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.