September Gold

One of the hardest things about early September is having to move back inside for hours on end. We all feel it; even the cat is more inclined to sprawl in the sun, soaking up the dry heat before the long damp season begins.

It is the golden season. The light is a clear, liquid gold, pouring over the landscape. Everything turns golden—the fields, the leaves, the crops, the flowers, all gather in this light and reflect it back. In my garden, small pumpkins emerge from the tangle of green leaves—there are eight?! I had only counted five all summer long. Three were hidden. Sungold tomato vines sprawl over the others, small golden suns everywhere. We eat them constantly. The goldenrod is blooming and every pollinator from miles around is collecting on it, so it hums.   My fall crops are growing madly; they are in the brightest bed. Along the fence, one volunteer pumpkin vines is making a final run for it; it has grown three feet in the last two weeks and has a tiny fruit hanging from it. We will see if anything comes of it.

Harvest is everywhere. Last summer vegetables compete with the early squashes in the Farmer’s Market. All sorts of fruits spill over, all ready to be processed for winter. We bring in the potatoes and onions, dried beans and corn. The time of reckoning…what went well? What did not? It’s serious for us, home gardeners, far more serious for the local farmers. These six weeks between Lammastide and the Fall equinox determine how well we will eat this winter. Soon, we will break out the wool socks, start the wood stove, consider baked beans for dinner. Until then, though, I am stretching my bare feet towards the sun, holding onto these golden days as long as possible.

The South Side

                For the last two years, I have been experimenting with plantings on the south side of the house. It can be a challenging location. It receives full sun in the afternoon, is blocked by house on two sides, and is buffeted by the evening sea breezes.  There are a series of wine barrels, and other containers the size of wine barrels, that live in what was the driveway, as well as two small raised beds built up against the house. For a long time, it was the home for all of the tomatoes, which did well in the heat and also allowed us to nibble on sungold tomatoes as we wheeled our bikes in and out of the back yard. Two years ago, I decided to do some crop rotation.

                Last year, I went for the vining squashes in the pots and the corn in the beds. It did not work. The corn was fried in a heat wave and looked like something from the Dust Bowl. The squashes, although slightly shaded by a tree, were also hit by the heat and did not produce large fruits. I had mini-squashes which were not edible. I thought, if I had moved them into the full shade, they would have been ok, but it’s hard to move a pot full of a long pumpkin vines that are visiting the neighbors.  Scarlet runner beans will grow up the twine along the side of the house, but they will not produce beans (Heat again). The Three Sisters were not happy.

 

Resting bed

               This year, I tried the spring crops—peas, lettuce, mustard, and kale—as well as cabbages and broccoli.  That was more successful. Lettuces really like succession plantings in big barrels. Kale and mustard did pretty well in barrels, too. The longer, heavy feeding crops were not as happy; they were too crowded.  I did get three out of four cabbages, but the same generation did much better in a back yard bed.  I replaced some early crops with dill and zinnas, which are flourishing. And, oddly enough, so is a celery plant which I popped into one empty planter hoping to keep it going through the winter, rather than losing it to the chickens when  I move the coop onto the garden bed that holds its sister plant.  The bed next to the house had problems from too much undigested organic matter rather than from heat; it did not do well even in cool weather. Right now, it is resting and digesting, like a family after Thanksgiving.

                I like the idea of quick growing greens outside the living room windows in the early spring. It brings the garden closer to the house when we really need to watch something grow. I think I will try that again next March.  I am also thinking of bringing the snacks forward —cherry tomatoes and ground cherries—so that we can eat them easily. Flowers and herbs can fill in as the season moves along. They will tolerate heat and being moved if needed for a few days. Maybe the real question should be: what do I want to see when I gaze out of the windows?

Open Streets, Corvallis

Highway 99 runs through Corvallis. It begins as a two lane country highway, winding peacefully  through hazelnut orchards, seed farms, and mint fields, but, when it hits Corvallis from the south, it becomes a behemoth—five lanes with bike lanes and sidewalks—with lots of open land around it, so there is no reason to slow down.  It is a menace as a bicyclist; riders spend hours talking about how to avoid it, which is difficult because it is the spine for the entire South Corvallis community.  No one walks on the sidewalks if they can avoid it. Last week, a traffic calming pedestrian crossing light was taken out by a car.

Ten past one, Sunday afternoon. The side streets are crowded with people on bikes, all ready to surge forward across Highway 99 when given the signal. Three official crossing guards stand at attention, holding signs. “Slow.” “Stop.”  They move into the highway and gesture to five figures in the crowd. The five, dressed in exaggerated costumes from 1958, run into the street. One pushes a tricycle. The audience follows them onto the highway to watch. They strike poses and break into “Greased Lightening” from Grease. They dance and sing around the trike, adding streamers. The audience dances and sways in time to the beat. The pavement is warm, but not burning. Cars pile up behind the barriers. They have altered the lines to the song to fit the moment. Everyone laughs. At the end, they strike a pose, then run off the highway. The crowd breaks up, humming, moves along the Open Streets.

Along the route, children ride their bikes, swaying and swirling and playing with balance as we all love to do when we know the road is clear.  Some stop and draw with sidewalk chalk, leaving reminders that it was, for a few hours, okay to create art in the middle of the street.  One little girl learns to ride her bike without training wheels because she has the ability to think just about pedaling, not direction or cars, for an hour.  Parents stand around and talk in the road. Other families set up face painting stands, play live music from 1967 in the driveway, park vintage cars on the grass for an impromptu car show.  Bicyclists are everywhere. “It’s a fiesta,” one crossing guard explains to a neighbor who needs to drive through the street to get to work. The driver moves slowly through the crowd.

In the parks, neighbors listen to music, dance, eat pizza, give opinions on city issues, and hang out in the shade, gossiping. Kids climb over the play structures, chase each other around with water bottles, and yell. A few dogs hunt for scraps. Three folks decide to have a potato sack race and fall over, laughing. Although there are racks, bikes are everywhere along the perimeters.

Streets, even highways, are for everyone—walkers, bicyclists, trucks haulers, families in autos,  skateboarders… Cars do not own the roads. We all do. And, for brief moments in late August, Open Streets reminds us of this fact. We all share the road.

Yard Art

When I was little, my grandmother’s garden felt like the Stations of the Cross, with pathways leading to various pieces of yard art. It was even arranged like a cross; you stepped up into the side yard on one of the arms, then walked to the center line, and turned  right to stand in front of the Virgin Mary in a clamshell, so popular with New England Catholics. The other two statues were a painted cement squirrel, and (I think) some sort of garden gnome. I loved walking the stations of these figures when I visited. Her sister-in-law favored pink flamingos around a cement birdbath.  My mother owned an Italianate fountain: a boy on a fish that spouted water into a large—and very heavy—basin, perched on a pillar. When the fountain broke, she planted the basin in petunias. When the basin broke, she kept the boy, fish, and pedestal. I grew up with some fine yard art, which I rejected out of hand. My own garden, I vowed, would have none of that tacky cement figure stuff, no plastic, nothing like that. Rustic trellises from tree trimmings, hand made signs, lots of veggies and few flowers (NO petunias, thank you!) were ok. The natural beauty of a cabbage would shine in my garden.

But then, in graduate school, I began to look at yard art. Wooden cut out figures of farmers and farmer’s wives bent over appeared in local yards on the coast. “Tacky!” I thought, but I also noticed as they moved. One week, they were in Kittery, then in Dover, and then, a few months later, they were about 50 miles inland at Great East Lake.  I took pictures. “There’s a thesis here,” I thought. There are, to a graduate student, thesi everywhere. Different areas supported different yard art. The Virgin Mary was popular around Boston, but not in Pennsylvania.  Some areas had more art than others. Glass balls, fake deer, birdbaths, gnomes….cement figures, wooden figures, ceramics….There is a thesis here.

When we bought our house, I caved into peer pressure and bought a pair of pink flamingos, who lived in the back yard near the compost piles and brush. When we built a little pool back there, they were right at home. We added a cement Buddha and Saint Francis, and then some mardi-gras beads. Blue bottles lined paths.   Broken dishes found new homes in garden beds. When my mother died, I brought home the boy riding the fish and the pedestal.  There is a small wall hanging of the Virgin Mary on the fence. A wooden crescent moon and hearts hang from tree branches.  Sixteen gnomes are tucked in the foliage; at least three came from Sarah Lee,  my partner’s mother, as birthday presents. Five painted Mrs. Butterworths are posing near the chives and asparagus. On Saturday, a friend delivered a cement figure that he had purchased years ago because it reminded him of his children. They don’t want it (at least, not now), so it is living in my yard. At night, when we are asleep, do all of these figures move around, have pie parties and long conversations?

My yard has become my grandmother’s, in a way. There are stepping stones and hidden figures among the cabbages. Pink flamingos look down upon the vegetable garden.  My family—all of it—has gathered in this space. And so, I am keeping the new statue, but, if Corey ever wants it, she knows where it is. Because I still kick myself for not claiming the squirrel from my grandmother’s yard.

Lammastide

In the circle of the year, Lammastide is the beginning of the grain harvest. Wheat, oats, barley—all of the northern grains that fed the community—were harvested and brought to the church for a festival and a blessing, also known as the Loaf Mass, in early August. Here in the Pacific Northwest, the big harvests begin at the same time. Fields of wheat are drying down. Straw and hay dust turn the sunlight  golden. Fruit tree branches bend over from the weight. The annual veggies are at their peak of growth and production. In the next six weeks, all of the madness of summer food processing will dominate kitchens and cellars.  Pickling.  Drying. Canning in light syrup.  Making jams and preserves. Tucking potatoes into paper bags and storing them away from the light.  Food driers and crockpots run overnight to keep up with the food tumbling in during this season. 

Transit Reality Check

Public Transit. I believe in public transit. I did not get my driver’s license until I was 26, and I’ve lived in Boston and Portland, so I have ridden a lot of buses in my time. I enjoy a good bus ride—stare out the window, eavesdrop on the gossip behind me, meditate on the nature of the universe of dinner plans—it rarely  feels like  a waste of time  to ride the bus, when it is on schedule. I’ll give an extra 35% of travel time gladly for a bus ride. However,….

Last week, I decided to take public transit to visit my friend Amy, who lives in Milwaukie, Oregon. It is almost exactly two hours to drive my VW van door to door, but the Ark had developed a hiccup that could lead to a stop by the side of the road, and I did not want to deal a visit to the repair shop instead of dinner with a friend. I walked out of the door at 11 AM, heading to the Corvallis transit center a mile away. At 11:25, I climbed onto the Linn-Benton loop, rode for 15 minutes to the community college, transferred to the Albany bus, and rode another 12 minutes into the Albany transit station, arriving at 11:55.  Although my bus to Portland left at 1:05, I had to arrive an hour early because the loop bus takes a lunch break for an hour. I packed my own lunch and a book, and ate on a bench outside.  At 1:05, my bus pulled into the station, loaded up, and headed north. It arrived in Portland about five minutes late—no big deal. I grabbed my backpack, walked to the near-by tri-met stop, waited for the orange line, and climbed aboard. This new line travels all the way to Milwaukie, which is very cool. I admired all of the new public art along the way and studied the complex green paint for bikes around some of the stations. We came into town a little after four and I walked the last mile to Amy’s house, landing in her yard just before 4:30.  It took two local buses, one regional bus, and a light rail ride and two walks five and a half hours to travel a two hour car drive. And that was with every bus on time.

Recently, I broke my arm. I am fine, but I have been going to physical therapy 2.5 miles away.  To walk would be an hour and a half there and back—if my ankle was ok that day. To take the bus would be even longer, and would involve hours of waiting because the local buses run once an hour.  The ideal is riding a bike, which I now do, but that was out when I was in a cast. We drove for the first month.

These are just two examples of the problems we face when we begin to think about how to move people from one place to another without individual cars. When we say “just don’t bring your car to campus” or “you don’t need a car in Corvallis—you can get everywhere on the bus. Its free!” we are not considering the absurd amount of time and effort it takes for healthy people to commit to public transit.  Buses need to run every 15 minutes, day and into the late evening, to be user friendly on a broad scale. They cannot take lunch breaks. Bike lanes need to feel safe on busy streets. Walkers need paths to cut through long blocks. Everyone needs better signage to calculate distance and location. This is more than a cultural mind shift—it will require a complete shift of how we fund transportation and road design. It needs to happen; we need to begin today. Otherwise, in a few years, we will all be trapped at home, unable to visit a friend in Milwaukie.

July, 1969

July 1969.

My father and I are home alone with the dog. My mother and cousins are at a teen dance in the Hampstead town gym, sponsored by the PTA. My mother is chaperone.  Night falls. The fields, with quiet cows, are dark. Insects call. There is a hint of skunk in the humid summer air.  We have been watching the news on the enclosed porch. The moon landing.  There are men on the moon.  We walk outside, followed by the dog, and look up. The full moon is rising over the trees. “Can you see them up there?” my father asks. We all squint at the moon, watching for movements and shadows. Man, daughter, dog stand in the moonlight, casting moon shadows, and join the millions world-wide staring at the moon.  “I think so,” I reply.