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.

 

   

                             On Solstice evening, Mark and I went out to Finley Wildlife Refuge for a dinner picnic and our traditional cross quarter day hike. We took all of our local, seasonal food—rhubarb cake, frittata with eggs and mustard greens from the back yard, salad from Sunbow—to eat on the bench overlooking a pond full of ducks, with swallows swooping overhead in a sky that had, just that day, turned summer blue. We were the only people there. After we finished, we walked the Mill Hill loop, singing out to the blooming oocow and checker mallows, slipping through trail mud, rejoicing in the soft warm evening air. As we turned the corner away from the marsh, two young owls moved off the trail, but stayed close, watching us watch them for five minutes before we moved on. We need to do this more often, we thought, climbing into the Ark for the ride home.

                I’ve spent the week, after we finished up some scope and sequence planning in record time (projected time 12 hours, time taken five—and we were not as efficient as we could be), bringing the gardens into summer order, weeding, trimming, mulching. Yesterday, I turned on irrigation at school and at home and nothing blew up anywhere.  The vines are all growing a couple of inches a day. The pea vines are loaded; the favas are bending over and breaking. The rain brought on a lot of vegetation which is now bearing fruit.

                All of the outdoor chairs are out. Books, shoes, and empty water glasses are scattered everywhere. The cat has scoped out all of her dappled shade spots and moves from one to the next on a predictable schedule. The rabbit has dug a cool burrow under the bleeding heart—the chickens are hanging out in the tangle of blackberries in the far back of the yard. The heat we were dreaming of, just a week ago, has arrived. Summer.

Cycles and Seasons

 Graduation was Friday night. The week before, my Honors ninth graders rocked their final presentations and ate an inordinate number of cookies afterwards. We are almost ready to put out projects in American lit. The playing fields are quiet—no one is prepping for districts. Kids are just messing around outside. The school year is winding down.

                In the morning and evening, the light lingers. I wake up early, when the sun leans into my bedroom windows. Because of all of the rain, the sunlight is almost green and the air is rich with the scents of earth and mulch. We are eating later every night because the “start dinner light” is slipping later and later every night. We are reaching for the longest day of the year very soon.

                The garden, too, falls into its familiar cycle. Yes, it is a very rainy June, but still, the peas are reaching for the sky in my backyard and we picked a wooden salad bowl full of peapods from the school garden on Friday, right on schedule. The plum tree branches are loaded with hard green fruit which rattles on the roof of the van when we pull in. The grape vines are knocking on the kitchen window—tying them up is next on the list of chores between the downpours.

                My life, as a teacher and a gardener, follows the seasons of the year, turns around the months. In January, we read Malcolm X; in May, we read Romeo and Juliet. In January, I browse seed catalogs, dream of new varieties; in May, we have the first harvest between mowing and weeding. There is a deep and abiding comfort in these rituals, in these cycles, in the changing light moving through my classroom and my garden. These cycles, these rituals, have been followed by millions of teachers and students, and gardeners and farmers, reaching back centuries in some places on our planet. They ground us, literally, to our place in earth.

                I wonder, looking forward, how many of these grounding cycles and rituals will reach the end of this century. Even now, I can see the impacts of climate change on my gardens and the larger ecosystem around me. Planting and pollination, reliable fruiting and harvest, feel less tied to our skill as farmers and more to the uncontrollable weather patterns. We struggle to adjust, observing closely, choosing crops and seeds carefully, but the seasons are changing.  This change, this constantly shifting ground, impacts my students as well. They know that their future will not look like mine did, and, unlike Henry Adams in the 19^th century, they do not feel like the constant speeding up of the world is a good thing. It is hard to look forward to a world of Climate Chaos.

                And so, here I am. Knowing that a deep connection to the rituals, cycles of the earth will keep us sane in difficult times and also knowing that those cycles and rituals are being destroyed—and that my students are scared, worried, looking for guidance going forward. How do we hope, work for change, not give into fear and despair, going forward?  

 

               

               Graduation was Friday night. The week before, my Honors ninth graders rocked their final presentations and ate an inordinate number of cookies afterwards. We are almost ready to put out projects in American lit. The playing fields are quiet—no one is prepping for districts. Kids are just messing around outside. The school year is winding down.

                In the morning and evening, the light lingers. I wake up early, when the sun leans into my bedroom windows. Because of all of the rain, the sunlight is almost green and the air is rich with the scents of earth and mulch. We are eating later every night because the “start dinner light” is slipping later and later every night. We are reaching for the longest day of the year very soon.

                The garden, too, falls into its familiar cycle. Yes, it is a very rainy June, but still, the peas are reaching for the sky in my backyard and we picked a wooden salad bowl full of peapods from the school garden on Friday, right on schedule. The plum tree branches are loaded with hard green fruit which rattles on the roof of the van when we pull in. The grape vines are knocking on the kitchen window—tying them up is next on the list of chores between the downpours.

                My life, as a teacher and a gardener, follows the seasons of the year, turns around the months. In January, we read Malcolm X; in May, we read Romeo and Juliet. In January, I browse seed catalogs, dream of new varieties; in May, we have the first harvest between mowing and weeding. There is a deep and abiding comfort in these rituals, in these cycles, in the changing light moving through my classroom and my garden. These cycles, these rituals, have been followed by millions of teachers and students, and gardeners and farmers, reaching back centuries in some places on our planet. They ground us, literally, to our place in earth.

                I wonder, looking forward, how many of these grounding cycles and rituals will reach the end of this century. Even now, I can see the impacts of climate change on my gardens and the larger ecosystem around me. Planting and pollination, reliable fruiting and harvest, feel less tied to our skill as farmers and more to the uncontrollable weather patterns. We struggle to adjust, observing closely, choosing crops and seeds carefully, but the seasons are changing.  This change, this constantly shifting ground, impacts my students as well. They know that their future will not look like mine did, and, unlike Henry Adams in the 19^th century, they do not feel like the constant speeding up of the world is a good thing. It is hard to look forward to a world of Climate Chaos.

                And so, here I am. Knowing that a deep connection to the rituals, cycles of the earth will keep us sane in difficult times and also knowing that those cycles and rituals are being destroyed—and that my students are scared, worried, looking for guidance going forward. How do we hope, work for change, not give into fear and despair, going forward?  

 

               

                

Graduation was Friday night. The week before, my Honors ninth graders rocked their final presentations and ate an inordinate number of cookies afterwards. We are almost ready to put out projects in American lit. The playing fields are quiet—no one is prepping for districts. Kids are just messing around outside. The school year is winding down.

                In the morning and evening, the light lingers. I wake up early, when the sun leans into my bedroom windows. Because of all of the rain, the sunlight is almost green and the air is rich with the scents of earth and mulch. We are eating later every night because the “start dinner light” is slipping later and later every night. We are reaching for the longest day of the year very soon.

                The garden, too, falls into its familiar cycle. Yes, it is a very rainy June, but still, the peas are reaching for the sky in my backyard and we picked a wooden salad bowl full of peapods from the school garden on Friday, right on schedule. The plum tree branches are loaded with hard green fruit which rattles on the roof of the van when we pull in. The grape vines are knocking on the kitchen window—tying them up is next on the list of chores between the downpours.

                My life, as a teacher and a gardener, follows the seasons of the year, turns around the months. In January, we read Malcolm X; in May, we read Romeo and Juliet. In January, I browse seed catalogs, dream of new varieties; in May, we have the first harvest between mowing and weeding. There is a deep and abiding comfort in these rituals, in these cycles, in the changing light moving through my classroom and my garden. These cycles, these rituals, have been followed by millions of teachers and students, and gardeners and farmers, reaching back centuries in some places on our planet. They ground us, literally, to our place in earth.

                I wonder, looking forward, how many of these grounding cycles and rituals will reach the end of this century. Even now, I can see the impacts of climate change on my gardens and the larger ecosystem around me. Planting and pollination, reliable fruiting and harvest, feel less tied to our skill as farmers and more to the uncontrollable weather patterns. We struggle to adjust, observing closely, choosing crops and seeds carefully, but the seasons are changing.  This change, this constantly shifting ground, impacts my students as well. They know that their future will not look like mine did, and, unlike Henry Adams in the 19^th century, they do not feel like the constant speeding up of the world is a good thing. It is hard to look forward to a world of Climate Chaos.

                And so, here I am. Knowing that a deep connection to the rituals, cycles of the earth will keep us sane in difficult times and also knowing that those cycles and rituals are being destroyed—and that my students are scared, worried, looking for guidance going forward. How do we hope, work for change, not give into fear and despair, going forward?  

 

               

               

Planting the Corn

 

The garden is planted. The last bed went in this afternoon—and it might have been the worst of the season. It is the edge of chicken run, so it has a six foot high fence attached to the side. And I planted the corn, which requires extra protection. The afternoon went like this:

1.       Turn over the bed, pull out all of the apple mint that has crept in, and break up the clumps. The ground is still remarkably wet. Have a long conversation with the chickens on the other side of the fence about all of the worms in the bed. Toss a few their way.

2.       Consider the soaker hose. Someone cut the hose in half last fall during an energetic session with the loppers and the sunflower stalks that once ran along the back fence. Of course we did not fix it then—or any other time in the last six months.  Find the last ½ inch hose repair kit, the screwdriver in the basement, and commence repairs. Brush off ants which have decided that the hose is an excellent nesting spot. Lots of ants. So many ants. Lay the repaired hose down. Brush off the last of the ants (I hope).

3.       Consider being done for the day. Decide that, really, the corn is not getting any younger in the six packs that it sprouted in and it can’t wait until Thursday. And the birds might find it….

4.       Find the pole bean and sunflower seeds. Hunt for the digging fork and fail. Bring out the fertilizer and spread it for the beans. Use your hands to work it into the soil. Long reaches and balances. Awkward.

5.       Long reach across the four foot bed because the beans go against the fence as a trellis. So awkward. Consider taking the fence down, but remember that you are alone and there is no one else to chase the chickens out of the garden beds when they make a run for it.  Continue the long reach. Beans planted. Sunflowers tucked in.

6.       Bring the corn over to be planted. Lay down three rows of fertilizer and plant. Try and keep the lines straight. Fail. Pat the corn into place.

7.       Because birds love to swoop down and dig up the corn, find five hoops and the really big piece of plastic in the shed. Cover the bed. Wrestle the clamps into place through the chicken fence. Catch a chicken making a run through the gate.

8.  

     Once the hoops are up, consider the rabbit fence. Might as well. Unroll the two foot wire fence that surrounds every bed in the garden, staple it in place. It just fits.

9.       Step back and consider the project completed.