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.

The Ark's Kitchen List

 

               Last weekend, we went camping in the Ark. I’ve been cooking out of the van for thirty years now, so I have the equipment down—and it all fits into one large milk crate under the bed. Most of the items came from Goodwill.

2 plates

2 bowls

2 tin mugs

2 ceramic mugs

Silverware in a cloth bag

3 pots—small, medium, and large—with lids

2 cast iron frying pans—small and large

Big plastic bowl

Cutting board

Bread knife and kitchen knife

Flexible  steamer

Wooden spoon, soup ladle, spatula

2 cup and half cup measure and measuring spoons

Small grater

Can opener

2 tea strainers

Tin full of small jars of spices, baking powder and soda, olive oil, red wine vinegar, honey and sugar

Tablecloth

Two burner Coleman stove, fuel

Lighter, potholder

5 gallon bucket for water and an old fish bucket for a sink

2 mouseproof containers for food

 

 

 

 

Climate Friendly code and the Anti-Christ

 

                Saturday morning Mark was contemplating the political situation while brushing his teeth.

 “Is Trump the anti-Christ?” I asked.

“Well, the Anti-Christ is an idea, not a person, I believe,” he replied and wandered over to his bookshelf to pull out his Concordance of the Bible to check. “Yeah, John I and II. ‘This is the spirit of Anti-Christ.’ And it only shows up in this small section of the entire Bible.” What would the theoretical anti-Christ be like? We considered the concept while cleaning the house.

 At dinner, my mind wandered back to the theory of Anti-Christ, a book on the impact of investment firms buying up housing that I read earlier this summer, and the new Climate Friendly rule-making that has just come down from the state. According to our community development director, Corvallis will need 35 buildings the size of the Sierra, which has 228 units and seven stories, to meet the requirement of 8,200 units in Climate Friendly areas by 2036. Very few, if any, builders in Corvallis can build such tall structures—so the construction firms who will benefit will be from out of town. They may hire locals to do the actual construction, but the firm making the money will not be local. Big blocks of apartments, at least in Oregon, are almost always rental units, owned by someone outside of the community. “Rental leakage” where rent is paid to someone who lives elsewhere, will be even greater than it is now. These buildings will be owned by investors, who will profit from higher rents in town. Renting also makes it harder to grow roots into a community and to build equity from owning a home. The economic gap between homeowner—and the houses in Corvallis are rapidly heading to the 500,000 range—and the renter will grow.

Who benefits from this decision? Clearly not renters, who face higher rents because of investment purchases and will not be able to save to purchase a home, either freestanding or an apartment. Clearly not our local builders, who do not have the technology to build the huge complexes. Maybe the city, from increased property taxes; you can see the increases tied to several new complexes that have been built in the last ten years. I am afraid that most of the economic benefits will accrue to out of town, out of state, developers and investors, not locals, continuing to increase the gap between those who have money and those who do not, that is the root problem in society. And, maybe, that is the Anti-Christ.

 

 

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.