I am still kind of on the sick side and it is starting to irritate me! Last night I felt better until I tried to go to bed. Lying down was possibly the worst thing in the world because all at once I had difficulties breathing out of nose or mouth. I didn’t sleep much at all. So, today I am back to feeling downright lousy, and still have to go to work and talk for about five straight hours.
But enough complaining =)
On my computer I had two quotes taped to the monitor. One is about love, the other about “small things.” I put these on my computer over a year ago, long before I’d begun to think of eating locally or climate change or anything in regards to sustainability and organics.
The one about small things reads, “The small things of life were often so much bigger than the great things… the trivial pleasures like cooking, one’s home, little poems especially sad ones, solitary walks, funny things seen and overheard.” Barbara Pym.
I don’t know who Barbara Pym is; the quote was in a magazine I like to read. I cut it out and taped it to my computer, because I felt it rang completely true. It’s more often than not the small things in life that render me awe inspired, joyful, or even sorrowful. A sad poem can indeed cut me to the knees. A solitary walk can sometimes have the amazing power of motivation. Cooking often brings me satisfaction. A sunset, a field, a tree, a creek—any of these things has the potential to make me feel alive and well and happy. Things I buy rarely do this for me.
I talk a lot about the environment and eating locally, but this blog goes beyond those sentiments for me. It’s about looking at the small things, about bringing the important things back into my life, and ridding myself of the unimportant. It’s about making the best life I can—which I think involves simplicity, community and local eating a lot more than it involves a big screen TV, trendy clothes, or pesticide-covered fruit whenever I want it.
Eating seems like such a simple thing, but it is one of the ways we survive. It’s become so easy, so thoughtless, but as one of the key parts of our survival, a lot of thought and effort should go into eating—a lot more than the thought that goes into having the latest technology or having the most stuff.
A lot is changing for me currently—my boyfriend has a new job, which means we’ll be moving (likely) by the end of February. This puts a hold on some of the earlier gardening plans I had, and worries me a bit as I don’t know what kind of apartment we’ll be moving into. Even though there is a lot I don’t like about our current place, it has a lot of positives when it comes to walking, outside space, etc. I doubt we’ll be that lucky to find something affordable with that. So, I’m a bit worried about the future of my organic container vegetable garden. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see how it all goes and hope for the best.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
This is Why I Don't Watch the News
I’m still feeling puny. My Grandma used to say this when she wasn’t really sick, but just wasn’t feeling 100%. That’s me right now.
I don’t (and won’t) generally blog about the news because I am not a newsy person. Call it a personal flaw, but I don’t need to know what’s going on in the government concerning global warming, building over the wilderness, basically treating the planet like a doormat—because it makes me angry and frustrated and not feeling too good about what on person can do to change all that. I know, I know, knowledge is power, but in this case knowledge is also a downer. I just keep doing what I’m doing, and look for either positive news stories—or get my information from somewhere a lot less gloom and doom than the news.
My boyfriend, on the other hand, likes to watch the news. Therefore, I do get bits and pieces of it here and there. Today, there was some story or an other (I was only half listening) about a hearing/meeting about the possibility that the Bush administration pushed scientists into making global warming sound a lot less dangerous than it is. Does this surprise anyone? Certainly not me.
Of course, the familiar feelings of frustration and anger bubble up to the surface. It maddens me, irritates me and continually shocks me that we elect leaders and allow our political system to carry on the way it does. The Bush Administration is a whole new level of this, but politicians on both side of the spectrum do this—take advantage of the weak, reward the rich, and spin, spin, spin till there’s no hint of an issue left.
Bush was quoted as saying something about putting caps on greenhouse gasses would be too “expensive.” Expensive for whom? For companies that rake in billions and trillions of profits? For the government? For who? Because, last time I checked, global warming is going to end up being pretty expensive in the number of natural disasters, species lost, climate change affects on crops, businesses, and so on and so on. Let’s spend billions of dollars on a war, and do nothing to begin to solve some huge problems we’re costing the Earth and ourselves. The average person can’t always afford to make the “green” choice, it’s sad that those who can, won’t.
And this is why I don’t watch the news—I basically end up wanting to punch something or someone. I don’t feel inspired to make a change, I feel the need for screaming and shouting—and I don’t think that’s going to get anyone to change their mind.
I don’t (and won’t) generally blog about the news because I am not a newsy person. Call it a personal flaw, but I don’t need to know what’s going on in the government concerning global warming, building over the wilderness, basically treating the planet like a doormat—because it makes me angry and frustrated and not feeling too good about what on person can do to change all that. I know, I know, knowledge is power, but in this case knowledge is also a downer. I just keep doing what I’m doing, and look for either positive news stories—or get my information from somewhere a lot less gloom and doom than the news.
My boyfriend, on the other hand, likes to watch the news. Therefore, I do get bits and pieces of it here and there. Today, there was some story or an other (I was only half listening) about a hearing/meeting about the possibility that the Bush administration pushed scientists into making global warming sound a lot less dangerous than it is. Does this surprise anyone? Certainly not me.
Of course, the familiar feelings of frustration and anger bubble up to the surface. It maddens me, irritates me and continually shocks me that we elect leaders and allow our political system to carry on the way it does. The Bush Administration is a whole new level of this, but politicians on both side of the spectrum do this—take advantage of the weak, reward the rich, and spin, spin, spin till there’s no hint of an issue left.
Bush was quoted as saying something about putting caps on greenhouse gasses would be too “expensive.” Expensive for whom? For companies that rake in billions and trillions of profits? For the government? For who? Because, last time I checked, global warming is going to end up being pretty expensive in the number of natural disasters, species lost, climate change affects on crops, businesses, and so on and so on. Let’s spend billions of dollars on a war, and do nothing to begin to solve some huge problems we’re costing the Earth and ourselves. The average person can’t always afford to make the “green” choice, it’s sad that those who can, won’t.
And this is why I don’t watch the news—I basically end up wanting to punch something or someone. I don’t feel inspired to make a change, I feel the need for screaming and shouting—and I don’t think that’s going to get anyone to change their mind.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Weather Vulnerability
Aside from this past Friday where temperatures reached 60 degrees, winter is spreading its long cold windy fingers out across the area. And, with it, I have contracted a lovely little cold. One of those colds that you fight all week and then one day of poor eating, poor sleep, or too much outdoor time sends your throat swelling, your nose dripping, and your head aching.
I’ve been fairly lucky this year. Last year I was sick practically all winter (which had some to do with the fact I was working with 4 and 5 year olds 8 hours a day). But, I think it also had something to do with the up and down temperatures we had all last winter. Warm-cold-warm-cold-snow-70 degrees and on and on. This winter has been fairly consistent… or the change was gradual. Enter last week when we had 20 degree highs mixed with 60 degree highs and then the very next day a wind-chill of –2. My body doesn’t agree with these abrupt changes.
My body and my mind are very affected by the weather. After all, despite being humans, we are just animals. Cloudy days on end leave me feeling moody, restless, unhappy and unsettled, while nice sunny rays can bring me out of a funk. The cold weather has sent me cooking up a storm and pining for spring by buying seeds and visiting gardening supply stores.
Spring is my favorite season, and it’s always this time a year when I feel like it’s just beyond reach… only to have to get through February and a portion of March before spring begins to emerge. Something about that wait makes February the longest feeling month of the whole year—despite being a few days short of its counterparts.
This post is a bit disjointed, but so am I and so are my thoughts. A lot of changes are happening in my life and some things I thought were a little further off are inching up on me a little quicker than planned. I’m not very adept at change despite my lifelong relationship with it. I will still be dedicated to posting here every day even if it’s just a picture, snippet, poem or thought, so please keep checking back.
I’ve been fairly lucky this year. Last year I was sick practically all winter (which had some to do with the fact I was working with 4 and 5 year olds 8 hours a day). But, I think it also had something to do with the up and down temperatures we had all last winter. Warm-cold-warm-cold-snow-70 degrees and on and on. This winter has been fairly consistent… or the change was gradual. Enter last week when we had 20 degree highs mixed with 60 degree highs and then the very next day a wind-chill of –2. My body doesn’t agree with these abrupt changes.
My body and my mind are very affected by the weather. After all, despite being humans, we are just animals. Cloudy days on end leave me feeling moody, restless, unhappy and unsettled, while nice sunny rays can bring me out of a funk. The cold weather has sent me cooking up a storm and pining for spring by buying seeds and visiting gardening supply stores.
Spring is my favorite season, and it’s always this time a year when I feel like it’s just beyond reach… only to have to get through February and a portion of March before spring begins to emerge. Something about that wait makes February the longest feeling month of the whole year—despite being a few days short of its counterparts.
This post is a bit disjointed, but so am I and so are my thoughts. A lot of changes are happening in my life and some things I thought were a little further off are inching up on me a little quicker than planned. I’m not very adept at change despite my lifelong relationship with it. I will still be dedicated to posting here every day even if it’s just a picture, snippet, poem or thought, so please keep checking back.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Eco Composition Sunday: How it Once Was
(It’s a stretch to call this one eco-composition, but work with me)
As a child, my family moved quite a bit. And so, place and the idea of home became somewhat of an obsession in my college days. I was in a whirlwind of trying to find myself and where I fit—home was never the answer, because I didn’t have just one.
I was born in Iowa and spent the majority of my first nine years in various Iowan cities. A majority of my family still lives in Iowa (having never moved), so the visits were very frequent. Because of this, Iowa holds a special place in my heart. When I go to visit, little changes. It’s my stability. And, even beyond that, full of wild, untouched places that I can’t get enough of.
Last week, my eco composition was about my maternal grandparent’s house and land. This week, we take a bit of a turn over to my paternal grandparents. Whereas my maternal grandparents were raised in town and didn’t move out of town until their youngest was in college, my paternal grandparents are more farm people.
Both my paternal grandparents grew up on farms, as far as I know. My dad was born in the same farm my Grandpa and his father had been born on. And, the family lived on that farm until the mid to late sixties when they moved to a small town nearby.
If memory serves me, the house was built in 1890, so it is over 100 years old. Quite unfortunately, the house looks its age.
Despite its lack of use, the farm holds a lot of fantastic memories for me. I first drove on the gravel road outside the house, nearly backing my Dad’s minivan into a ditch. One winter, snow had blanketed the area with inches upon inches and the wind had made large drifts. My Grandpa took my sister, my cousin and myself out to the farm and we stomped along in snow up to our knees. I remember being disappointed when it was time to go, and standing knee-deep in snow and looking at the sparkling blue winter sky. How hard I wished that this would be mine.
As a child, my family moved quite a bit. And so, place and the idea of home became somewhat of an obsession in my college days. I was in a whirlwind of trying to find myself and where I fit—home was never the answer, because I didn’t have just one.
I was born in Iowa and spent the majority of my first nine years in various Iowan cities. A majority of my family still lives in Iowa (having never moved), so the visits were very frequent. Because of this, Iowa holds a special place in my heart. When I go to visit, little changes. It’s my stability. And, even beyond that, full of wild, untouched places that I can’t get enough of.
Last week, my eco composition was about my maternal grandparent’s house and land. This week, we take a bit of a turn over to my paternal grandparents. Whereas my maternal grandparents were raised in town and didn’t move out of town until their youngest was in college, my paternal grandparents are more farm people.
Both my paternal grandparents grew up on farms, as far as I know. My dad was born in the same farm my Grandpa and his father had been born on. And, the family lived on that farm until the mid to late sixties when they moved to a small town nearby.
Over the years, the farm and the house were sold to a friend of my Grandfathers. Back in the early nineties (or maybe even late eighties) it somehow came about that my Grandfather and my Dad wanted to buy the farmhouse back. Since the owner was a friend of my Grandpa’s, it wasn’t a problem. The farmhouse was back in my family’s possession.
If memory serves me, the house was built in 1890, so it is over 100 years old. Quite unfortunately, the house looks its age.
Despite its lack of use, the farm holds a lot of fantastic memories for me. I first drove on the gravel road outside the house, nearly backing my Dad’s minivan into a ditch. One winter, snow had blanketed the area with inches upon inches and the wind had made large drifts. My Grandpa took my sister, my cousin and myself out to the farm and we stomped along in snow up to our knees. I remember being disappointed when it was time to go, and standing knee-deep in snow and looking at the sparkling blue winter sky. How hard I wished that this would be mine.
One visit, we actually got to go on an inside tour of the house. I remember what almost every room looks like. I loved this house. In my mind, I could see it the way it once must have been—the alcove looking over the side yard and the apple tree, the large parlor type room, an old bedroom that looked over the fields. In that moment I was wondering what it would have been like to live there, and wishing that someday I could make it a reality.
My Grandpa kept an old piano in there, and he told us he liked to go out and play it when he visited the farmhouse. Such a sad picture, my Grandpa playing the piano in a falling apart room—the ghosts of his past in every crevice of decaying room.
The last time I made a visit out to the farm was two summers ago. It was July and I had brought my camera. I wanted tangible evidence of this dream place—this place that every time I set foot on its land I seemed transported to a different time or deep within the recesses of my own imagination.
The last time I made a visit out to the farm was two summers ago. It was July and I had brought my camera. I wanted tangible evidence of this dream place—this place that every time I set foot on its land I seemed transported to a different time or deep within the recesses of my own imagination.
The sun set quickly, and I didn’t get as many pictures as I would like.
It’s hard to say what will become of this old place. If I had a load of money, I would spend as much as I could on restoring the house. My Dad would probably say the same. My Grandpa as well. But that fact is, no one has that kind of money so the house continues to decay, to fall apart.
And when I think about the farm, far away in my apartment, I imagine my Grandpa at the piano in the front room, playing songs to those long gone. I imagine he sees what I see when he looks around: how it once was.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Seeds and Eco-Footprints
Veggie Garden Update: I received my first batch of seeds yesterday. These were from Baker Creek Heirloom Seed Company (http://www.rareseeds.com/). I was impressed with how quickly I got them (though I do live in Missouri and the company is in Missouri as well, though further south). They also threw in a free packet of seeds of Golden Marconi Peppers which are a sweet pepper, so that will be nice in comparison with my hot Chinese Five-Color Peppers.
So, now I’ve got to work on finding some containers and deciding what kind of mix to use in the pots. I’ve read varying suggestions, though I think I’ll probably go by the growing guide from Baker Creek.
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Since I started this blog a little over a week ago, I have been searching the Internet for like-minded people who post regularly. There are quite a few blogs that I’ve been enjoying. The most regular posters, I’ve put in my link list—a list that will likely grow and change as I have become mildly obsessed with reading blogs.
One of the themes I see over and over again in posts, about pages and so forth is the idea that people are trying to erase the footprint they leave on the Earth. I find this a fascinating topic. I too would like to put out as little as I can in terms of hurting the environment, but I think this idea of erasing (or lessening) our footprint is a hard one. It’s not the “American Way.”
I think the majority of Americans are brought up being taught to put their mark on the world. Not necessarily there environmental mark in that they should pollute and damage the delicate balance of ecosystems, but to make our mark so that when we are gone there is proof that we have lived.
We are taught we should want to make a difference, make tons of money, have as much stuff as we possibly can—and sadly those last two outweigh the first. When our national motto is MORE MORE MORE, then the environment isn’t much involved in the thought process.
I, for whatever melding of genes and parenting, have never really wanted more. I’ve never been called materialistic… in fact; my Mom often finds my lack of buying things to my detriment. This was more so before I entered the “real world.” I’ve become a bit more of a shopper and spender and less of a wait for others to give me what I want. But still, my goal is not to make tons of money, have tons of things. In fact, I want to live a more simple life and I don’t want my (future) children to grow up with video games or zombies in front of the TV.
But, there is this presence around me that has that allure of “stuff” still right there in my mind. I used to watch an ungodly amount of TV. Since I have moved in with my boyfriend that isn’t as much the case. (I spend too much time on the computer). This week, I wasn’t feeling well a couple days so happened to watch more TV than I had been watching in weeks. And I began to see these ads bombarding me with what I should want, how I should be, and all the quick fixes to get there. I watch TV and I feel fat, poor and sloppy. Maybe I am the sloppy part, but my weight is fine and I don’t have a lot of money, but I have a roof over my head and food and plenty of stuff and plenty of people who would help me out if I were in financial crisis.
There are a lot of forces out there that try to make us feel unhappy with what we have. I’m not one of those people who says we shouldn’t watch TV. I enjoy The Office and Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert and Top Chef a little too much to do that. I think TV is fine form of entertainment, as long as I’m remaining conscious of the advertising affect on me.
I don’t need more, and I don’t always want more. I want less, and I want to create the smallest possible footprint in terms of the Earth’s health.
So, now I’ve got to work on finding some containers and deciding what kind of mix to use in the pots. I’ve read varying suggestions, though I think I’ll probably go by the growing guide from Baker Creek.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Since I started this blog a little over a week ago, I have been searching the Internet for like-minded people who post regularly. There are quite a few blogs that I’ve been enjoying. The most regular posters, I’ve put in my link list—a list that will likely grow and change as I have become mildly obsessed with reading blogs.
One of the themes I see over and over again in posts, about pages and so forth is the idea that people are trying to erase the footprint they leave on the Earth. I find this a fascinating topic. I too would like to put out as little as I can in terms of hurting the environment, but I think this idea of erasing (or lessening) our footprint is a hard one. It’s not the “American Way.”
I think the majority of Americans are brought up being taught to put their mark on the world. Not necessarily there environmental mark in that they should pollute and damage the delicate balance of ecosystems, but to make our mark so that when we are gone there is proof that we have lived.
We are taught we should want to make a difference, make tons of money, have as much stuff as we possibly can—and sadly those last two outweigh the first. When our national motto is MORE MORE MORE, then the environment isn’t much involved in the thought process.
I, for whatever melding of genes and parenting, have never really wanted more. I’ve never been called materialistic… in fact; my Mom often finds my lack of buying things to my detriment. This was more so before I entered the “real world.” I’ve become a bit more of a shopper and spender and less of a wait for others to give me what I want. But still, my goal is not to make tons of money, have tons of things. In fact, I want to live a more simple life and I don’t want my (future) children to grow up with video games or zombies in front of the TV.
But, there is this presence around me that has that allure of “stuff” still right there in my mind. I used to watch an ungodly amount of TV. Since I have moved in with my boyfriend that isn’t as much the case. (I spend too much time on the computer). This week, I wasn’t feeling well a couple days so happened to watch more TV than I had been watching in weeks. And I began to see these ads bombarding me with what I should want, how I should be, and all the quick fixes to get there. I watch TV and I feel fat, poor and sloppy. Maybe I am the sloppy part, but my weight is fine and I don’t have a lot of money, but I have a roof over my head and food and plenty of stuff and plenty of people who would help me out if I were in financial crisis.
There are a lot of forces out there that try to make us feel unhappy with what we have. I’m not one of those people who says we shouldn’t watch TV. I enjoy The Office and Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert and Top Chef a little too much to do that. I think TV is fine form of entertainment, as long as I’m remaining conscious of the advertising affect on me.
I don’t need more, and I don’t always want more. I want less, and I want to create the smallest possible footprint in terms of the Earth’s health.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Cheater, cheater, Clementine eater
I have a confession to make… a deep, dark secret I keep from my “green” side. I love Clementines. These “e-z” peel cuties that travel to my Missouri supermarket from California… or even worse, Spain. The Boyfriend and I have become obsessed, eating about 3 a day and gobbling up nearly 5 boxes in the past month.
I feel guilt. I do, but at the same time, I can’t stop. An addiction? I don’t think so. It’s actually something mildly nobler (I said mildly).
I am a sugar freak. There’s not a day that goes by I don’t drink pop, and barely a day goes by that I don’t eat some horrifically sugary candy like Nerds or Starburst or Skittles. I have been obsessed with candy as long as I can remember—so much so that friends joke about this very fact and my boyfriend buys me bags and bags of candy for most occasions. Sugar is a drug, and I’m a very happy addict.
But, something amazing happened with our first box of Clementines. I had finished lunch, and instead of reaching for a sugary handful of candy, I wanted fruit. I had to do a bit of a double take. Body, you want what? But my body was adamant, it didn’t want candy—it wanted a Clementine.
Since we’ve been buying the well-traveled Clementine, I’ve barely touched my candy stash (I’m still a pop addict). Instead, for snacks and even desserts I reach for a Clementine. I like fruit a lot, but Clementines are the only one’s I’ve ever reached for over candy.
So the dilemma becomes, be good to my body or be good to the environment? I suppose it doesn’t have to be a choice… I could cut back on my sugar with sheer willpower, but that doesn’t work for me for very long. I could find a more local fruit to bow to my sweet tooth, but where’s that going to happen in January?
And so, we buy the Clementines and I feel guilty, but rationalize that it’s good for me! I believe the Clementine season is coming to an end; the last batch wasn’t so good, so until next winter I can be free of guilt. But, hopefully I can come up with a suitable replacement for the Clementine for the end of ’07.
I feel guilt. I do, but at the same time, I can’t stop. An addiction? I don’t think so. It’s actually something mildly nobler (I said mildly).
I am a sugar freak. There’s not a day that goes by I don’t drink pop, and barely a day goes by that I don’t eat some horrifically sugary candy like Nerds or Starburst or Skittles. I have been obsessed with candy as long as I can remember—so much so that friends joke about this very fact and my boyfriend buys me bags and bags of candy for most occasions. Sugar is a drug, and I’m a very happy addict.
But, something amazing happened with our first box of Clementines. I had finished lunch, and instead of reaching for a sugary handful of candy, I wanted fruit. I had to do a bit of a double take. Body, you want what? But my body was adamant, it didn’t want candy—it wanted a Clementine.
Since we’ve been buying the well-traveled Clementine, I’ve barely touched my candy stash (I’m still a pop addict). Instead, for snacks and even desserts I reach for a Clementine. I like fruit a lot, but Clementines are the only one’s I’ve ever reached for over candy.
So the dilemma becomes, be good to my body or be good to the environment? I suppose it doesn’t have to be a choice… I could cut back on my sugar with sheer willpower, but that doesn’t work for me for very long. I could find a more local fruit to bow to my sweet tooth, but where’s that going to happen in January?
And so, we buy the Clementines and I feel guilty, but rationalize that it’s good for me! I believe the Clementine season is coming to an end; the last batch wasn’t so good, so until next winter I can be free of guilt. But, hopefully I can come up with a suitable replacement for the Clementine for the end of ’07.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
The Little House Cookbook
I was looking through all the junk I keep crammed under the guest bed when I came across something I had forgotten completely.
At some point my Mom or Grandma had bought this orange cookbook full of odd, old-fashioned recipes. When my Mom wanted to get rid of it at a garage sale, I took it for myself. I didn’t know how she could get rid of something so infinitely interesting… and then it got packed away and I’ve barely looked at it since.
The book is The Little House Cookbook by Barbara M. Walker. It’s a book full of recipes mentioned in any of the fantastic Little House books or recipes that pioneers would have been making around the time Laura Ingalls Wilder’s family was traversing the Midwest. I’m a big history buff—especially the social aspect of history. Not necessarily wars or political disasters, but what were the everyday people thinking, feeling doing?
So, when I came across this book again I opened it up and looked through it. I was amazed to find just as many (if not more) words and explanations as recipes. I began to read the forward and was struck by how perfect Ms. Walker’s words seemed to fit with the ideas of simplicity, eating locally and even sustainability.
“They [the recipes] turn out to be a wonderful way to rediscover basic connections, links that are often obscured in the complex modern world. By this I mean connections among the food on the table, the grain in the field, and the cow in the pasture. Between the food on the table and the sweat of someone’s brow. Between the winter and dried apples, the summer and tomatoes, the autumn and fresh sausage. Between the labors of the pioneers and the abundance we enjoy today. Between children and their elders. Between the preparation of a meal and the experience of love.”
Walker’s words are undeniably perfect for this generation. She points to a point Joan Dye Gussow also brings up in her book This Organic Life. Many people don’t make the connection between what they eat and the farmers that produce the food. Many children haven’t any idea how onions or celery or peaches grow. There’s no connection. We simply, as a nation, do not seem to care where our food comes from as long as its cheap and convenient.
I think a lot of the local movements and homesteading movements stem from a wish to have all
those connections back. My Dad often makes fun of my love for old things, pointing out that I wouldn’t want to live without plumbing or running water. I try to explain I don’t want to transport myself back to that time, but I would like some of the values of community and food to be transported to our time. Pioneers and all those that came before the industrial age did what they did out of necessity. If they didn’t plant vegetables or have some kind of food source,
they died. Many of us are so lucky not to have that kind of threat hanging over our heads, but it doesn’t mean we should allow our ignorance to threaten our planet and our own health.
I’m getting a bit soapbox-y and a bit rambly again, so I’ll just say this. What I want from my life is to understand those connections between the food on the table and sweat of someone’s brow. I want to pass this to my children should I be lucky enough to have them. These new choices I’m making are to increase my connection to the land, to what I eat and an attempt to rememember my good fortune to have all that I have and not always be wanting more, faster, easier, and cheaper.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Pet Causes
A few days ago I was talking to one of my closest friends on the phone. Somehow, we got on the topic of eating fresh and locally. It’s not a topic I often bring up with people, because it’s still such a new concept for me, I don’t think I can do it justice until I actually start living it.
However, we got on the topic anyhow, and I was surprised that my friend agreed. Yes, fresh food tastes better. Yes, I would like to eat locally. Yes, yes, yes. Until we got to the part where we discuss actually doing it.
My friend had the normal arguments against it, it’s not economically sound and it requires some time and effort that a lot of people don’t have. I agreed that it takes time and some effort, and perhaps it’s not frugal in an economic sense, but I pointed out that it will never be economical or easy unless people start wanting to make the effort. The market generally bends to the majority of consumer wishes or consumer trends. Let’s make eating locally the coolest trend there is.
She pointed out that I specifically couldn’t afford it, and she has a point. I barely make enough money to scrape by, let alone by fresh produce from a farmer’s market. But, I couldn’t help but feel that I would rather make some financial sacrifices along the way and feel like I was at least taking away some of my personal additions to the levels of energy wasted by our food system.
And, I suppose, what it comes down to is this: what are you willing to sacrifice for? Everyone has his or her own pet “causes.” A disease, a human rights issue, our environment. We all determine what kind of sacrifices we want to make based on how we feel about them. I don’t often discuss my pet “causes” because everyone has a right to decide what cause they hold dear to their hearts.
I grew up around farms and people who had tried their hand at farming at some point. I grew up with the wilderness of my Grandparents and the small farm town of my other Grandparents. I grew up with a fascination for barns and cornfields and the people that made those things possible. I grew up occasionally getting a taste of fresh fruit in comparison with store bought. If someone never saw these things, I can imagine how hard it would be to make the connection and hold this cause to your heart.
Unfortunately, there are other issues involved other than just better tasting food. Greenhouse emissions, wasted energy, small farms being bulldozed and wild places being torn apart for million dollar homes. These issues, though not on the hearts of all, have a direct impact into our world and our future. I can’t help but feel we all need to take some responsibility for that. But, I am not one for banging my head against the cement heads of some. So, my activism is doing what I can, showing those interested what we can do, and teaching my children and my future students to care for the world and the wild.
Soapbox-y? Yes, but we can all take a turn on the soapbox every now and again, as long as we remember deep down we’re all trying to do something good—we just don’t all define good in the same way.
However, we got on the topic anyhow, and I was surprised that my friend agreed. Yes, fresh food tastes better. Yes, I would like to eat locally. Yes, yes, yes. Until we got to the part where we discuss actually doing it.
My friend had the normal arguments against it, it’s not economically sound and it requires some time and effort that a lot of people don’t have. I agreed that it takes time and some effort, and perhaps it’s not frugal in an economic sense, but I pointed out that it will never be economical or easy unless people start wanting to make the effort. The market generally bends to the majority of consumer wishes or consumer trends. Let’s make eating locally the coolest trend there is.
She pointed out that I specifically couldn’t afford it, and she has a point. I barely make enough money to scrape by, let alone by fresh produce from a farmer’s market. But, I couldn’t help but feel that I would rather make some financial sacrifices along the way and feel like I was at least taking away some of my personal additions to the levels of energy wasted by our food system.
And, I suppose, what it comes down to is this: what are you willing to sacrifice for? Everyone has his or her own pet “causes.” A disease, a human rights issue, our environment. We all determine what kind of sacrifices we want to make based on how we feel about them. I don’t often discuss my pet “causes” because everyone has a right to decide what cause they hold dear to their hearts.
I grew up around farms and people who had tried their hand at farming at some point. I grew up with the wilderness of my Grandparents and the small farm town of my other Grandparents. I grew up with a fascination for barns and cornfields and the people that made those things possible. I grew up occasionally getting a taste of fresh fruit in comparison with store bought. If someone never saw these things, I can imagine how hard it would be to make the connection and hold this cause to your heart.
Unfortunately, there are other issues involved other than just better tasting food. Greenhouse emissions, wasted energy, small farms being bulldozed and wild places being torn apart for million dollar homes. These issues, though not on the hearts of all, have a direct impact into our world and our future. I can’t help but feel we all need to take some responsibility for that. But, I am not one for banging my head against the cement heads of some. So, my activism is doing what I can, showing those interested what we can do, and teaching my children and my future students to care for the world and the wild.
Soapbox-y? Yes, but we can all take a turn on the soapbox every now and again, as long as we remember deep down we’re all trying to do something good—we just don’t all define good in the same way.
Revive the Victory Garden
I was trolling through the blogs I am beginning to visit each day and I came across this magnificent post:
http://simplereduce.blogspot.com/2007/01/revive-victory-garden.html
Take a look, be inspired! Let's fight global warming one vegetable at a time.
http://simplereduce.blogspot.com/2007/01/revive-victory-garden.html
Take a look, be inspired! Let's fight global warming one vegetable at a time.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Seeds Ordered!
Well, I went a little hog wild yesterday and ordered some seeds, partially at random. I’ve been reading up on what to plant, what works in containers and all that. I’ve read people’s blogs where they pour over seed catalogue after seed catalogue insuring they’re making the right choices. But, me, I just picked willy nilly.
I may regret some of my choices; I ended up ordering more seeds than I had anticipated (of course). Since we are moving some time before June, I should have minimized rather than gone overboard. But, here was the final result:
1 Packet Temptation Strawberries (I read these do surprisingly well in containers)
1 packet Tumbling Tom Red Tomato
1 packet Strawberry Corn (something with strawberry in the name—but basically popping corn)
1 packet Chinese Five Color peppers
1 packet arugula
I ordered these all from Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds and Pinetree Garden Seeds
(Side note: MS Word didn’t have arugula in its dictionary—hmm)
I have two wood containers for the arugula. I’ve heard mixed things about using wood for containers, but I think I’ll give it a shot and if it doesn’t work out I’ll know for next time.
Now the challenge is to find big containers for the rest of the guys. I’ve tried to find stuff around the house I could use, but I’m not coming up with anything that is really as big as most of the articles I read said vegetable containers should be (5 gallons).
Another challenge is finding somewhere to put the containers once they’re ready to get moved outside. Right now, actually, there are some spaces because our apartment is on the corner. The corner faces south, so some items on the balcony might work as being close to south facing. My concern is when we move to another apartment, we’ll be unlikely to have the same setup. I guess that will just have to be one of my criteria—south facing porch/balcony/something.
I’m excited to start, but I also know my limitations—I have issues with long term projects, as in losing interest or motivation to continue. I’m hoping the idea of food coming from these plants will keep me going!
I may regret some of my choices; I ended up ordering more seeds than I had anticipated (of course). Since we are moving some time before June, I should have minimized rather than gone overboard. But, here was the final result:
1 Packet Temptation Strawberries (I read these do surprisingly well in containers)
1 packet Tumbling Tom Red Tomato
1 packet Strawberry Corn (something with strawberry in the name—but basically popping corn)
1 packet Chinese Five Color peppers
1 packet arugula
I ordered these all from Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds and Pinetree Garden Seeds
(Side note: MS Word didn’t have arugula in its dictionary—hmm)
I have two wood containers for the arugula. I’ve heard mixed things about using wood for containers, but I think I’ll give it a shot and if it doesn’t work out I’ll know for next time.
Now the challenge is to find big containers for the rest of the guys. I’ve tried to find stuff around the house I could use, but I’m not coming up with anything that is really as big as most of the articles I read said vegetable containers should be (5 gallons).
Another challenge is finding somewhere to put the containers once they’re ready to get moved outside. Right now, actually, there are some spaces because our apartment is on the corner. The corner faces south, so some items on the balcony might work as being close to south facing. My concern is when we move to another apartment, we’ll be unlikely to have the same setup. I guess that will just have to be one of my criteria—south facing porch/balcony/something.
I’m excited to start, but I also know my limitations—I have issues with long term projects, as in losing interest or motivation to continue. I’m hoping the idea of food coming from these plants will keep me going!
Monday, January 22, 2007
My "Farm" Drive
One of the places I work is about a 40-minute drive away from my current apartment. There are two ways to get to work, both about the same time. One is all highway, one some highway and some back roads through farm and field. Admittedly, the more scenic route takes about five minutes longer—more if I get stuck behind some slow moving traffic.
Guess which route I usually take. The scenic one! When I first started this job, I usually took the highway because it was a little quicker. I only took the “farm” route if I knew traffic was going to be bad on the highway. But, I noticed an interesting phenomenon. When I drove the highway route, I often got to work feeling grouchy and irritated. Often insane drivers punctuated my drive—the end result me fuming and cursing as I drove. This didn’t happen on my farm route. If anything, I’d often find myself smiling and feeling inexplicably better. The cute barns, fields of corn at certain points in the year, the horizon of trees stretching Heavenward. This was soothing and calming and I arrived at work with a smile on my face.
It merely took a week or two after this initial discovery to switch to the longer but more scenic route. I suppose I am lucky enough to have some luxury of time so I can make the choice to let my eyes feast on some pretties along the way. And, I am lucky that there is a route that circumvents most of the highway driving. I really hope that I will always be so lucky to have somewhere in my life, if not my home, that I am surrounded by barns, open fields, clusters of trees, or just somewhere free of pavement, construction, and crowding.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Eco Composition Sunday
I don't know if I will make this a habit, but I would like to--try to write at least a couple paragraphs of an ecocomposition each Sunday. It is a form of writing I was introduced to in 2002 in my creative nonfiction class. I find the form fascinating. Here is my first attempt, written in 2002. Many things have changed since I wrote this, including the death of my Grandmother and myself growing in more ways than I could have imagined.
This gate leads to a plot of land owned by my grandparents. Inside the gate lies an airport, an office, a house, and thick woods. My ideas of ecology define this place. Ecology being “concerned mainly with interactions or interrelations between organisms and the animate and inanimate environments in which they live” (Krech 22). And this plot of land has become a system of relationships. It is here where I have learned what home is. Not a place, not even people, but layers of connections and relationships that start at a place’s foundation and work its way up through the people, connecting them all in one overlapping balance where I can feel a sense of belonging.
Traveling the curving path of the gravel road, slowly inching away from the modernity of highway, we bypass the office and the airport. Visits there come later, family is the first stop. As we approach the house, it hides behind trees and hills, flitting behind these things, ghost-like until the last curve is rounded. The roof comes into view, slashing to a firm point at the top, as one side slopes lower than the other. As the last stretch of road is driven the square block of the rest of the house comes into view. I am always in awe as we approach. The small house holds so many memories. Wood-planked porches decorated with flowerpots, porch furniture, and usually a dog or two buttress the front and the back of the house. The porches are centers of activity, for congregating, for reflecting. They hold the house together, bringing its occupants to engage and live in small clusters as they observe the world around them. A system all their own entwined into every aspect of the place around them. It is one of the few places I can mingle without trepidation. I am not an outsider on this porch.
Trickling inside after communing on the porch I am greeted by a world of uniqueness, untouched by the technological advances of the past few decades. It is a place of slow, deliberate change. Just a few years ago my grandparents got a new TV and a new antenna (they can’t get cable way out here), and a VCR, which has yet to be used with any regularity. My Grandparents first microwave is only a few years old, and it sits with the outdated toaster oven on the white kitchen counters. Modernity has yet to encroach too much in this house. I enter this world and fancy myself stepping back in time, into a place I’ve always wanted to go.
Despite a few superficial changes here and there, one thing in the house that has not even remotely changed, and I have a feeling never will. The bright orange carpet that blankets everything except the kitchen and the basement stands out against the homey, understated décor of the rest of the house. The carpet has faded somewhat over the years of wear and tear, but it is still the same sixties orange it was at its installation. In any other place I would probably find it hideous, but here it fits. It has always been there. I never even questioned its aesthetic appeal until recently. Trying to explain the house to a friend, I mentioned orange carpet and noticed the look of horror on her face. Seeing it through her eyes, I could see how awful it might seem. But to me it means familiarity, it means safeness. It isn’t necessarily beautiful, but considering that my childhood was littered with over twelve different carpets and houses, the orange carpet here has always offered me something recognizable, something comfortable, a sign of home. I am comfortable here because it is still the same at its core. I connect with it in a way I cannot with my own homes, which have never been stable, never been the same. I relate to its stability forcefully.
The house itself is not a center for activity. Most of the excitement here takes place outside. In the warm months we congregate as a family on the porches, tour Grandma’s gardens, or hike in the woods. When a plane flies by the men, all pilots, rush to the doors, windows, or the porch to identify the type and its pilot. I do not run to the door. I was never taught which plane was which or belonged to whom. Grandma had me pour over Wildflowers of Iowa Woodlands, memorizing the bright glossy pictures and their bold titles. And as we hiked she would test me on my identification. If there is question over the identity of a wildflower, I am there. The men have their planes, the women their flowers, and I have learned my place well. I trail after my Grandma and Mother, listening to the identifications and diagnosis of plant diseases in Grandma’s garden. I beam proudly when I can identify a wildflower that my Mother cannot.
I am, after all, my Mother’s daughter. I am like her more than I ever wanted to be and that, perhaps, is where the desire to one-up her comes from. We are alike forces clashing, both stubborn, opinionated, emotional and irrational. Here, at Grandma’s, I see our relationship in a new light. I see our relationship mirrored in the one was she has with my Grandmother. My Mother, who attempted to cut all ties to the traditional, to her own Mother’s way of life, has become the housewife, the educated gardener (though she still disdains the wildflowers my Grandmother and I cling to). It is then I see how, in my own way, I attempt to cut ties with my mother by clinging to what she cut. Iowa, her mother, wildflowers, building a strong relationship with everything she attempted to leave behind.
As I slowly mature, leaving teenage angst behind, I come to realize all this and seeing it helps ease some of the resentment, some of the clashing. My Mother had me at a relatively young age and that has allowed us to grow up together, in a way. As she began to embrace the things she swore to leave behind, I began to embrace her, embrace our similarities and flaws as best I could. As Grandma passes eighty, and becomes less and less healthy every year, my Mother and I have begun to bond over our grief, over having to watch it happen. As she comes to accept that her Mother did the best she could, I begin to accept that mine did too. And in that acceptance I find peace in a place I have always known with two women I have always known. Three generations finding a way to accept and love each other is as much of this place to me as the gardens.
Unlike the clashing I’ve had with my mother, my Grandma has always been my lifeline. I am the oldest of three girls. My Grandmother is the oldest of five children (three boys and two girls). My birthday is April 24; my Grandmother’s is April 23, sixty years earlier. When I was a baby, before I can remember, my Grandma babysat me while my mother finished up her degree and my father worked full-time at a jewelry store. As eldest to eldest, April birthday to April birthday, Grandmother to eldest grandchild, we have bonded. My Grandma is stability where my life has been a series of uprootings and transplantations. She and her home have been the permanence I have always longed for in my day-to-day life. Grandma has always been there, and so has her home.
Sunsets belong to my Grandma and me. We walk up the gravel road that winds over a hill and to the highway. We usually only make it to where the “road” splits, one way going to the highway and the other heading to the office. We walk, very slowly, as the dogs trot and play around us. The sunset glows in the West, to our right, slowly sinking behind the trees, and if it’s the right time of year the Cottonwoods shower us with their fluffy white seeds. Grandma and I talk sometimes, we’re quiet others. It is ritual, it is connection.
In the summer we sit on the front porch and watch the colors blaze and shift as the heat hangs around us. I listen to the birds, identifying the bobwhite and the whippoorwill. We rock in our porch chairs, idly pet the dogs that lay at our feet, as the faint smell of clovers drifts by.
In the winter we sit on the couch and watch through the window as the sun blazes orange, pink, lavender, and then fades to darkness. I don’t know quite how the ritual itself started or why, but I can’t look at a sunset and not think of my Grandma, or dogs, or the image of the sun falling behind the hill of trees. Sunsets have become a bond, a circle between me, the sun, and Grandma.
My favorite time of year there is mid-spring. It brings out the connection I feel with the land, when the air has finally grown warmer and all of winter has melted, leaving the world muddy and dripping, the bright green of the new grass contrasting with the moist, black soil. It’s slick and the wetness seeps through any layer of protection. Hiking is difficult, falling a given.
Everywhere flowers bloom, their light green stalks giving way to colors. Iowan wildflowers are not gaudy, not bright, look-at-me flowers. They hide in grasses, in woods, peeking shyly out from their protection. The small, delicate, white Spring Beauties gather in patches and bloom to show slim lines of dark pink stretching from their centers. Sweet Williams bloom all along the woods, showing off their five lavenderish-blue petals as they peer out from behind the foliage of the woods and give off a charming, spring-like scent. Buttercups, small, hidden, bright yellow petals that always look slick, grow by the creek bed, only blooming on the wettest days of spring. Violets: yellow, purple, and white dot the green hills. Blue bells, hiding in their special patches that only Grandma, and now I, know about, droop, purple and blue. There are butter-and-eggs dotting the gravel road, small yellow flowers that look nothing like butter or eggs. Grandma says it’s a weed, but then guiltily admits that most wildflowers are considered weeds as well. My favorite spring wildflowers are the Dutchman’s Britches, a strange white early-spring flower that look like puffy pants hanging upside down on a laundry line.
Every spring Grandma has a small vase (usually an old jar) of these flowers on the kitchen windowsill, and when we grandkids are around she digs out all her vases and we fill them to the brim with an array of whites, pinks, blues, and yellows as we put the vases on the tables and across the mantle. Of course, there are certain flowers we know not to pick. The white Dog Tooth violet is a rarity, along with the green Jack-In-The-Pulpit, which I’ve only caught glimpse of once. We excitedly announce their presence and gather round to inspect these scarce plants, but we know to leave them alone in hopes that they will repopulate and once again grow as frequently as the violets.
Spring to me is wildflowers at Grandma’s. It is about sharing knowledge and knowing a place down to the name of its plants. It comes down to relating, listening. As Terry Tempest Williams suggests in her book Red, “our capacity to face the harsh measures of life, comes from the deep quiet listening to the land” (17). So I listen to the birds calling, the winds rustling the grasses and flowers, and by listening I feel connected to the cyclical world that begins with the wildflowers.
The search for wildflowers often ends with a hike up to Grandpa’s office. No visit to my grandparent’s is complete without a trip to this land of gray metal buildings and old-fashioned planes. Grandma has tried to detach her home from it, but both leak over the circles of relationship. Planes soar overhead back at the house as much as at the airport itself while Grandma makes sure her flowers are planted along the buildings of the office. Grandpa’s aviation magazines line the walls of the basement, while my Grandmother’s decorative touch is firmly ingrained in the cultivated landscape.
The office is set down in the middle of a small plot of land known as the Antique Airfield, abyproduct of the Antique Airplane Association, all of which are my Grandfather’s creations. My Grandfather is now seventy-eight years old, and except for a few recent health problems that have kept him homebound, he walks or drives up to the office every day but Sunday. He is still the president, the owner, the head honcho, and I’m not sure retirement will every really be in his future. His dedication to this place is clear in its proximity to his home, in his obsession with planes, in his refusal to retire.
The Antique Airfield is unique, a place of living history, engine grease, dogs, cement, grass, and trees. And despite its connection, it is a world unto itself. The office, the hangers, the museum, the library, the runway, all make up this small community solely dedicated to aviation. The airport is directly off the highway, a mile up from the house. It is a world of cement and gray contrasting with stretching fields of green and the deep cluster of trees that create a faux physical separation between the airport and the house. The airport is the mechanical blending with the natural and the old with the new as brand new 2003 Sedans sit in a gravel driveway while planes from the twenties and thirties taxi down the grass runway. In the middle of green, fertile, Iowan farmland no one really expects a cluster of gray buildings. Few people anticipate, on a nice day, brightly colored antique planes whizzing overhead and resting on the fields of grass that act as runways, the only division of field and landing strip coming from brightly colored orange cones, visible from the sky.
The main office is my favorite place. The smallest of the buildings it sits center in the airport, facing the highway and acting as nucleus, holding the rest of the office together, much like my Grandfather does. On entering the building one is greeted with cement floors and a series of glass cases that offer magazines, patches, and other various airplane memorabilia for sale. Its shelves are littered with ploys for membership and enticements to return. Of course, the real enticement is my Grandfather, his knowledge, his ease with people and dedication to the preservation of his past. This is what draws people, and myself, back. He seeks to connect visitors through flight.
Behind the glass cases, up a narrow, cement staircase is my Grandfather’s office. It smells of cigar smoke and old magazines just as the basement back at the house does. One wall is a window seat and a large window that looks out across both runways. In the winter when the trees are bare the point of the roof of the house can be seen. Grandpa is the king ruling high over his kingdom, though I have never seen him sit there and look out the window. He is usually at his desk that faces the right wall, hunched over papers or leaning back in his chair as he talks on the old fashioned rotary phone, hard at work. The dogs lay in various positions at his feet and Colby, the Queen, stretches out on the window seat.
What I love most about this place is how the buildings are cool in the summer. How plane enthusiasts gather around my Grandpa. How everyone seems to know one another like a community, no matter how long or short the duration of their stay. How, as granddaughter to the Bob Taylor, I hold a spot of honor somewhere. How the dog claws clack against the cement floor as they trail behind my Grandpa like a harem.
My Grandfather has an intense relationship with his dogs. It has turned into a long-running joke in my family. My mother calls him the dog whisperer. These dogs eat people food more than dog food, and on certain days my Grandfather even packs them their own lunch along with his.
One Christmas after his favorite dog had been put to sleep, he sought free puppy ads in the paper; he found one and I soon remember being bundled up in the back seat of his old Monte Carlo the day after Christmas. I remember that as Grandpa navigated icy roads and nasty weather, Grandma complained about his insane attachment to dogs and how it would end up being the death of us. He never says no to a dog. He has always taken in strays. Whenever a dog shows up he starts feeding them with the rest, and they usually stick around. Over the years dogs have come and gone, showed up, died, run away, etc. There have been at least twenty I can remember, the most at one time being six. However, now, there are only two. Colby, the dog picked up on the icy December night, and a stray named Brownie. Daisy, a Labrador, is my cousin’s dog, but more often than not spends her time with my Grandpa’s dogs, eating my Grandpa’s dog food or leftovers.
Grandpa loves each and every one of his dogs as if they were his children. When he is away for more than a day, he often insists on calling my Uncle and having him put Colby on the phone. Whether it is a joke or done out of seriousness is not quite obvious. On my Grandparent’s fiftieth wedding anniversary, my Grandpa walked down the stairs in the morning and offered a “Morning, Colby,” before he even acknowledged my Grandmother sitting on the couch. As my Grandmother wryly noted, the dogs come first in his world.
There is a dog “graveyard” on the low hill in the back, behind the lilac bush and the water tank, before the line of trees start. A gravestone, rectangular, flat and gray with the name Rose engraved on it, sits in the middle of the hill. Beside her is a pile of logs that marks the grave of her son, Tipper, and on the other side is one of Colby’s sons, Goggles, who was hit by a car. It is a morbid little spot, a testament to how much my Grandfather cares about his dogs. I myself have put flowers and other decorations on the graves, or cleaned and weeded around them. I’ll sit, remembering times when I was younger and would talk to the group of dogs as if they were people or remembering the time my sister, cousin, and I got lost in the woods and the dogs stayed with us the whole time, though they undoubtedly knew their way back.
Though the dogs change every year, they are a constant. There is always a dog to greet me as I pull up the gravel road. In the winter, there is always a dog scratching to get in, and always my Grandpa obliges, no matter how much my Grandma complains. And because of my Grandfather’s intense love of dogs, I share that love. It has become a relationship I can carry with me wherever I go. Grandpa to dog, me to dog, and in turn me to Grandpa.
At the end of the day, this section of land is where my dreams most often take place. I wander around my Grandmother’s while strange, dream-like things happen. Subconsciously I am there. When I write fiction, my stories are usually set in the house without realizing it. I just automatically imagine my characters there because each character is a part of me, and so we both belong. The place (all of it: house, office, land) has become a place of understanding and growth. It is a stronghold in my life, stability, a place to enjoy my family, a place to live, and the one spot I feel truly at peace. I am at peace because I belong. I belong to a series of complex, overlapping circles I can crawl into, become a part of. I shed the role of outsider with no history, and with each visit I fit into a niche where each of our histories combined. From the wildflower to my Grandma, I belong.
***
I Belong
Driving down the Bluegrass, a two-lane, East-West highway that darts out of Ottumwa Iowa, I always feel my heartbeat change its rhythm. No matter what I’m doing, whether it’s reading in the backseat, arguing with my sister, or driving, at the point where we hit the Bluegrass, the pulse slows. I look out my window and watch as the small hills and farms of Southern Iowa roll by until we reach a bright orange gate which is always open, inviting the car into a world of complex communities and relationships.
This gate leads to a plot of land owned by my grandparents. Inside the gate lies an airport, an office, a house, and thick woods. My ideas of ecology define this place. Ecology being “concerned mainly with interactions or interrelations between organisms and the animate and inanimate environments in which they live” (Krech 22). And this plot of land has become a system of relationships. It is here where I have learned what home is. Not a place, not even people, but layers of connections and relationships that start at a place’s foundation and work its way up through the people, connecting them all in one overlapping balance where I can feel a sense of belonging.
Traveling the curving path of the gravel road, slowly inching away from the modernity of highway, we bypass the office and the airport. Visits there come later, family is the first stop. As we approach the house, it hides behind trees and hills, flitting behind these things, ghost-like until the last curve is rounded. The roof comes into view, slashing to a firm point at the top, as one side slopes lower than the other. As the last stretch of road is driven the square block of the rest of the house comes into view. I am always in awe as we approach. The small house holds so many memories. Wood-planked porches decorated with flowerpots, porch furniture, and usually a dog or two buttress the front and the back of the house. The porches are centers of activity, for congregating, for reflecting. They hold the house together, bringing its occupants to engage and live in small clusters as they observe the world around them. A system all their own entwined into every aspect of the place around them. It is one of the few places I can mingle without trepidation. I am not an outsider on this porch.
Trickling inside after communing on the porch I am greeted by a world of uniqueness, untouched by the technological advances of the past few decades. It is a place of slow, deliberate change. Just a few years ago my grandparents got a new TV and a new antenna (they can’t get cable way out here), and a VCR, which has yet to be used with any regularity. My Grandparents first microwave is only a few years old, and it sits with the outdated toaster oven on the white kitchen counters. Modernity has yet to encroach too much in this house. I enter this world and fancy myself stepping back in time, into a place I’ve always wanted to go.
Despite a few superficial changes here and there, one thing in the house that has not even remotely changed, and I have a feeling never will. The bright orange carpet that blankets everything except the kitchen and the basement stands out against the homey, understated décor of the rest of the house. The carpet has faded somewhat over the years of wear and tear, but it is still the same sixties orange it was at its installation. In any other place I would probably find it hideous, but here it fits. It has always been there. I never even questioned its aesthetic appeal until recently. Trying to explain the house to a friend, I mentioned orange carpet and noticed the look of horror on her face. Seeing it through her eyes, I could see how awful it might seem. But to me it means familiarity, it means safeness. It isn’t necessarily beautiful, but considering that my childhood was littered with over twelve different carpets and houses, the orange carpet here has always offered me something recognizable, something comfortable, a sign of home. I am comfortable here because it is still the same at its core. I connect with it in a way I cannot with my own homes, which have never been stable, never been the same. I relate to its stability forcefully.
The house itself is not a center for activity. Most of the excitement here takes place outside. In the warm months we congregate as a family on the porches, tour Grandma’s gardens, or hike in the woods. When a plane flies by the men, all pilots, rush to the doors, windows, or the porch to identify the type and its pilot. I do not run to the door. I was never taught which plane was which or belonged to whom. Grandma had me pour over Wildflowers of Iowa Woodlands, memorizing the bright glossy pictures and their bold titles. And as we hiked she would test me on my identification. If there is question over the identity of a wildflower, I am there. The men have their planes, the women their flowers, and I have learned my place well. I trail after my Grandma and Mother, listening to the identifications and diagnosis of plant diseases in Grandma’s garden. I beam proudly when I can identify a wildflower that my Mother cannot.
I am, after all, my Mother’s daughter. I am like her more than I ever wanted to be and that, perhaps, is where the desire to one-up her comes from. We are alike forces clashing, both stubborn, opinionated, emotional and irrational. Here, at Grandma’s, I see our relationship in a new light. I see our relationship mirrored in the one was she has with my Grandmother. My Mother, who attempted to cut all ties to the traditional, to her own Mother’s way of life, has become the housewife, the educated gardener (though she still disdains the wildflowers my Grandmother and I cling to). It is then I see how, in my own way, I attempt to cut ties with my mother by clinging to what she cut. Iowa, her mother, wildflowers, building a strong relationship with everything she attempted to leave behind.
As I slowly mature, leaving teenage angst behind, I come to realize all this and seeing it helps ease some of the resentment, some of the clashing. My Mother had me at a relatively young age and that has allowed us to grow up together, in a way. As she began to embrace the things she swore to leave behind, I began to embrace her, embrace our similarities and flaws as best I could. As Grandma passes eighty, and becomes less and less healthy every year, my Mother and I have begun to bond over our grief, over having to watch it happen. As she comes to accept that her Mother did the best she could, I begin to accept that mine did too. And in that acceptance I find peace in a place I have always known with two women I have always known. Three generations finding a way to accept and love each other is as much of this place to me as the gardens.
Unlike the clashing I’ve had with my mother, my Grandma has always been my lifeline. I am the oldest of three girls. My Grandmother is the oldest of five children (three boys and two girls). My birthday is April 24; my Grandmother’s is April 23, sixty years earlier. When I was a baby, before I can remember, my Grandma babysat me while my mother finished up her degree and my father worked full-time at a jewelry store. As eldest to eldest, April birthday to April birthday, Grandmother to eldest grandchild, we have bonded. My Grandma is stability where my life has been a series of uprootings and transplantations. She and her home have been the permanence I have always longed for in my day-to-day life. Grandma has always been there, and so has her home.
Sunsets belong to my Grandma and me. We walk up the gravel road that winds over a hill and to the highway. We usually only make it to where the “road” splits, one way going to the highway and the other heading to the office. We walk, very slowly, as the dogs trot and play around us. The sunset glows in the West, to our right, slowly sinking behind the trees, and if it’s the right time of year the Cottonwoods shower us with their fluffy white seeds. Grandma and I talk sometimes, we’re quiet others. It is ritual, it is connection.
In the summer we sit on the front porch and watch the colors blaze and shift as the heat hangs around us. I listen to the birds, identifying the bobwhite and the whippoorwill. We rock in our porch chairs, idly pet the dogs that lay at our feet, as the faint smell of clovers drifts by.
In the winter we sit on the couch and watch through the window as the sun blazes orange, pink, lavender, and then fades to darkness. I don’t know quite how the ritual itself started or why, but I can’t look at a sunset and not think of my Grandma, or dogs, or the image of the sun falling behind the hill of trees. Sunsets have become a bond, a circle between me, the sun, and Grandma.
My favorite time of year there is mid-spring. It brings out the connection I feel with the land, when the air has finally grown warmer and all of winter has melted, leaving the world muddy and dripping, the bright green of the new grass contrasting with the moist, black soil. It’s slick and the wetness seeps through any layer of protection. Hiking is difficult, falling a given.
Everywhere flowers bloom, their light green stalks giving way to colors. Iowan wildflowers are not gaudy, not bright, look-at-me flowers. They hide in grasses, in woods, peeking shyly out from their protection. The small, delicate, white Spring Beauties gather in patches and bloom to show slim lines of dark pink stretching from their centers. Sweet Williams bloom all along the woods, showing off their five lavenderish-blue petals as they peer out from behind the foliage of the woods and give off a charming, spring-like scent. Buttercups, small, hidden, bright yellow petals that always look slick, grow by the creek bed, only blooming on the wettest days of spring. Violets: yellow, purple, and white dot the green hills. Blue bells, hiding in their special patches that only Grandma, and now I, know about, droop, purple and blue. There are butter-and-eggs dotting the gravel road, small yellow flowers that look nothing like butter or eggs. Grandma says it’s a weed, but then guiltily admits that most wildflowers are considered weeds as well. My favorite spring wildflowers are the Dutchman’s Britches, a strange white early-spring flower that look like puffy pants hanging upside down on a laundry line.
Every spring Grandma has a small vase (usually an old jar) of these flowers on the kitchen windowsill, and when we grandkids are around she digs out all her vases and we fill them to the brim with an array of whites, pinks, blues, and yellows as we put the vases on the tables and across the mantle. Of course, there are certain flowers we know not to pick. The white Dog Tooth violet is a rarity, along with the green Jack-In-The-Pulpit, which I’ve only caught glimpse of once. We excitedly announce their presence and gather round to inspect these scarce plants, but we know to leave them alone in hopes that they will repopulate and once again grow as frequently as the violets.
Spring to me is wildflowers at Grandma’s. It is about sharing knowledge and knowing a place down to the name of its plants. It comes down to relating, listening. As Terry Tempest Williams suggests in her book Red, “our capacity to face the harsh measures of life, comes from the deep quiet listening to the land” (17). So I listen to the birds calling, the winds rustling the grasses and flowers, and by listening I feel connected to the cyclical world that begins with the wildflowers.
The search for wildflowers often ends with a hike up to Grandpa’s office. No visit to my grandparent’s is complete without a trip to this land of gray metal buildings and old-fashioned planes. Grandma has tried to detach her home from it, but both leak over the circles of relationship. Planes soar overhead back at the house as much as at the airport itself while Grandma makes sure her flowers are planted along the buildings of the office. Grandpa’s aviation magazines line the walls of the basement, while my Grandmother’s decorative touch is firmly ingrained in the cultivated landscape.
The office is set down in the middle of a small plot of land known as the Antique Airfield, abyproduct of the Antique Airplane Association, all of which are my Grandfather’s creations. My Grandfather is now seventy-eight years old, and except for a few recent health problems that have kept him homebound, he walks or drives up to the office every day but Sunday. He is still the president, the owner, the head honcho, and I’m not sure retirement will every really be in his future. His dedication to this place is clear in its proximity to his home, in his obsession with planes, in his refusal to retire.
The Antique Airfield is unique, a place of living history, engine grease, dogs, cement, grass, and trees. And despite its connection, it is a world unto itself. The office, the hangers, the museum, the library, the runway, all make up this small community solely dedicated to aviation. The airport is directly off the highway, a mile up from the house. It is a world of cement and gray contrasting with stretching fields of green and the deep cluster of trees that create a faux physical separation between the airport and the house. The airport is the mechanical blending with the natural and the old with the new as brand new 2003 Sedans sit in a gravel driveway while planes from the twenties and thirties taxi down the grass runway. In the middle of green, fertile, Iowan farmland no one really expects a cluster of gray buildings. Few people anticipate, on a nice day, brightly colored antique planes whizzing overhead and resting on the fields of grass that act as runways, the only division of field and landing strip coming from brightly colored orange cones, visible from the sky.
The main office is my favorite place. The smallest of the buildings it sits center in the airport, facing the highway and acting as nucleus, holding the rest of the office together, much like my Grandfather does. On entering the building one is greeted with cement floors and a series of glass cases that offer magazines, patches, and other various airplane memorabilia for sale. Its shelves are littered with ploys for membership and enticements to return. Of course, the real enticement is my Grandfather, his knowledge, his ease with people and dedication to the preservation of his past. This is what draws people, and myself, back. He seeks to connect visitors through flight.
Behind the glass cases, up a narrow, cement staircase is my Grandfather’s office. It smells of cigar smoke and old magazines just as the basement back at the house does. One wall is a window seat and a large window that looks out across both runways. In the winter when the trees are bare the point of the roof of the house can be seen. Grandpa is the king ruling high over his kingdom, though I have never seen him sit there and look out the window. He is usually at his desk that faces the right wall, hunched over papers or leaning back in his chair as he talks on the old fashioned rotary phone, hard at work. The dogs lay in various positions at his feet and Colby, the Queen, stretches out on the window seat.
What I love most about this place is how the buildings are cool in the summer. How plane enthusiasts gather around my Grandpa. How everyone seems to know one another like a community, no matter how long or short the duration of their stay. How, as granddaughter to the Bob Taylor, I hold a spot of honor somewhere. How the dog claws clack against the cement floor as they trail behind my Grandpa like a harem.
My Grandfather has an intense relationship with his dogs. It has turned into a long-running joke in my family. My mother calls him the dog whisperer. These dogs eat people food more than dog food, and on certain days my Grandfather even packs them their own lunch along with his.
One Christmas after his favorite dog had been put to sleep, he sought free puppy ads in the paper; he found one and I soon remember being bundled up in the back seat of his old Monte Carlo the day after Christmas. I remember that as Grandpa navigated icy roads and nasty weather, Grandma complained about his insane attachment to dogs and how it would end up being the death of us. He never says no to a dog. He has always taken in strays. Whenever a dog shows up he starts feeding them with the rest, and they usually stick around. Over the years dogs have come and gone, showed up, died, run away, etc. There have been at least twenty I can remember, the most at one time being six. However, now, there are only two. Colby, the dog picked up on the icy December night, and a stray named Brownie. Daisy, a Labrador, is my cousin’s dog, but more often than not spends her time with my Grandpa’s dogs, eating my Grandpa’s dog food or leftovers.
Grandpa loves each and every one of his dogs as if they were his children. When he is away for more than a day, he often insists on calling my Uncle and having him put Colby on the phone. Whether it is a joke or done out of seriousness is not quite obvious. On my Grandparent’s fiftieth wedding anniversary, my Grandpa walked down the stairs in the morning and offered a “Morning, Colby,” before he even acknowledged my Grandmother sitting on the couch. As my Grandmother wryly noted, the dogs come first in his world.
There is a dog “graveyard” on the low hill in the back, behind the lilac bush and the water tank, before the line of trees start. A gravestone, rectangular, flat and gray with the name Rose engraved on it, sits in the middle of the hill. Beside her is a pile of logs that marks the grave of her son, Tipper, and on the other side is one of Colby’s sons, Goggles, who was hit by a car. It is a morbid little spot, a testament to how much my Grandfather cares about his dogs. I myself have put flowers and other decorations on the graves, or cleaned and weeded around them. I’ll sit, remembering times when I was younger and would talk to the group of dogs as if they were people or remembering the time my sister, cousin, and I got lost in the woods and the dogs stayed with us the whole time, though they undoubtedly knew their way back.
Though the dogs change every year, they are a constant. There is always a dog to greet me as I pull up the gravel road. In the winter, there is always a dog scratching to get in, and always my Grandpa obliges, no matter how much my Grandma complains. And because of my Grandfather’s intense love of dogs, I share that love. It has become a relationship I can carry with me wherever I go. Grandpa to dog, me to dog, and in turn me to Grandpa.
At the end of the day, this section of land is where my dreams most often take place. I wander around my Grandmother’s while strange, dream-like things happen. Subconsciously I am there. When I write fiction, my stories are usually set in the house without realizing it. I just automatically imagine my characters there because each character is a part of me, and so we both belong. The place (all of it: house, office, land) has become a place of understanding and growth. It is a stronghold in my life, stability, a place to enjoy my family, a place to live, and the one spot I feel truly at peace. I am at peace because I belong. I belong to a series of complex, overlapping circles I can crawl into, become a part of. I shed the role of outsider with no history, and with each visit I fit into a niche where each of our histories combined. From the wildflower to my Grandma, I belong.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Eagle Watching on the Mississippi
This morning, my mother and I set out to see eagles. The day was supposed to be sunny and almost 40 degrees; of course, it was a dreary, cloudy day that barely broke thirty degrees.
We drove out of Saint Charles and took crowded highways to cross the river in Alton. Alton is your typical midwestern river town, old and dirty—run down by time, industry, and the river itself. I can’t say much more about any of the other towns on the “River Highway,” run down and old, these towns have not well withstood the test of time. I suppose most drive by without much of a thought to them, but these types of towns always make me feel a little sad. In the pretty old brick buildings, or unique constructions to fight periodic flooding, it doesn’t take too much imagination to see what these towns once were—quaint, pretty little hamlets with charm and character. It’s sad to see that this couldn’t last.
Our first stop was Grafton, in an empty parking lot near the ferry dock. It was cold and windy, so my Mom and I sat in the car and used the binoculars to look at the clusters of trees across the fast moving Mississippi.
It took a while, but I finally spotted an eagle in a tree across the way. It was small to the image I had in my mind, but after a few scrutinizing glances it was plain to see it was an eagle. A few yards to the right were two more eagles, all just resting calmly on a seemingly inadequate branch. They seemed unperturbed by our staring and ogling. They continued to sit placidly, contemplating the muddy river below them.
We made a few more stops, including a lunch break in a cute little café in Elsah called “My Just Deserts.” Elsah, as my Mom said, is like the town time forgot. It’s a crowded small little village of old but pretty well kept buildings—an amazing array of antiquity. We caught more glimpses of eagles, usually quite far away, all sitting placidly on their scraggly tree branches.
This was the best picture I could get from our little excursion:
We drove out of Saint Charles and took crowded highways to cross the river in Alton. Alton is your typical midwestern river town, old and dirty—run down by time, industry, and the river itself. I can’t say much more about any of the other towns on the “River Highway,” run down and old, these towns have not well withstood the test of time. I suppose most drive by without much of a thought to them, but these types of towns always make me feel a little sad. In the pretty old brick buildings, or unique constructions to fight periodic flooding, it doesn’t take too much imagination to see what these towns once were—quaint, pretty little hamlets with charm and character. It’s sad to see that this couldn’t last.
Our first stop was Grafton, in an empty parking lot near the ferry dock. It was cold and windy, so my Mom and I sat in the car and used the binoculars to look at the clusters of trees across the fast moving Mississippi.
It took a while, but I finally spotted an eagle in a tree across the way. It was small to the image I had in my mind, but after a few scrutinizing glances it was plain to see it was an eagle. A few yards to the right were two more eagles, all just resting calmly on a seemingly inadequate branch. They seemed unperturbed by our staring and ogling. They continued to sit placidly, contemplating the muddy river below them.
We made a few more stops, including a lunch break in a cute little café in Elsah called “My Just Deserts.” Elsah, as my Mom said, is like the town time forgot. It’s a crowded small little village of old but pretty well kept buildings—an amazing array of antiquity. We caught more glimpses of eagles, usually quite far away, all sitting placidly on their scraggly tree branches.
This was the best picture I could get from our little excursion:
I have to say, I enjoyed the drive almost more than spotting the eagles. For some reason, I really love the way trees look in the winter. I like a nice horizon of trees all stretching their bare arms heavenward, or the treeless branches—curling, twisting in an almost sinister manner. The beauty of nature is stripped; the color killed until spring, and yet there is still a beauty in these trees. Hitting a surprising strip of rolling, Illinois farmland somewhere between the Illinois and Mississippi Rivers was a nice contrast to the flatness of the other side of the river. My guess is that, despite attractions like eagle watching and Pere Marquette State Park, most people wouldn’t consider this land all that pretty or scenic—especially on a gray, cold day in the middle of January, but today it was pretty in a subtle way—in a bare, naked way—the Earth stripped to her basics is still beautiful. And even better, she will bloom again in just a few months.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Picky Eaters: Fresh Produce Tastes Better!
Another reason I have become increasingly interested in eating locally and growing my own food is something that I have known without knowing since I was about 8 years old: fresh food tastes better!
I say knowing without knowing because I never really gave it much thought. However, as I was reading This Organic Life recently, Gussow mentioning how fruits and vegetables from the grocery store are often tasteless, though perhaps uniform while the foods from her garden had strong, vibrant tastes that surprised many of her visitors and neighbors throughout the years. As I read all of this, it suddenly dawned on me that I had known this all along, but I’d chalked it up to different things.
From the time I was born until college when my Grandmother began to lose her good health, weeks of my summers, spring vacations and winter vacations were spent at my Grandparent’s home in rural Iowa. My Grandfather had a vegetable/fruit garden in the expansive yard. He grew pumpkins and watermelon, rhubarb and strawberries; he even had a grape vine and a couple fruit trees. I don’t remember what the other fruit trees were, but one was a plum tree. This particular summer, I happened to be visiting when the plums were ripe. Being a very picky eater, I was often reluctant to try new things. I never thought I liked plums, but the idea of picking something and eating it was too novel to pass up. Turns out I loved these plums. I ate plum after plum and raved about them to my parents. When I returned home, my Mom bought some plums at the store for me. Guess what? I didn’t like them. I don’t remember what they tasted like exactly, but I can distinctly remember being disappointed. My Mom bought some more, thinking perhaps we’d gotten a bad batch. No luck, I no longer liked plums. My Mom chalked it up to me being difficult and I suppose I was used to getting tired of certain foods after eating too much. Looking back, I would say the difference is the fact that the plums I ate at Grandma’s were deliciously fresh. The ones from the store were from states and miles away, bred specifically for travel and color, rather than taste.
The next two examples are a little more recent. The first involves a trip to a local apple orchard. I saw a commercial and thought it would be a fun day outing for me and The Boyfriend. We picked two big bags of apples. Now, I love a good apple, but I had always thought they were hard to find. A lot of the times I would buy an apple at the store only one out of the couple would be sweet and tangy enough for my picky tastes. I thought it was me being picky. I ate apple after apple of this batch from the orchard, and none had that grainy, tasteless experience that I had grown used to with apples. These were delicious. Because they were in season and fresh.
Then, this November, I was lucky enough to travel to Hawaii for my parents 25th anniversary. I had grown up eating pineapple out of a can. I’d changed from the syrup to the in its own juices, but there was something odd about how I liked pineapple—only from a can. I thought the “fresh” pineapple from the store was too… something. Low and behold we get to Hawaii and I decide I better try some fresh pineapple in Hawaii, just to know I ate pineapple in Hawaii. Imagine my surprise when I loved it. Every day I had some fresh pineapple. I exclaimed to my Mom how I had made this miraculous change, and she just shrugged and said, “of course it tastes better, it’s grown right here.”
Then, reading Gussow’s book I finally put all the dots together. I’d often been afraid of “fresh” because I wasn’t sure I would like it. I don’t like tomatoes or almost any green vegetable (cucumbers and green beans are about all I can stand), I don’t like beans, peaches or even potatoes, but I’m willing to try the fresh versions now to see if maybe what I don’t like is the “jet-lagged” produce from superstores. I have a feeling I still won’t like peaches or spinach, but being willing to try is exciting enough for a picky eater like me.
I say knowing without knowing because I never really gave it much thought. However, as I was reading This Organic Life recently, Gussow mentioning how fruits and vegetables from the grocery store are often tasteless, though perhaps uniform while the foods from her garden had strong, vibrant tastes that surprised many of her visitors and neighbors throughout the years. As I read all of this, it suddenly dawned on me that I had known this all along, but I’d chalked it up to different things.
From the time I was born until college when my Grandmother began to lose her good health, weeks of my summers, spring vacations and winter vacations were spent at my Grandparent’s home in rural Iowa. My Grandfather had a vegetable/fruit garden in the expansive yard. He grew pumpkins and watermelon, rhubarb and strawberries; he even had a grape vine and a couple fruit trees. I don’t remember what the other fruit trees were, but one was a plum tree. This particular summer, I happened to be visiting when the plums were ripe. Being a very picky eater, I was often reluctant to try new things. I never thought I liked plums, but the idea of picking something and eating it was too novel to pass up. Turns out I loved these plums. I ate plum after plum and raved about them to my parents. When I returned home, my Mom bought some plums at the store for me. Guess what? I didn’t like them. I don’t remember what they tasted like exactly, but I can distinctly remember being disappointed. My Mom bought some more, thinking perhaps we’d gotten a bad batch. No luck, I no longer liked plums. My Mom chalked it up to me being difficult and I suppose I was used to getting tired of certain foods after eating too much. Looking back, I would say the difference is the fact that the plums I ate at Grandma’s were deliciously fresh. The ones from the store were from states and miles away, bred specifically for travel and color, rather than taste.
The next two examples are a little more recent. The first involves a trip to a local apple orchard. I saw a commercial and thought it would be a fun day outing for me and The Boyfriend. We picked two big bags of apples. Now, I love a good apple, but I had always thought they were hard to find. A lot of the times I would buy an apple at the store only one out of the couple would be sweet and tangy enough for my picky tastes. I thought it was me being picky. I ate apple after apple of this batch from the orchard, and none had that grainy, tasteless experience that I had grown used to with apples. These were delicious. Because they were in season and fresh.
Then, this November, I was lucky enough to travel to Hawaii for my parents 25th anniversary. I had grown up eating pineapple out of a can. I’d changed from the syrup to the in its own juices, but there was something odd about how I liked pineapple—only from a can. I thought the “fresh” pineapple from the store was too… something. Low and behold we get to Hawaii and I decide I better try some fresh pineapple in Hawaii, just to know I ate pineapple in Hawaii. Imagine my surprise when I loved it. Every day I had some fresh pineapple. I exclaimed to my Mom how I had made this miraculous change, and she just shrugged and said, “of course it tastes better, it’s grown right here.”
Then, reading Gussow’s book I finally put all the dots together. I’d often been afraid of “fresh” because I wasn’t sure I would like it. I don’t like tomatoes or almost any green vegetable (cucumbers and green beans are about all I can stand), I don’t like beans, peaches or even potatoes, but I’m willing to try the fresh versions now to see if maybe what I don’t like is the “jet-lagged” produce from superstores. I have a feeling I still won’t like peaches or spinach, but being willing to try is exciting enough for a picky eater like me.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
The Urge To Cultivate
For such a mild winter, it’s a bit of a shock to all of the sudden be in the twenties outside. Now, in the past twenty-four years I am living the furthest south of all my many homes, so I am no stranger to a true winter. However, the apartment we live in, though only over a year old, has terrible heating downstairs. Being inside is and staying warm is an effort, so then going outside no longer holds an appeal. I am someone who gets cold very easily, and I need the right conditions to want to brave some cold weather. Shivering under sweatshirts and blankets isn’t really the right conditions.
However, despite the cold, the clouds finally broke today and there were periods of sunshine. It’s been a little too cloudy for my particular tastes, so the sun was a welcome excuse to pull down the shades (my shades actually do come down, rather than up, in order to see out the window).
Despite the ice and cold weather and lack of sun, I have noticed a lot of gardeners gearing up for spring on their blogs. Much talk of seed ordering and compost and whatnot. One of my goals this year is to start on organic garden. I made this goal when it looked like we would be moving into a house or condo this spring. This has since changed and it looks like, instead, we’ll be moving to another apartment (oh the joy). So, my organic garden has undergone some reevaluation.
I still want to give it a try. One of my other goals is to eat something I grow, so even if I just have one measly tomato plant I will be immensely happy (for this year). I’ve been doing some research on container vegetable gardening (more research to be done when I get to the library at some point this week). Right now, I think I might try to grow some tomatoes, one or twp varieties of peppers, and probably some lettuce. I suppose the time is now to start these endeavors, though it seems so early to me (the novice gardener talking).
Though I am but a novice, gardening of all forms is something that seems to seep its way through the generations of my family. I have long been brought up to appreciate and memorize flower names—both wild and domestic. When I would visit my maternal Grandmother in rural Iowa, we would pour over Wildflower books and hike about her wooded land identifying and picking and enjoying the little gems that the wilderness had to offer.
Both of my Grandmothers also had more domestic gardens, filled with perennials and annuals of all shapes and sizes. My mother is a gardener/floral designer by trade and so I have been brought up with the love of growing things. I have not had much luck, or much interest, in growing my own until now, but I think I have the basics down.
I decided I wanted to start my own vegetable garden, because I seem to have cultivated the very American way of needing tangible results. I suppose flowers themselves are the result, and a tangible one, but you can’t really do anything with them. I love wildflowers, but growing them would take away a bit of the wild I think, so domesticated gardening, for whatever reason, leaves me desiring more. I think the vegetable is the answer to that. It produces something I am going to eat (if I can somehow manage to do it all right).
Beyond that, I find myself growing increasingly political. Sadly, by growing increasingly political that still leaves me behind many. Though I have keen interest in politics, my frustration often outweighs my patience with the way things work. So, instead, I find myself holding on to certain issues rather than parties, events, or other such means. With the inspiration of the words of Barbara Kingsolver, Joan Gussow, and Nell Newman, I have become increasingly aware and passionate about the state of our nations food consumption and the costs on the environment and even on many less fortunate people who I’d never even considered before. My garden thus becomes also the beginnings of a political statement—not to others, but to myself. Slowly, I am choosing to make the conscious effort to do something that may increase our chances of changing the way things are. Ideally, as I gain the resources, the space, and the dedication, I hope to expand the garden to at least a small bit of sustainability (like say, vegetables) and increase my appreciation for the farmers that bring us food, and knowledge of the seasons and what I have a right to be eating.
And even beyond that, as winter melts into spring, I always have the urge to sink my hands into some dirt, to cultivate my own green, and hopefully this year, reap some rewards of that urge.
However, despite the cold, the clouds finally broke today and there were periods of sunshine. It’s been a little too cloudy for my particular tastes, so the sun was a welcome excuse to pull down the shades (my shades actually do come down, rather than up, in order to see out the window).
Despite the ice and cold weather and lack of sun, I have noticed a lot of gardeners gearing up for spring on their blogs. Much talk of seed ordering and compost and whatnot. One of my goals this year is to start on organic garden. I made this goal when it looked like we would be moving into a house or condo this spring. This has since changed and it looks like, instead, we’ll be moving to another apartment (oh the joy). So, my organic garden has undergone some reevaluation.
I still want to give it a try. One of my other goals is to eat something I grow, so even if I just have one measly tomato plant I will be immensely happy (for this year). I’ve been doing some research on container vegetable gardening (more research to be done when I get to the library at some point this week). Right now, I think I might try to grow some tomatoes, one or twp varieties of peppers, and probably some lettuce. I suppose the time is now to start these endeavors, though it seems so early to me (the novice gardener talking).
Though I am but a novice, gardening of all forms is something that seems to seep its way through the generations of my family. I have long been brought up to appreciate and memorize flower names—both wild and domestic. When I would visit my maternal Grandmother in rural Iowa, we would pour over Wildflower books and hike about her wooded land identifying and picking and enjoying the little gems that the wilderness had to offer.
Both of my Grandmothers also had more domestic gardens, filled with perennials and annuals of all shapes and sizes. My mother is a gardener/floral designer by trade and so I have been brought up with the love of growing things. I have not had much luck, or much interest, in growing my own until now, but I think I have the basics down.
I decided I wanted to start my own vegetable garden, because I seem to have cultivated the very American way of needing tangible results. I suppose flowers themselves are the result, and a tangible one, but you can’t really do anything with them. I love wildflowers, but growing them would take away a bit of the wild I think, so domesticated gardening, for whatever reason, leaves me desiring more. I think the vegetable is the answer to that. It produces something I am going to eat (if I can somehow manage to do it all right).
Beyond that, I find myself growing increasingly political. Sadly, by growing increasingly political that still leaves me behind many. Though I have keen interest in politics, my frustration often outweighs my patience with the way things work. So, instead, I find myself holding on to certain issues rather than parties, events, or other such means. With the inspiration of the words of Barbara Kingsolver, Joan Gussow, and Nell Newman, I have become increasingly aware and passionate about the state of our nations food consumption and the costs on the environment and even on many less fortunate people who I’d never even considered before. My garden thus becomes also the beginnings of a political statement—not to others, but to myself. Slowly, I am choosing to make the conscious effort to do something that may increase our chances of changing the way things are. Ideally, as I gain the resources, the space, and the dedication, I hope to expand the garden to at least a small bit of sustainability (like say, vegetables) and increase my appreciation for the farmers that bring us food, and knowledge of the seasons and what I have a right to be eating.
And even beyond that, as winter melts into spring, I always have the urge to sink my hands into some dirt, to cultivate my own green, and hopefully this year, reap some rewards of that urge.
Mom's Garden 4/16/06
Introduction
The idea of place, of home, of belonging has long been controlling my brain. Ever since I felt that first tug of indescribable feeling at the sight of an empty field, or brilliant sunset, or wet, spring creek, land—place—wilderness has absorbed my thoughts and my happiness.
When I am unhappy, a winter skyline of bare trees against faint blue can lift my spirits. When I am unsettled, the budding of trees and the slow greening of the earth around me can settle and soothe. When I seek solace, I seek wilderness, emptiness, somewhere beautiful—even if only to me.
Absorption with what is wild has haunted me for as long as I can remember. When I learned the term “eco-composition” in a creative nonfiction class I took in undergrad, my heart leapt with understanding and longing to write such a piece. Of all the writing forms I had ever experienced, the eco-composition and the journeys of most creative nonfiction have fit better than any other.
Much to my chagrin, I am a suburban dweller and perhaps may always stay this way. So, my only connections are drives and vacations to wild places or a journey with the written word. And so, this blog will hopefully be that endeavor—my passionate participation, to quote Terry Tempest Williams in her book Red.
Beyond my connection with wilderness, with rural areas and open space comes an appreciation for the land and the cultivation from that land for food. This interest is a much newer exploration—though I have always had a romantic sense of place within a farm and farmers, I have never given much thought to the ecological or environmental concepts of farming or food. Thanks to the essays of Barbara Kingsolver and Ms. Gussow’s book This Organic Life, the concepts of eating locally, growing one’s own food, and our responsibility to know where our food comes from has become a burgeoning love of mine. Along with the passionate participation with the wilderness, I will also describe the struggles of a young, suburban woman attempting to eat locally, and raise some of what she puts on the table for herself and her boyfriend. All on a very limiting budget while I attend grad school and attempt to pay for outrageously expensive health insurance.
In short, this blog is about the land, the wilderness, farms, the challenge of eating locally on a budget, the challenge of knowing where the food I consume comes from and what it cost the environment to get it to my plate, the challenge of growing edibles in an apartment in a suburban area. It’s also about the love of land, of place, of beauty, of the written word and my attempt to come to a strong grip on all of the above.
“What we lose in our great human exodus from the land is a rooted sense, as deep and intangible as religious faith, of why we need to hold on to the wild and beautiful places that once surrounded us.” -Barbara Kingsolver, Small Wonder
I suppose this teensy inconsequential blip of blog on the wide expanse of cyber space is my own impotent assault on the loss of wilderness, on the loss of connection with our roots, our homes, and down to the very food we eat. We’ll see where the journey takes me.
When I am unhappy, a winter skyline of bare trees against faint blue can lift my spirits. When I am unsettled, the budding of trees and the slow greening of the earth around me can settle and soothe. When I seek solace, I seek wilderness, emptiness, somewhere beautiful—even if only to me.
Absorption with what is wild has haunted me for as long as I can remember. When I learned the term “eco-composition” in a creative nonfiction class I took in undergrad, my heart leapt with understanding and longing to write such a piece. Of all the writing forms I had ever experienced, the eco-composition and the journeys of most creative nonfiction have fit better than any other.
Much to my chagrin, I am a suburban dweller and perhaps may always stay this way. So, my only connections are drives and vacations to wild places or a journey with the written word. And so, this blog will hopefully be that endeavor—my passionate participation, to quote Terry Tempest Williams in her book Red.
Beyond my connection with wilderness, with rural areas and open space comes an appreciation for the land and the cultivation from that land for food. This interest is a much newer exploration—though I have always had a romantic sense of place within a farm and farmers, I have never given much thought to the ecological or environmental concepts of farming or food. Thanks to the essays of Barbara Kingsolver and Ms. Gussow’s book This Organic Life, the concepts of eating locally, growing one’s own food, and our responsibility to know where our food comes from has become a burgeoning love of mine. Along with the passionate participation with the wilderness, I will also describe the struggles of a young, suburban woman attempting to eat locally, and raise some of what she puts on the table for herself and her boyfriend. All on a very limiting budget while I attend grad school and attempt to pay for outrageously expensive health insurance.
In short, this blog is about the land, the wilderness, farms, the challenge of eating locally on a budget, the challenge of knowing where the food I consume comes from and what it cost the environment to get it to my plate, the challenge of growing edibles in an apartment in a suburban area. It’s also about the love of land, of place, of beauty, of the written word and my attempt to come to a strong grip on all of the above.
“What we lose in our great human exodus from the land is a rooted sense, as deep and intangible as religious faith, of why we need to hold on to the wild and beautiful places that once surrounded us.” -Barbara Kingsolver, Small Wonder
I suppose this teensy inconsequential blip of blog on the wide expanse of cyber space is my own impotent assault on the loss of wilderness, on the loss of connection with our roots, our homes, and down to the very food we eat. We’ll see where the journey takes me.
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