Shopping lotto

Mt family plays a game we call library lotto. It goes something like this: You run across a reference or a review of a book or movie, or someone recommends it to you, so you log on to the library website and place a hold on it. If it’s an older or obscure title, it may come up quickly; but if it’s popular, it can take months, sometimes close to a year before it arrives on the hold shelf with your name on it. It’s sort of a poor man’s Netflix, except the order is seemingly random.

Or is it? It’s clear that books relate to each other differently depending on the order I read them in, and that order is rife with coincidence. This week, after watching An Inconvenient Truth, I delved into Deep Economy, which treats some of the same issues of import from a socio-economic standpoint. I passed through the chapter on eating locally for a year (Barbara Kingsolver’s opus on that subject is still in a library holding pattern), and dove into his discussion of shopping.

Now, this is a subject near and dear to my heart, but not because I love shopping. Actually, I rather dislike it—in spite of gender stereotypes. The funny thing is, there was a time in my life, or rather a place, when I didn’t mind ‘doing the marketing’ one bit.

Mr. McKibben cites a quote that implies that this country’s entire economy is built on the suburbs: building them, moving in and out of them, and filling them with stuff. He gallantly resists naming by name the institutions built to deal with the stuff that won’t fit in them anymore, from storage lockers to virtual places like eBay.

But then he starts writing about the experience of shopping at a farmer’s market. It seems, surprisingly, that when people shop there, they have—gasp!—conversations, at least ten on average, with the people selling their wares. I immediately thought of the markets I used to shop when I lived in Germany. In our university town, my shopping trips were frequent, as our kitchen was too small to store much of anything. I would grab my wicker basket (sturdy to protect bottles and eggs, and it stood upright when I set down my heavy load) and walk a few blocks to the tram. A tram ran every six minutes, and took me straight downtown. A few blocks from there, surrounding the late gothic cathedral that dominated the city, was the daily market (every day except Sunday). To the south of the church were the dry goods, fresh food was on the north side, with the folks serving prepared foods grouped around the western door.

I wasn’t buying anything unusual, just things like bread, meat, veggies, and eggs. But for each item, I had a choice of several different providers. Trial and error, and learning tricks like joining the longest line taught me where to get the best quality. A conversation was required to explain what I wanted, and what I wanted it for, for they weren’t selling standardized commodities, but natural products with all the variety nature provides in her infinite wisdom. I learned about the different varieties of potatoes and tomatoes from the people who grew them. I learned that even though the fruits and vegetables are spread out in front of me, I should ask before I may pick any out, for they often pick it out for me. I learned that if I saved up my egg cartons and brought back a couple of dozen, it was good for a free carton of eggs from one farmer. I learned that asparagus had a season, as did strawberries and currants and different kinds of lettuce. It was a terrific way to learn and improve my German—interaction was necessary to survive, for indeed, I could not have food if I could not speak with merchants.

Compare this to a run to a supermarket in today’s American suburb. Human interaction is often limited to avoiding other customers driving their carts one-handed while they chat on their cell phones, absently tossing pre-packaged items into their carts. The cookie-cutter supermarket is the ultimate in self-serve: boxes and trays of food commodities wait on shelves for you to help yourself. The button that summons a butcher is a thing of the past (along with the butcher himself), and self checkout means that I can literally get in and out of the store without uttering a single word (and the only word uttered to me is a recording). Pity the exchange student in this country: they’ll have to go elsewhere to hone their language skills. But, oh, what they’re learning about our culture.

It’s not about money, it’s about community. If we are islands unto ourselves, we are unhappy. Like it or not, we need each other, and the whole model of suburbia and supermarkets does not feed our need to belong. Unfortunately, my German town and the rest of the world is moving toward the American way propogated by popular culture, with Wal-marts and their brethren popping up like proverbial mushrooms, along with planned communities.

With the seasonal closure of our local farmer’s market, I admit to feeling a bit cut off. The staff at the coop are good for a few conversations—and there is no self checkout there. Until spring, we shall eat dark leafy greens and gather with friends and family, make music, and build community as best we can.

Measuring our feet

We finally got around to seeing Al Gore’s opus, An Inconvenient Truth. The reason for the delay is simple: we use the library reserve system, which means we put our name on a waiting list for the next available copy. In this case, it took nearly a year to work our way to the top of the list. I wasn’t worried about the time lapse, and in truth, it made it all the more significant, since this two-year old information is even more valid today.

We figured there would be a fair amount of preaching to the choir, and we were right. We went through the exercise of visiting Al’s carbon calculator, and came up with a short list of things to do:

1. Finally swap out the remaining incandescent light bulbs with CF or LED bulbs (LED bulb arrays can replace those ubiquitous hot halogen energy hogs).
2. Re-evaluate our cars. This week, filling my car’s tank finally passed the $40 mark, and I’ve been living in a state of denial about driving so much in a big car when it’s more and more just me by myself. Hybrids have been around long enough that I can find a used one, and if I can find one that fits a cello in it’s cargo space, I’m good to go.
3. Purchase green energy. The PSE flyer has been on my desk for ages, and will only cost us about $10 a month. This seems a no-brainer, so it goes on my to-do list now.
4. Consider carbon offsets. I’ve never much liked the idea of purchasing the right to pollute, but my recent election to the ATA Board of Directors means that I am expected to attend four meetings a year, which will mean flying, often cross-country. The first meeting is booked, and an offset from Native Energy would be only $24. Since the money would go directly to funding alternative energy sources, I’m almost ready to take the plunge, but I hesitate.

As does my Darling Husband, who still scoffs at the whole offset business. Selling something that doesn’t exist really rubs him the wrong way, and I completely see his point. And then he goes on: this carbon calculator looks at big things like transportation and home energy use, but what about the small, frugal choices we make every day?

I had to search, but I did find another carbon footprint calculator, which answers some of my concerns: firstly, it’s international. Imagine thinking of global climate change as a problem not limited to the borders of the only country to not sign Kyoto. It’s very interesting to see how much your footprint shrinks just by moving your habits to Europe, for example. I also like the section that lets you see just how tiny the impact your miles have when taken in public transport, as opposed to a car.

But the part I like best is the tab labeled “Secondary.” It treats things like how you eat-vegetarians trod much more lightly on the Earth than folks who scarf a Big Mac daily. Buying local, organic produce in season—eating real food—makes a difference. But we also make a difference in our consumer habits. Do you always buy new clothing and furniture, do you always take up the latest fad or sport (and purchase all the accoutrements), do you recycle or just can’t be bothered to think about these things? The difference between the thinking and non-thoughtful choices here is the difference between 1 tonne and 10 tonnes of carbon dioxide released into the atmosphere. The choice of what we put on the table and around us does make an impact.

Which takes me back to Darling Husband. Whenever there’s a new hire in the office, he has to “re-educate them”(his words, not mine): if you want a drink, you should not only choose water over canned soda, but you should put it in a cup or bottle that you have carried to the kitchen for that purpose. Same for a cup of coffee: bring your mug, use a spoon to stir it. A warning to anyone in his office: If you think you can get away with plucking a Styrofoam cup from the dispenser, filling it with coffee, popping the lid off a plastic non-dairy creamer and giving it a few stirs with a plastic stir stick (and then chucking it in the garbage), you will be hearing from Mr. In-Your-Face. He will press one of the spare used mugs from his office into your hand, and show you how to rinse off a spoon so you can re-use it. And you will use it.

Which takes me back to offsetting the carbon for my fight to Washington D.C. The calculator reckons it will release about .8 tonnes of carbon dioxide. It also tells me that eating less meat and eschewing overly packaged goods will more than offset that. I’m hoping those LED bulbs will help too.