in the coop resting on a garden bed. Leaves cover the ground. Mark hung the storm windows last night while I made dinner and we sat by the first fire inside of the season. We are moving, a little reluctantly, into winter this year.

 

While I worked, I tried to focus on the task at hand—measuring oatmeal and baking powder, doubling a recipe in my head. But the news fills my mind….and it is not good. I read, last week, a section of Alexi Navalny’s diary from prison that was in the New Yorker. He came back to his country, knowing he would be arrested and probably die and he said, “I have my country and my convictions. If your convictions mean something, you must be prepared to stand up for them and make sacrifices if necessary.” (p 45, 10/21/24) And that idea melded with the end of The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien.  He did not step up to protect a friend from a bully and regretted the action for ever. Later, he observed:

For me, though, it did matter. It still does. I should've stepped in; fourth grade is no excuse. Besides, it doesn't get easier with time, and twelve years later, when Vietnam presented much harder choices, some practice at being brave might've helped a little. (P. 150)

We will be facing some difficult times ahead no matter who wins this election.  Climate change is with us. Challenges to our rule of law, our democracy will continue.  Are we practicing standing up for our convictions, now, when things are little less fraught? How we will behave in the coming years, if we are not?

The Catcher nd Being Caught

 

                I have been thinking, this week, about the way we, in community, catch people and are caught ourselves.

                A few years ago, a friend was climbing into a tree house, stepped on a rotten board and fell a long way. She was in the hospital for weeks and then home, immobile, for several months. When she was up and around again, she said that she felt like she fell out of a tree and right into the arms of her community, as everyone gathered around to help her heal. That image of arms reaching out to catch her—to catch all of us—has stuck with me.

                I have felt the same arms (literally, in some cases) reaching out to catch me in the past year. As soon as the Fiasco hit the news, people reached out. First, the city councilor whom I replaced—a deep voice on the line “What the hell’s going on? Do not give in and leave” followed by a flood of emails, phone calls, conversations…Where ever I went, someone was showing support, reaching out, asking questions, saying thank you. And it continues today. I have felt firm, supportive hand in the middle of my back for a year. I was caught.

                And so, I was talking with another friend about this—that, when we really need help, our community catches us. It was her first time, at 73, experiencing being caught; she has always been the one doing the catching. Showing up, moving chairs, asking how she can help and move things forward. Raising children. Taking care of a spouse. Saving the planet. Always catching, not being caught.  It was a little weird and uncomfortable to be on the other side, to be the one needing help. Maybe, we thought, we need to trade roles more often, to allow ourselves to be caught and supported in smaller crises as we move through life, so that we know, when a big one comes along, that we are not alone.

               

Fall Chores

 

               The seasons are shifting. We wake up before dawn these mornings; put the rabbit in by seven.  I wore my newly handknit wool socks this morning while reading the paper. Last week, we watched the golden  Harvest moon rise while the sun set over Mary’s Peak. The chores are also changing; along with the weekly housecleaning, we are snugging in for the long, damp winter.

                Last Saturday, we took on the wood pile. Almost exactly a year before, we had the two fruit trees—a cherry and a yellow plum— down. It was time. They had been planted when our house was built. One was growing Chicken of the Woods mushrooms, the other losing branches. I was worried about the power lines across the back yard in an ice storm (which happened this past winter). The arborist left us a pile of cut but not split logs which dried down all summer. We rented a wood splitter, asked a friend with a hitch to pull it over and back, and went to work. It was satisfying. By the end of the day, we had a huge pile of split wood, which I have spent the last week, between meetings and dinner, moving into the basement or into neatly stacked piles, as well as putting some of the truly funky pieces around the garden as habitat. Mark is sweeping the basement as the final touch to the project.

                While we were splitting wood, I was also processing tomatoes—cut them up and cook them down in the crockpot without a lid for hours to make a chunky sauce. Thirty five pints of sauce are now sitting on the basement shelves, along with 10 half pints of roasted tomatoes. I will harvest the basil and make pesto, then move the shorn plants into the greenhouse to see if they will sprout more leaves.  We dried figs and apples and plums earlier. This week, we will clean out the larder to hold the delicata and kobocha squashes I harvested when it was not my turn on the splitter. We will buy 70 pounds of onions and tuck them in there, along with seed potatoes and the fruitcakes in late November.

                This weekend, we are finishing up summer outside  the house work. Mark is sealing the dining room doors once more. I checked the caulking around the south side windows—and then went into the bathroom to hit the window there while I had the caulk out.  Mark has sifted out all of the compost bins and turned them all; I will spread the compost he has created in the beds that need the most love. Slowly, the summer beds are clearing out and the debris moves into the empty hoop.  Next weekend, the coop will perch on a bed once more and the chickens will be confined to a smaller space. They don’t seem to mind; the world will soon enough be rainy and dim.

                I will miss summer. The warm sunny days feel more precious each year, as we try to find time in the wilderness between mosquitoes hatching and wildfire haze. In the face of this constantly changing world, the rituals of fall, moving towards winter, are also precious.

The Equinox

 

We are moving into the Equinox, balancing light and dark, work and rest, inward and outward movements. This is what we are seeing now:

Morning fires in the garden.

The vines making a last long dash across the trellis.

Cedar Waxwings on the top third of the fig tree.

Smoky, dusty haze across the valley.

Cat sprawled on the bricks in the greenhouse, warming her old bones.

Twilight comes earlier every day—the bunny is not happy to go into the hutch sooner.

A basket of delicate squash.

Harvest moonlight and moon watch.

More people and more cars in car—schools are opening.

The drier runs all evening with figs and plums.

Crockpots of tomato sauce.

Soak in the warmth of the slanting sunlight now, knowing the clouds are coming soon.

 

 

 

Climate Debates

 

                On Thursday afternoon, the city council engaged in a robust discussion on whether or not to include the phrase “climate resilient” into a statement about Corvallis being a safe city. (It’s not in there yet.) You can watch the debate online: we began around 5:15, when I had a problem with the fact that, in all of our statements of priorities for the city, climate change was not mentioned.  Arguments went from: seven people are running on climate concerns for council this year and it is the key issue for most people under fifty to it’s not the city’s job to address climate change mitigation or adaptation at the community level. Such work is best left to the federal government (because that has worked so well for the last 40 years).  When we engage in these discussions, I hold my students close and try to convey the level of concern, anxiety, and panic our lack of action on climate change creates every day. I promised them to do my utmost to mitigate this loaming disaster, to leave them with not quite as large a mess to clean up when I am gone. Sometimes, that thread of the argument works.

                After the meeting, I went home to pack for a camping trip. Mark and I drove over the mountains to the Metolius River and Camp Sherman, where we had managed to reserve the best campsite on the river for the weekend. We have been visiting this magical place in the early fall for 20 odd years now. We have seen how some restoration work has taken hold and how other places need a little more love. We have watched cabins fall into disrepair and then be brought back to life with a new generation. We have been there in pouring rain, bright autumn sunshine and, this year, a smoky haze. As we stood o the bridge last night, watching a dipper dance on a branch in the cold, cold river, I wondered: why would you not do everything you can to preserve this beautiful, intricate, and damaged planet? It is our home. Why destroy our home?

               

                 

 

The Datsun

                 There’s been a small white hatchback cruising my neighborhood for several days. I caught a glimpse of it one day as it went down the street and, yesterday, it was parked, so I sidled up to it for a closer inspection. White. Hatchback. Datsun B210 GX.  In good shape.  No way…I thought. Still on the road. Only in Oregon.

                The only new car my mother ever owned was this exact Datsun model. She bought it when she was in the process of divorcing my father, which took several years. Before that, we were one truck family—a gold GMC work truck. If and when my mother was working, she had to be dropped off and picked up. When we went shopping, it was with my four cousins and my aunt, all in the station wagon. Until I was in high school, except for one summer with an old VW Bug that died quickly, she did not have her own transportation.  We lived a distance away from stores and family. It had to rankle, especially as she became the sole breadwinner for the family as the owner of her own small business and walked to work (a block but still…)  

                She bought this car because it was sporty and cutting edge, I am sure. When she was 18, she had a red and white convertible (used) and bought a matching dress and scarf to go with it. She was not a station wagon minded mom; she had an image to uphold. But it was also practical. At a time when gas prices were high and going higher, it got excellent gas mileage—much better than the truck. Japanese cars were on the rise for quality while American cars were on a downslide. Even in the snow and ice, that car drove.  The hatch allowed us to haul furniture to Durham when I went away to college a few years later. There was space. And it was hers.

                She kept that car for years. It had 200,000 miles on it, at least, all local driving. Over the years, the muffler was replaced regularly and she did regular maintenance, but no expensive engine repairs. There was a large, beige bondo spot on the driver’s side after an attempted home repair when the salt began to eat away at the frame. But it passed inspection every six months. It was paid for. And it was hers.

                I’ve been thinking about that car and my mother’s independence this week, during the Democratic convention, as the nominee talks about her own mother’s lessons and struggles bringing up two girls in a time when women’s roles were in flux and our mothers were coming into their own power, emotionally and economically.  I suspect there is a similar car in the Harris family story—one that kept on running, because it was hers.

 

Old Growth

 

                For the past few weeks, I have been thinking about the power of old friends. The ones who knew you years and years ago—and who still come around. When you were 18 and moving into the dorms for college. When you were six and did not recognize your best friend because her mom had given her a perm. When you had big dreams of starting a commune and changing the world. When you were just starting out in your job, or marriage, or parenthood…The people who knew you, not just in THIS time and place, but in the other times and places, the places you are, truly, from, the first land whose scent meant home. The voice that sounds like yours, late at night.  Family is part of this memory bank but they people we have kept close, even if we do not see them for long periods of time, hold us together.

*****

 

Mark and I were hiking the North Oregon coast headlands this week. There was smoke in the Cascades so we headed West and North to the Pacific. Along the way, the coast smelled like Home—ocean water mixed with wood fires and the scent of diesel from fishing boats. We climbed up hills into some of the most complex ecosystems of trees I have ever seen—Pacific Old Growth. There were some stumps from harvests with trees growing from the tops, roots reaching down around the stumps like wax candles on a breezy mantle. Other trees were clearly lined up from an old log, arches all facing the same way. Ferns grew out of downed trees and high in the branches of snags. Salal reached across the trails, tempting  Mark with berries. Shelf fungi are clearly having a Moment—they are growing everywhere, tangling into branches from hemlocks that get in the way.  All lean on one another, old memories leaving their physical marks on the newer growth. Like us, I thought, wandering down the trail in the golden green light of coastal late afternoon, heading home to the Ark for the night.

Potato Harvest-- why is it always hot?

 

                Growing up, I always thought of potato harvest as one on the last tasks of the year. After all, in Farmer Boy, the field is so cold that Almanzo lights a bonfire from the dried vines and roasts a potato or two in the coals to eat while he and his sister pick up the harvest. Tasha Tudor is wrapped in shawls when she hauls her baskets and shovel out to dig her harvest. These are the images I grew up with. I did not grow potatoes until I lived in the Willamette Valley. (True confession—the first time I saw potato plants in a garden, I did not know what they were. No one grew potatoes when I was a young gardener.)

                Why, then, am I always pulling my potatoes on hot, sunny afternoons? I plant them as early as I can. In the ideal schedule, the main crop should go in as the volunteers sprout up in the garden beds. Sometimes I have to wait because the seed potatoes—which come from Maine, usually—have not arrived. Sometimes, the ground is just too wet to be prepped and I have to wait. Even with a bit of delay, the roots are in by late April and the vines are dying down by late July. I’ll turn the water off in the bed so that the ground can dry down before harvest.  I set a cool morning time in my mind and wait for the perfect moment. Then…they come out in an afternoon.

                Usually, I have just finished lunch and I am reading in a shady spot.  I have a good book. I have drunk my second cup of tea. It’s cool and peaceful. Then, the potatoes call. Are they ready? The vines have all melted down to crispy vines and disappeared into the straw mulch. What’s underneath the mulch and soil? How well did they grow? How many pounds? What is the largest tuber? Which variety was the best producer? There is only one way to find out.

Without thinking, I gather paper bags for root cellar storage, my straw hat, and the wheelbarrow.  Maybe a water bottle. First, I pull off the vines and mulch and pile it into the wheelbarrow. A few potatoes tumble out of the bed as I work. Then, I push the dusty earth away from the nests of tubers, gathering the first layers up into the bags. Then, I run my hands deeper into the ground, working some of the mulch into the soil as I search for potatoes.  Finally, I break out the pitchfork, working carefully so that I don’t spear one. The sun beats down. The ground is dry and dusty. I am sweating before I know it. Hunched down around the beds, the slight breeze has disappeared.  It is hot. It is always hot.

When I have found 97% of the potatoes, I am ready to clean up the bed. Compost moves to the chicken run. Potatoes are weighed and tucked into milk crates under the stairs. If I am replanting, I lay the hoses down once more and plant. This year, the first bed has the direct seeded crops: beets and radishes, lettuce and greens. Tools away, I consider the harvest and drink several pint jars of water.  Why didn’t I wait until evening, when the sun is low and the air cooler? How did this become such a hot task, when all of the iconography of potato harvest is from late autumn? Why?

So far this year, we have brought in 14.5 pounds of Caribou russets, 21 pounds of Huckleberry, and about five pounds of volunteers. There are still compost bin taters and another full bed, drying down.

               

               

B Trails

 

                This summer, Mark and I have become experts on finding the “B” trails. In order to push the hordes of people crowding onto the “A” trails in the Cascades, the national forest has instituted a pass system. Before you go, you have to go online and get a pass.  I loathe on line passes. The process drives me nuts trying to find something for a specific day and place. So, we avoid the pass trails and head for the B walks. Like the Blue highways, they are less traveled and reward a slower pace.

A B trail:

Ø  Does not need a permit.

Ø  Has a small parking lot—often empty or with one other, dusty, car

Ø  Often has a weirdly steep spot, or a long stretch where nothing changes, or a few downed logs to clamber over.

Ø  Roams along the shoulders of the Cascades, rather than following ridgelines to beautiful vistas.

Ø  Passes small, pond-like lakes that reflect the surrounding trees, not a peak.

Ø  Is never busy. We have gone all day without seeing another person.

Ø 

Has a whole series of small pleasures and observations. We consider scat full of hair and bones, giant shelf fungi, ants creating nests in the center of dying trees, burn patterns, and blooming plants.

Ø  No one has eaten the berries!

Ø  Blessedly quiet. A groaning tree. Birds. The wind.

 

Seedy Cake

         

After a very slow start, it has become a banner zucchini year.  I planted four seeds and transplanted the starts back in May. Usually, four seeds leads to three starts and one dies in the ground. This year, I think four seeds has led to six plants all hiding fruits under their leaves. I went out this morning- -and, I swear, I checked on Sunday night, if not Monday morning and it was Tuesday, seven AM—and there were not two, not three, but four zucchini bread sized fruits on the vines, with several smaller ones coming along fast. I am afraid to check again.

                We like zucchini here. It slips into sautés and curries without a hitch. It plays nicely with tomatoes and bulks up a savory cobbler on a warm evening. I found at least one zucchini and almond pesto salad we enjoy. Zucchini fritters can use up some extra eggs when everyone is laying well (which they are not, right now). There is always zucchini bread with local blueberries that proves the point that fruits that ripen together taste good together. But our favorite way to eat zucchini is Seedy Cake. It’s fast, easy and tasty. If I didn’t have two meetings tonight, I would make one today.

 

2T each of poppy, millet, and flax seeds—or some variation. The millet is key.

Zest of one lemon

¾ c sugar

2 eggs

¾ c oil

1 t cinnamon

¾ t salt

1 t BP

½ t BS

1 c white flour

½ c wheat flour

2 ¼ c zucchini, grated and drained (I squeeze it)

 

Mix wet and dry together separating, them together.

 

Oil the 9 by 9 pan, 350 oven until done.

Clearing out the Basement

             

It is hot—over 100 degrees and dry by the late afternoon. There’s not much we can do outside, so I am tackling the basement, clearing out stuff and painting the floor. I am working my way around the space, about a quarter of it as a time. I have finished the wood piles and the food storage area so I am now into the entryway and the weird junk piles.  It’s much cooler down there.

When you move regularly, you clear out stuff every time you pack. Clothes, odd pieces of furniture that work in one apartment but not another, dishes that have served well but been preplaced but nicer models, stuff that could be repaired that you have not gotten around to it yet….moving is a chance to reevaluate the stash. When you buy a house and settle in, you have to create the opportunities for clearance or stuff will overwhelm you. That’s what I am doing this summer while repainting the floor. There are many levels of Stuff in our basement.

Practical and used regularly: Firewood (sorted into three piles—fireplace, stove, and kindling). Canning jars and rings. Flour, oats, rice in five gallon buckets. Dried beans in jars. Extra toilet paper. Drying racks. Tools and paint. Wrapping paper and holiday bags.  Lawn chairs in the winter. Rabbit, chicken, and cat food. Cat litter. This will all stay. I may purge some of the holiday tins while Mark is not looking.

Practical and used on very specific occasions every year: Steam canner and food drier. Big pasta pot. Storm windows and the outdoor benches. Folding tables for parties.  Coffee maker. Extra dishes and colored canning jars for drinks outside. Ironing board (which could go…) Painting clothes. Pieces to repair our stove; we buy extra when we find them. There’s enough wire to rewire the entire appliance.

Used for a project or hobby as some time in our lives that we hope to return to: Bee hives. Cross country skis. Cabinet doors, old political signs, and sheetrock for poetry installations.  Typewriter. Pump from the greywater fifty gallon drum system.

Sentimental value: Mark has a trunk of stuff; I am not asking. I have an old jewelry box of my mothers and a copper tea kettle.

Could/should  be repaired: Waffle iron. Chicken door. Two chairs with split bottoms. Space heater. A very cool toaster.  Etc. There’s a lot of this stuff down here, mostly clustered around Mark’s office.

Recycling/ regifting: Boxes and packing peanuts.  Tins for storing wheat before we bought the buckets. Paper. Some PVC pipe from the old greywater system. Old sheets for rags. Weird bits of metal and electrical systems.  A small crock pot.  A wicker loveseat (that has left).

Really? Why is this here?: Toilet seat.

 

 

 

The Light of God in our lives

 

                Last week was Mark’s brother David’s wedding anniversary. He created a very sweet post about how much he loved his wife and how he saw the light of God when he looked at her. After reading his post, I took a piece of toast with blackberry jam into Mark, who was trapped for hours in an online training for work. “Do you see the light of God when you look at me?’ I asked. He looked a bit startled. “When you are bringing me toast, you are my goddess,” he replied. We laughed. I made a quick sketch of the toast scene.

        

        The next day, Mark brought out a full wheelbarrow of perfectly processed organic compost for the berry plants. The big blue barrow sat in the back garden, glowing with holiness. I drew it. And then, we were off. Where do we see the light of God in our daily lives? Well, one night it was a tray of roasted cauliflower; the next, Indian Woman beans slowly cooking in our avocado green crockpot. We saw the light of God in the collard leaves as big as my head one afternoon. And then, one morning I was in the shed, bringing out my bike when Mr. Beezhold, the rabbit, darted in. His mouth was full of dried grass clippings and he was clearly looking for a quiet place to enjoy his snack. (He loves the shed, even after being locked in numerous times.) I laughed at him. He settled into a corner.

                This morning, I woke up hard.  Still tired, a little pollen-y, with a bit of a headache from not drinking enough water the day before, I checked my email—nothing—and then the news. The combination of the results of the debate the night before, along with several major Supreme Court decisions did not help my mood. Tired, grumpy, fretting, I climbed into the Ark. Mark and I had planned to hike up Mary’s Peak this morning, using the Conner’s Camp trail.  We drove west, along the winding roads, climbing the flank of our home mountain and parked. I stomped down the trail, still thinking about the news. What if the convention threw out Biden? It is, after all, in Chicago this year for the first time since 1968. And we know what happened then. With the ruling on homelessness, would the city manager feel empowered to clear the camps even more frequently? What if a fire started in the tree farm?  The trail climbed. I fretted. Mark tried to change my mood by pointing out the Phantom Orchid right before we crossed the logging road. Failed. He talked about the new greens. Failed. I climbed past the Dragon’s Maw—a rotting log filled with Riverteeth, barely pausing. I leaned into the climb, listening to my footsteps and breathing, both pounding.

      

          And then we hit the gallery forest section of the trail where mature Doug Firs surround us, with ferns and small white flowers and Salal and Oregon Grape and Vine Maple as the understory. They reach high into the sky and there is space between the trunks to catch glimpses of the Willamette Valley—and, today, the Cascade mountains. My steps and breathing fell into alignment and my mind grew quiet.  Slowly, I stopped fretting. We paused to study a downed tree, spongy and damp, covered in small rows of mushrooms the same color as the bark. Across the path, another section of the log held the same mushrooms. At the top, three tiny Doug fir seedlings, not more than three months old, sent their roots into the old body of this tree.  As we moved upward, as always, the wildflowers changed in their familiar ways and we said hello to our old friends. The rock gardens were spectacular—deep purple penstemon next to flaming red Indian Paintbrush, Blue Gillia and white phlox, deep golden Oregon Sunshine all lined to the rocks. When we turned West, we saw the Pacific ocean in the distance. East and all of the big peaks from the Cascades rose in majesty. And, for this long-lapsed catholic turned Transcendentalist, was, truly, the Light of God in my life.

Dumpster Diving

 

                I am a confirmed Dumpster Diver. Always have been. My desire to buy used clothes, wear things out, and haul things from the trash drove my mother—who grew up on the edge of the Great Depression—crazy. She loved the new, stylish, bright white and red, crisp and sharp. I’ve always been drawn to the fuzzy. I’ve hauled brooms and mops, laundry baskets, crock pots and afghans, books and papers, dishes and props for my classroom from trash piles. I even found a door years ago for a friend’s house.  Even now, when we do not need anything, I peer into the dumpsters as we walk by. Because you never know.

                At school, I survey the trash cans. I claim it is because I want to know what is being thrown out so that we can talk about systems to reduce waste. Are students throwing out compostable food? Recyclable paper? Dutch Bros. plastic cups? What dominates these days?  Spoiler alert: plastic cups and wrappers.  Setting up a food composting station will probably not profoundly reduce our trash piles. However, kids also throw out cans with deposits on them (we collect cans for Green Club snacks). They leave behind whole pieces of fruit the rabbit or chickens will gladly eat.  I haul it all out.  After a long winter of trash picking, I had a dream that I was pulling white binders out of the trash, exclaiming that they were still good and could be used again. I hate binders; if we made no more, ever, there would be enough for civilization to continue for a hundred years.

                Today,  Mark and I were out for a walk on campus, warming up on a cool morning. We strolled past dumpsters outside of one of the campus dorms. I peered in. Mostly plastic trash. The next, however, was different. A beautiful laundry basket peeked out. Drawn over, I looked in. Men’s clothing. Nice pants, white shirt, grey hoodie…all new, all clean. Two pairs of popular shoes. Workout t shirts that were pristine. What the heck! Men’s clothes, especially in good condition, are notoriously hard to come by and always in demand in the shelter system. I grabbed a clean trash bag and hauled it all out. Feeling a bit like Santa Claus, I carried the bag home. It will be at Vina Moses in the next few days.

    

            Now, I am wondering—is the university our source for good, used men’s clothes? Are there winter coats in there? How much else is being dumped, for whatever reason, that we don’t know about? How do we divert it from the landfill, into other hands? And what type of society have we created that people, heading off for the summer, toss everything they no longer want, out rather than try and find new homes for it all?

 

 

Teaching-- Working in Circles

 

Last week, one of my seniors popped in to use the microwave and give me her graduation announcement. She was excited about Friday night, which was graduation. “This is a one time deal for us, “she observed. “But you’ll still be here next year. It’s your life.” I agreed—and pointed that, if she fulfilled her plans to become a teacher, it would be her life as well.

                As a person who loves structure and ritual and cycles, teaching is comfortable. The patterns of the year are predictable. September is intense, with new classes and letters of rec; November is chopped up by days off; January and February can be a slog and we are always praying for snow; from Spring Break to Memorial Day is the best work of the year; June is just…done after graduation. I recognize specific times like “The grade I have is not the Grade I want” week, which just passed. We are moving into the week of resignation and relief that we are almost done. There’s also the comfort of moving through the neighborhood, running errands, and bumping into so many old students, now productive members of society.

                But every year is different. The combination of students, classes, and schedule shifts in unpredictable manners and adjustments must be made. This was a quiet year. No big fusses or drama. Lots of work on convincing students that it’s just easier to give in and Read the Book, rather than trying to pretend that you did.  Right now, a lot of acknowledgement of growth and maturity since September. Yes, we are much better. Yes, I see that you are locked in right now. And still, yes, I do know that you just texted your friend to set up a pass date in the hall.  That kind of year.

                The year is winding down. Yearbooks are distributed, Junior take over is tomorrow, the ninth graders are presenting their projects on Tuesday evening.  I have no more thesis based papers to grade; if you missed the memo on thesis, you’ll have to pick it up next year. Summer is coming on. The light is long and clear and clean, with a hint of ocean moisture. Soon, I will shift to summer rituals, which are also both predictable and constantly changing. Life.

May Weekend

 

                It was That Weekend in May. The sun came out after long cold weeks of rain. The grass was long and lush; all of the starts in the greenhouse were bursting in their pots; the spring bulbs were all dying back; the ground is still damp. There was a lot of work to be done. Since Thursday, we have:

1.       Moved the table and benches out.

2.       Taken off the storm windows and stored them in the basement were the windows were.

3.       Mowed the entire yard.

4.       Tracked in a lot of grass clippings.

5.       Trimmed out ¾ of the garden beds.

6.       Cleaned up the front garden of dying bulb foliage—entire garbage can of compost.

7.       Weeded both wheelbarrows of strawberries.

8.       Watered pots.

9.       Prepped, planted, laid down hoses, and attached rabbit fencing for four beds: the summer greens, summer roots, and two beds of tomatoes.

10.   Bumped up extra summer starts.

11.   Given away more tomatoes. (There are still a few left…)

12.   Walked to the market downtown.

13.   Prepared the summer shower.

14.   Cleaned the house.

15.   Did several loads of laundry.

16.   Moved the chickens off of the garden beds and into Summer Quarters, which involves trimming out the fences and clearing the space for the coop to rest.

17.   Brought out the chairs.

18.   Went on a wildflower walk and identified 55 species of flowers in bloom.

19.   Ate my Aunty Marilyn’s macaroni salad for dinner.

Monday, which is a full day of teaching, followed by a staff meeting, dinner, and Budget Commission meeting, should be a breeze in comparison.

 

Painting the Stairwell

 

The basement floor needs to be painted. It was rough when we moved in 25 years ago. Wear and water have made it worse. This summer, I told myself. It’s a big project; lots of stuff needs to be moved, cleaned, cleared out, replaced. Then we had a bout of Revenge Poop at the base of the stairs, and I bought a gallon of grey floor paint. I’ll just paint that small area, I thought. It will keep nasty scents from seeping into the bare cement floor. I cleared away the gallons of house paint and brooms, crowbars, and other tools stashed in the area, washed the floor, and painted. An improvement.

Project creep set in. Maybe I needed to paint the landing, too. That had also seen an occasional “accident” from the cat, which was mad that we were latching her in at night because a bear was wandering through town. After all, I already had the stairs blocked off so that the cat or one of us could not wander down accidently. I washed the landing. Then there were the stairs. They were also rough. And the gate was already up, I was wearing my painting clothes, the brush would need to be washed no matter how big the project….A good coat of paint goes a long way in improving a space.

This morning, I laid down a second coat of paint at the bottom of the steps, and then worked my way up. It’s not easy to paint up stairs—but there’s only one way out of a basement, so there I was, awkwardly perched two boards above the one I was painting. Each time I shifted positions, it looked better. Cared for. Cleaner. Warmer because it’s actually a nice shade of grey paint. As I worked, I thought about other spaces that could use a coat of paint. I was in a Portland restaurant yesterday that I remember as being a bit upscale, over on Hawthorne. It felt battered; there were old table scars on the walls and the bathroom drain screen was loose and rattling around the floor. The place could have used a coat of paint. All of Hawthorne, actually, could use a coat of paint. Like my basement, it has been hard used for 30 years and needs a bit of TLC.

Half an hour later, the first coat was down. I’ll need to come back for the second round and I will wait a few days before I move the furniture and tools back into place, but it looks good. So good that the walls and railing are now appearing a bit battered. But that is a job for this summer.

The Voyage Begun

 

               It is the end of Earth Week and the celebration has felt…underwhelming.  City and school events have been lackluster in engagement. One of my students observed “Well, people have lives to live and places to be” which is true, but makes me worry. How do we convey the urgency of this issue—and others—in a way that empowers people to take action, to take the power that we all hold, collectively, and turn it action at all levels of society? Because we are reading The Things They Carry, by Tim O’Brien, my mind turns to the idea of story.  Stories can save us, he says. Individually and, perhaps, collectively. So this is my Climate Change story for this year.

                The Voyage Begun, by Nancy Bond. Printed in 1981. I must have read it the winter it came out. I remember being chilly and I was often chilly in those years, living on my own, saving money by keeping the heat low. These were the years when the University of New Hampshire sent us home for an extra week of Winter Break because they would save so much money on heating fuel. That break, I spent several days spreading insulation in my mother’s attic. When we were done, the snow stayed on the roof rather than melting away.  One apartment I lived in had a base rate of heating paid by the landlord but we had to chip in if the costs went above a certain amount. I wore my great-grandmother’s shawl as I sat up in the kitchen, typing a paper for class, all winter. My roommate and I had an impressive collection of shared sweaters. Still, it was chilly.

                The novel is set on Cape Cod in the “near future”.  Having spent two winters on the Cape myself, I could relate to the landscape.  The energy crisis of the 1970’s has become permanent. Parts of the Cape are washing away—even though no one was talking about rising seas yet.  All of the summer homes have been abandoned and there are small gangs breaking in and robbing them. The local conservationist is considered a little crazy.   Only the permanent residents remain and they are struggling without the summer incomes. The setting is bleak.  A young man moves to Woods Hole where his father is climbing the administrative ladder; his mother is in deep denial about the level of the crisis and is not happy living so far away from the civilization that she remembers. The book comes together around the idea of community and working together in prickly partnerships that value some old skills, like wood boat building. The plot faded in my mind but the description of the world post energy crisis did not; the Boston Museum of Fine Arts was closed because they could not heat the space. I love the MFA.

                In 1981, we were not facing the climate crisis that we are today. Energy—yes. Jimmy Carter had put solar panels on the roof of the White House and was wearing a sweater, talking about turning down the thermostat. We knew, then, that there were limits on oil. And that, if we changed behavior, we would survive and even thrive.  If we did not, we were looking at a depleted world where more things were closed in winter than the UNH dorms for an extra week.  And this is where my mind returns when I think—when did I first become aware of the problem? This novel, set in a place that I knew and loved, washing into the sea because of our behavior. That is where the voyage began. And yours?

               

 

               

 

Staggered Germination

 

In January, I was reading the Fedco seed catalog—the best for seeds, prices, and entertainment. One of their informative paragraphs talked about the emergence of staggered germination. According to the catalog, plants that have been stressed during the summer months will produce seed that germinates over a longer period of time. Because of climate change, they are seeing this stress response  more often. It can be challenging, they observed, for commercial growers who depend upon consistent germination within a narrow timeframe in order to get their crops in the ground on time—which is also becoming more difficult with climate change. Interesting, I thought.

This April, I have seen this happening in my own greenhouse. I planted all of the tomato seed one afternoon and put both flats on the heating pads. For every variety of tomato, from several distributers, there has been staggered germination. A  little bit is normal; there are often two seedlings of slightly different sizes on one six pack cell. But this year, they were all different sizes. Some were almost trees while their neighbor was just breaking through with all heights in between. And a couple of varieties—the Evil Olive being one—took two weeks longer to germinate than any others. It makes it challenging to bump up the plants. Some pairs are deeply tangled in their roots but big enough for both to survive. Some are not. I popped three Long Keepers out of their six pack and left four behind to develop their roots a little more before the trauma of being repotted. I thought I would be able to consolidate the little ones into one or two six packs, but I couldn’t. They are just taking up precious space.

Even given the chaotic and packed nature of a greenhouse in April, I can’t complain. It will make the tomato give away a little trickier and maybe a week later—does anyone want to come back for the Evil Olive after they have their Sungolds? But my livelihood does not depend upon evenly timed germination.  By August, it won’t matter. I’ll be hauling in tomatoes every day for crockpot sauce. But it gave me something to consider while I worked this morning—both the thousands of way climate change is going to impact us that we do not even begin to understand and also the bit of hope lying within those seeds, as they adapt to a changing world.

April on The Road

 

April Fool’s Day was the day after Easter this year. I was walking to work, remembering the joy of Hot Cross buns and coconut cream pie, when the light hit me…its traveling time. The air was clear, and damp, and chilly, but I knew, in my bones, that if I just, as John Haitt suggests, Drove South with the one you love (or alone), I would hit the perfect traveling weather in one day’s drive.  I could sit in the doorway of the Ark and watch the light fade wearing just a sweatshirt. April is road trip time.  I almost turned around and headed home to pick up the Ark’s keys.

Long road trips are deeply embedded in my psyche. My parents embarked on one when I was eight; we were gone  from July until April because we had to stop for school and to make some money in Florida. When I was 29, I took three months off from work, bought my van, and drove south, via Cape Cod and Beaver Falls Pennsylvania, heading to New Orleans. The first day—which was April Fool’s Day,  a Monday and the day after Easter-- was eerie. I was exhausted from Easter week at the Bakery, there was no one else at the campground where I stayed the first night, and, despite packing maple syrup, tamari that spilled onto the shag carpet and gave the Ark a distinctive odor, and my wok, I neglected to bring along any food for an easy dinner OR the leftover coconut cream pie from the party the day before. I almost headed back to New Hampshire.

It took a week or so to find my rhythm, both for driving and meal planning, on my own which was the point of the entire adventure. As I observed in my journal of the trip—“it is a spirit journey to test myself and my ability to handle daily living and the occasional crisis on my own.”  I drove. I sang loudly. I read. I learned to cook beans on a propane stove and that mayo is far tougher than we think.  I hiked through our National Parks. I talked with strangers and made friends. I visited people along the way and had several riders, planned and unplanned, as well.  I was never afraid although I was occasionally lonely. A woman on her own, on The Road.

A few years later, living in Oregon, I needed to go home for a wedding. Once again, it was April. My roommate at the time thought I was crazy—why not just fly? No, I drove south, picked up my friend Sherrie, and we drove East together, taking the southern route.  She packed snacks and picked up local papers when we stopped for coffee in the mornings. We replaced the stove which had been stolen the year before in Seligman, Arizona on Route 66, which upped our cooking game from boiling water on a backpacking stove to being able to fry potatoes and toast bread. Everyone talked to us; the guy stopping traffic on the highway, people in diners, and baristas in college towns. We made it home just in time. The Ark swallowed the shoes I had packed for the wedding but that was ok. I wore my flowered sneakers instead. And then, we drove back—a month total—of two women On the Road.

And so, April is, for me, a time of migration, of long drives, of chilly mornings, and of talking with strangers.  When the light balances between chilly and warm, right around the equinox of the year, there is nothing I would rather be doing.