Mailbox weeds

They are as unwelcome as dandelions and crabgrass, and fill my curbside toter as much as blackberries and buttercups. Years ago, I went on a systematic campaign to rid myself of these postal weeds, setting aside coupon mailers and other junk mail as they came in, and then working my way through the myriad of opt-out scenarios.

Most could be tidied up with a quick online form, with the requisite four weeks to process; some forced me to resort to phoning a call center wage-slave to have them remove me from their list (after a four week wait…). But one was a persistent as bindweed; the RedPlum flyer. You likely know what I’m talking about—it’s like the advertising section inserted into the Sunday paper, the first thing you pull out and recycle. But this one comes straight to the mailbox of every single address in the country.

This particular one stood out from all the others, because not only did it take up half my mailbox several times a week, no opt-out website or phone number could be found on the flyer itself. Sleuthing online I finally found a website that provided a physical mail address. Maybe most people won’t bother. But I’m not most people: I eradicated bindweed from my raspberry patch, and I send off an opt out notification in a letter in an envelope bearing a stamp. After a few weeks of wait and a note taped inside my mailbox alerting the habit-driven postal carrier that no RedPlum flyers should be delivered, I was able to downsize my recycle bin.

The relative calm has endured, punctuated by the occasional flare-up of a catalog in the wake of an online purchase. These blights are quickly dispatched, chucked into the bin after a quick visit to the website or a expeditious call to the 800 number on the back.

A few merchants have figured out that if I order online I might not want a paper catalog, and they make it possible to opt out at the time of purchase, though the default is still to pop a paper catalog in the shipping box. But there’s a huge difference between a mailing received because of an existing relationship and “Every Door Direct Mail (EEDM)” blanketing entire zip codes. These mass mailings are actively encouraged by the USPS, as they represent a steady revenue stream to the struggling behemoth.

To my great dismay, I opened up my mailbox this Tuesday, and pulled out a RedPlum flyer. I was thinking it must have been an unthinking substitute mail carrier, one who didn’t know my foibles. But no, there in the address field was our address, and the addressee was “Resident.” Sure enough, after five years, RedPlum opts you back in. At least this time, they have an online form for opting out. Though I note it now takes them six weeks to process the request.

Cold feet

We spent our lazy Sunday afternoon yesterday looking at real estate. It's a slow market still, so realtors are happy for anyone to show up, even middle-aged tree huggers who ask questions like  what the heating system is and whether there's capacity in the electrical panel to charge an electric car.

We're not looking to move anytime soon, but we do know the day is coming eventually, and we know what things we don't want to give up on when we downsize. We love our radiant floors, for example: salvaged hardwood floors with hydronic tubing underneath. Clean, comfortable heat. So anytime something comes on the market that says "eco" or "green built" we go have a look.

Last fall, we had a peek at zHome offerings nearby; This afternoon, we noted that a two-bedroom cottage in a pocket neighborhood close to us was on the market. We had read the book by Ross Chapin, and were very interested in the idea of architecture that fostered a sense of community and also used resources wisely. We expected green building techniques, smart energy usage, and a floor plan that made the most of the reduced square footage. We parked the LEAF next to the realtor's sign, and meandered into the central green. Delightful, quiet and comfortable. Indeed, Darling Husband fell into conversation with a neighbor as I went on. And a vaguely familiar face from the school who recognized our car caught up with me, and we chatted about living here.

She noted that the upper cluster--where this cottage was--was mostly retirees, with the families favoring the second phase down the hill. One glance down the lane revealed much larger houses stretched in a line, with no green and little relation to each other. A very different feel from the little cottages tightly grouped around the green.

Once inside the cottage, the space revealed itself to be a bit schizophrenic: built-in shelving maximized some space, but in the kitchen, a huge mega-fridge seemed completely out of scale. The bathroom had some nice green finishes, but its placement required a convoluted entryway that squandered any space gained by built-ins. Upstairs, skylights and real plaster walls were above our heads, but run-of-the mill carpeting (have I mentioned I hate carpet?) and electric baseboard heaters were at our feet. Space heaters dotted through the house told a story of cold residents.

Our second drive-by also yielded an open house for "Eco-built" townhomes, based on the very common row house and duplex ("semi-detached") model commonly dotted across Europe. Indeed, our house in Ireland was of the same pedigree. These Northwest cousins had solid mechanicals: radiant floor heating, fire suppression system, energy-efficient windows. Clear effort had been made to allow for enough natural light to penetrate to avoid dark hallways--very important for our dreary winters. But here again, were misses: wasted space from odd jogs in walls, carpet over radiant floor heat, and closets that weren't even deep enough to hang clothes. The agent was patient, the pricing is fire-sale low, but errors like orientation and unworkable spaces undermines otherwise good intentions.

As we walk back to the car, Darling Husband shakes his head, clearly disappointed. "It seems like it's a game here," he notes. "For Europeans, saving energy is real." Once again, he's hit the nail on the head. With our big houses and big cars and big oil and energy subsidies, using fewer resources is not part of our collective wisdom (and you have to be over 45 to remember the gas lines of the 70s). Only hardcore eco-nutcases drive diesel or electric vehicles, only liberal tree huggers would put up solar panels or windmills or a green roof.

The only solar panels at the big-box home store in the US are for gate openers--so you don't have to run electricity half a mile down your long, gated driveway; in the German equivalent, you can buy PV panels to generate electricity for your home. French municipalities recognize green roofs as an opportunity to mitigate storm water retention from increased density (which leverages investment in municipal infrastructure); here, you have to fight City Hall to do something that out of the ordinary.

In the end, my biggest fear is not that we won't be able to find the perfect empty nest for ourselves, but that these kinds of errors will overshadow all the good effort that has been made. We need these dwellings to succeed, so that people can realize that consuming less does not mean living less. We all need to discover the freedom and ensuing joy of spending our energy, both personal and metered by utility companies, on things that matter.

Hung out to dry

There is something about real estate. I love traipsing through houses, pretending you live in that perfectly staged living room, spotless kitchen and freshly made bed. So when I heard about zHome, a "revolutionary, 10-unit townhome development that uses smart design and cutting edge technologies to radically reduce its environmental impacts," I had to see it for myself. Besides, they advertised an EV charging station out front.

And impressive engineering it is: the earthwork is a true work of art, moving water around, under and through, using grey water for flushing toilets and irrigation, and double-filtering drinking water. Electricity is generated from photovoltaic panels on the roof, and radiant floors are heated using geothermal heat. Surfaces are honest, responsibly sourced, and the spaces are light and devoid of that "new house" smell.

And it seems to encourage more responsible behavior: having only a one-car garage (and presumably only one car) and squeezing into 1600 square feet seems spartan in these suburbs, where 3,000 and 4,000 square feet and three-car garages are the norm. But as our house ages and demands more of our time and energy, and we look to simplify our lives, the idea of living in a smaller space and with less stuff is incredibly appealing.

We drove up in our red LEAF, plugged in, and started poking around. First up was the largest unit: walk in the door, there's a bedroom. Right next to the front door, with a sliding glass door. A bit public, but maybe useful for a home office.

A bit farther in, and there's a one-car garage. But not only is the charger on the street, but this is a three-bedroom unit, on the far fringe of the suburbs. If this is designed for a family, it will be rough going, as bus service is very sketchy way out here, and there is nothing within walking distance, since the planned community around it has yet to be built. The closest shopping is 20 minutes away, and the city a good half hour by freeway. Maybe both parents work at home, or maybe they're independently wealthy, since the price tag is not within the reach of the average Joe: $625,000.

I peek in the spacious storage closet under the stairway, and inside it is a high tech geothermal heat pump for the radiant floor heat. Lovely, comfy, efficient and truly green credentialed. But some boiler-loving contractor has placed it at the front of the closet, blocking the way to using the rest. Result: a good 15 square feet of inaccessible closet space in the garage.

Up the responsibly-sourced wood stairs to the living area, covered in the same responsibly-sourced floors. The kitchen is stunning, but after the initial impression, we realize there isn't a single cupboard large enough for a stack of plates; only drawers below. The corner features a "lost space" cupboard instead of a useful corner solution, reducing storage space yet again. Back in the larder, shelving and a closet, with--you guessed it--water filters covering the back of the closet. Imagine moving all your stored items every 6 months to change the filter and you start to see.

Top floor, another large closet, this time with a stacked washer and dryer. I love that someone understands putting the washer where the dirty laundry is, but the school of hard knocks reminds me that laundry likes to congregate before washing, sorting itself into pile of like colors and such. Here, since there is no space for even a box of eco-friendly detergent, I can see the piles littering the hallway on laundry day (every day is laundry day when you have kids). And while I love the energy star dryer, I note no place anywhere to put up drying racks; perhaps the balcony, overlooking the neighbor's?

In the end, we are disappointed that so much was done right, only to have these efforts marred by apparent trivialities that work against the stated intent: downsize to one car, but locating the homes in a place that has no transportation infrastructure; use efficient technology and reduce the square footage, but then situate the mechanicals in a way that space cannot be used; and omitting spaces for the kinds of occupant behavior that affects our environmental impact at least as much as technology.

We note with chagrin that the brand-new building next door has heated storage units for rent. Perhaps they saw an opportunity.

Joy to the world

Much has been made this holiday season about how important it is for retailers to have a good year, to get back on track with our insatiable appetite for unsustainable growth. But if spending money we didn’t have (both us personally and the big guys) got us into trouble, I'm a bit fuzzy on how it's supposed to get us out of trouble.

With that in mind, my family pursued the time-honored tradition of doing as little as possible on the day after Thanksgiving. We have only a few rules:

1. No one is to get up before the alarm would usually ring
2. Pie for breakfast
3. No one is to get dressed before noon
4. Leftover turkey sandwiches (on white bread) for lunch
5. No spending money

This appears to be at odds with everything I read in the papers (after my pie, still in my jammies), about Black Friday. I do admit that we did actually go out, but only to the library, to stock up on magazines and more books to get us through the long lazy weekend.

One magazine I picked up loudly proclaimed on its cover, "42 ways to add joy to your day!" Not surprisingly, every single one of the 42 items was something you could buy. Another magazine notes also that this is the week that Oprah comes out with her list of Ultimate Favorite Things for 2010 (look, you can even print it out to make shopping easier!). My friend Corey, half of Celebrate Green, very helpfully has posted her greener version of the same list.

But I'm just not a big fan of shopping, both personally and big-picture wise. And so I offer you an absolutely non-exhaustive list of things you can do to put a bit of joy in your day or someone else's. Use these as a starting point to stop shopping and start thinking, and remember, these ideas are not limited to the holiday season!

• Read. Go to the library and check out a book. If it's a recent best-seller, you might have to wait, but when you get to the top of the list, what a great surprise for yourself! If you absolutely want the title on your shelf,  see if you can score a copy from swaptree or bookmooch; you can also treat yourself with a trip to the second-hand bookstore (which usually has the added benefit of being locally owned); if you're going there anyway, you might bring along some books that you're discarding and use the store credit they give you. 
• E-read. Our library also offers e-books, and the reader for my laptop and phone is free--when we travel, we check out an e-book or two, giving us something to read without weighing down the luggage or chopping down a tree. Walk right past the overpriced airport store! 
• Write. An old-fashioned letter will set you back $.42 in postage, but the return on investment is priceless. Garage sales are great for old postcards--a box of someone's travels will last you for years. An email is ok (and free), but a pretty card inevitably gets stuck to the wall behind my computer as a reminder that someone thought of me. 
• Watch a movie. Again, it's the library for us! We call it the poor man's Netflix, but we've come to love the surprise of which movie has moved to the top of the list. My husband and I both keep separate lists, and love to surprise each other with a movie date. If you really want first-run movies, consider sharing a streaming account with a someone: you can watch the same movie at the same time and chat about it during or later. 
• Bake something. Ok, this won't be free, but it will be tastier and more appreciated by the recipient, I promise. As I started looking at gifts to send to my best clients this year, I was dismayed to see how cheesy and small the affordable baskets were. This year, I'm baking up some lovely cookies, party mix and making truffles, and will hand-deliver the baskets to them. 
• Knit. Or just make something with your own two hands. Since I knit, I know it's easy to whip out a hat for a baby or a cancer patient, or thick wooly sox for kids, a little grey mouse for my Mom's cat, or a coffee cup sleeve for my caffeinated friends. Small projects use up my scrap yarn and only cost me time--time I usually spend waiting at music lessons, the dentist… 
• Curl up with a magazine. I'm thinking evening to myself, fuzzy slippers and a magazine or two. Again, I head for the library, where the selection is so broad I can pick up five magazines, from People to Atlantic Monthly to Gourmet. And the best part is that I can enjoy them and send them back, so I don't end up with towering piles of once-read periodicals. 
• Grow something. When I've spent the better part of a week bent over my desk, I need to clear my head. The garden wants tending, even in the dead of winter. Prune the fruit trees, train the beans up the trellis, and rake the leaves. 
• Preserve. When harvest season comes, make jam and dilly beans. If you're family is sick of jam and dilly beans, I bet the neighbors won't be. And you might get a jar on something you didn't have in return. 
• Do chores. You know that woodpile that needs restacking? The shower that needs cleaning? Spend a half-hour and enjoy the feeling of satisfaction. You can also surprise someone by doing their chore for them. 
• Share a picture. So, you finally got around to clearing off the memory card on your camera, and you found a great picture from that BBQ last summer? Send it on, especially if it's rainy and cold outside. Do this on a regular basis for grandparents, and watch your relationship improve. 
• Go for a walk. Enjoy the lingering light of cool evenings in summer, bundle up and enjoy the Christmas lights in winter. Steal garden and home improvement ideas from your neighbors, who, if you see them often enough, will actually talk to you, or buy cookies from your girl scout when she comes knocking. 
• Clean out a closet. Choose a small corner of your life that's looking cluttered, and straighten it up. Vacuum out the dust bunnies, put things away neatly and set aside items you don’t need or want anymore. If they're in good shape, consider passing them on to friends or a charity. You can also list them in online classifieds, or give them away on freecycle or swaptree. 
• Make music. What do you suppose people did before TV? Even the poorest families would have an instrument or two tucked away in the corner, and we are all endowed with a voice. Musical scores can be checked out from the library and found online. Or you can play by ear. 
• Play a game. Our thrift store has oodles of board games for under a dollar, which makes for a great family evening, or you can organize a game night with friends. A deck of cards is good for a game of solitaire (with a cup of cocoa, while you wait for your teen to come home late) or for a game of old maid with your kid in the airplane. Not to mention strip poker with your lover. 
• Draw. Sketch a love note and put it on your sweetie's pillow. Doodle a cartoon and stick it inside a kitchen cupboard where your teen will find it. 
• Dance. Put on the radio or a CD (library again!) and push back the furniture and dance. Collapse into a laughing, exhausted heap. Repeat. 
• Decorate. Draw a smiley face on your husband's office coffee cup. Stick eyes on your stapler. Write a pithy quote on the wall over the washing machine. 
• Embrace the geek. My father used to clip funny articles and cartoons from the newspaper and send them to me once a month when I was at college: you can do the electronic equivalent by using a site's "email this" feature. I also like to put a silly, free app on a friend's iPhone when they're not looking.

Squeaky clean

Annie Leonard is at it again, this time with a video talking about the incredibly icky stuff in our personal care products. She throws stones at the use of "organic" on top brands riddled with petrochemicals, and rightly dings one producer for displaying a pink badge for breast cancer awareness on the outside of the bottle, all while putting known carcinogens in the bottle.

When I was a girl, my father picked up a copy of The Foxfire Book, a compendium of lost and disappearing lore in Appalachia. He was revved by the notion of making his own soap, and managed to find someone at church who was slaughtering a pig: could he have the fat? A bit of lye from the hardware store, and a foul-smelling brew over a fire in the backyard (no way was Mom letting that in the house!), and he produced a tray mounded with oddly shaped bars that he touted as usable as soap, shampoo and laundry detergent. We all gave it a go, but it was soon relegated to my father's corner of the shower and the utility sink--the caustic concoction was ace for getting automotive grime off and cutting through Brylcreem.

Now you know where I get it. I have never felt the urge to render my own pork fat (well, maybe a little), but certainly prefer a fine hand-cut bar to the mass-packaged uniform cakes in the big box. Currently in my shower is a hemp and honey bar, the last of a handful from the West of Ireland that I had tucked into my luggage before returning. And next to it stands an empty shampoo bottle.

Since you can't see me,  I'll let you know that I have long hair. Down-to-my waist, hints of grey, thick, wavy hair. You would think I would have a whole hair care system, a daily routine to keep my tresses looking photo-shoot ready. But I don't. A single bottle of shampoo, used sparingly and weekly, is all I need. And I'll tell you another secret: shampoo is only ever used on the top; the ends are far enough away from the scalp that they don't need washing (unless they've dragged through something). What this means in practical terms is that I use very little shampoo--much less than my shorter-coiffed counterparts.

Which brings me to back to that empty shampoo bottle: it's taken just shy of two years to get it to that state. There have been times when I'm traveling that I used hotel samples (they're very smelly, and really strip oils off hair, which isn't good), and the odd camping trip that pushed a wash out a few days, but by and large, I buy shampoo about as often as some people buy jeans or cars.

So I need to do a bit of research before I buy. This particular bottle was purchased shortly after we arrived in the Emerald Isle, at my favourite health shop in Blessington. I also knew I was in the EU, which adheres to a precautionary principle, meaning chemicals must be proven safe before being added to foods and personal products. So I chose what smelled good to me, in this case lavender and geranium--from the real thing, not a chemical fragrance.

But I can't be that sure here. With no governmental oversight and laws that allow companies to largely hide their ingredients under umbrella terms like "fragrance" and "color," we could only guess. But the Campaign for Safe Cosmetics provides an online database of brand-named products and their ingredients. I am delighted to see local brands like Ballard Organics, and most of the brands from our local coop represented there. And I'm even happier to see that I have several options. And that I don't need to render any pig fat.

Underfoot

For years, we have worked to make our home more environmentally friendly, both in terms of materials used and the spaces we create. We've raised the 70's dropped ceiling in the kitchen, removed roomfuls of filthy wall-to-wall carpeting, and retrofitted radiant floor heat to this end. As I write, I sit in a used office chair on a true linoleum floor, chosen for its beauty along with its natural anti-static properties.

As our boys grow up, we are finding they need a bit of privacy, but we don't want to interrupt the flow of their play by separating them and their toys. We hit upon the idea of a large doorway between the two rooms that now serve as shared playroom and bedroom. A pocket door that closes for privacy and opens for play. Ah, but rien n'est simple. If we remove a piece of wall, there's a piece of floor exposed. The while-we're-at-it syndrome kicks in: now is the perfect time to replace that icky synthetic carpet with something more healthy and beautiful.

We know we want wool, and there's a carpet I met years ago in Europe, called Tretford. It's 80% goat hair, 20% wool, with a jute and PVC (non-off-gassing) backing. It comes in a gazillion colors, doesn't need a pad (no dust trap), resists staining naturally, and is easily patched, since the edges don't fray. Warm underfoot but solid enough to form a firm foundation for a tower of blocks. This is what we want. Thus begins my quest.

Google is my friend, and I locate the manufacturer quickly--in Ireland. (A brief visual flashes through my mind of us going through customs with a roll of carpet. I quickly dismiss the idea.) Yes, there is an American distributor, in Pennsylvania. A call to them takes a humorous twist, as the person on the other end can't quite grasp that I would want to put a commercial carpet in a home (never mind the picture of a family room on their website). She finally relents and provides me with the name of the Seattle distributor. A call to them yields the information that they only "sell to the trades," and translator isn't one of them. Still, I persist and they agree to sell to me; I can even bring my kids with me to pick up the sample card (but I'll have to use the side door).

My resolve to Do The Right Thing is being sorely tested. I mean, it's the perfect carpet for us, it's what we want, but it's coming all the way from Ireland! I make a few calls to see if I can find something similar closer to home, but come away empty-handed: they either aren't wool, or they're bound with latex, which I am allergic to.

Remember those maps of the United States that we had in fifth grade, with little symbols representing the different products associated with different regions? There were apples and trees in Washington, wheat in the Midwest, and a roll of textiles in the south. Turns out all the carpet made in the US is made in Georgia. There's just no such thing as buying local carpet. I talk to a sales representative at the Environmental Home Center, and she verifies that even they order their stuff from all over the world--and most of the wool is from New Zealand. She tells me not to worry about the distance, since one trip from Ireland for a sturdy wool carpet is better than twice from Georgia for an inferior synthetic product, since the wool will last (much) longer than the synthetic, and is much friendlier to the Earth to produce.

Now all we have to do is choose a color.