Empties

When I was in high school, the hot civics theme was the trade imbalance. It was clear in the late 70s that it was an untenable practice to continue to import more than we exported. This was pure economic theory, based on common sense: if you kept buying more stuff, and selling less, then you would eventually run out of money, since buying is less profitable than selling. But then the Reagan years ensued, and we were treated to talking heads who told us that it was OK to buy into excess, since the poor would benefit via “trickle down.” Since we were young and still pretty stupid, and it was what many of us wanted to hear anyway, we bought into it—literally. Of course, the results were as dire as predicted, even before we figured in the environmental costs, which we hadn’t at the time.

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It’s Christmas season, and while I literally don’t buy into copious consumerism, I do purchase presents, and thus more stuff altogether in this season. The week I spent in bed laid up with the flu let me get my shopping done online and early. For two weeks, it seemed like the mail carrier and UPS guy were taking turns stopping at our house. No surprise then, that there is a growing stack of boxes in the garage.

There are a couple of padded envelopes from Powell’s and FSP (purveyors of fire buff paraphernalia), and a cardboard envelope from the Postal Service (I bought stamps before I decided to send our Christmas card electronically). They went into an office cupboard with like friends (they’ll be reused to send books to other book moochers). But then there are boxes from Hanna Andersson’s (striped organic cotton jammies for the whole family), the LED light store (we replaced some halogen bulbs), and B&H photo (an indulgence—a tripod). Add to that list some oversized cartons from finishing up the long-term bath remodel this week (a high cabinet, the cabinet door, a faucet assembly, shower doors, a hand-held shower), and another large box from the replacement office chair I’m sitting on now, and it’s easy to see why the recycling bin will be full. And that doesn’t count the plastic pouch from Victoria’s Secret (shh! Don’t tell Darling Husband!) that has to go in the garbage.

In the interest of rebalancing our export deficit, I worked on getting some stuff out of here: Two bags of toys went to charity, Freecycle yielded three people interested in a 15-year old office chair, and a visit to Craigslist transformed a bulky, dusty telescope into a Christmas present for a starry-eyed girl in Lynnwood, and an empty shelf for us.

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As we drove from my violin lesson to Number One’s cello lesson this week, we decided to take the more scenic route, going up the back way via Highway 99 instead of I-5. It’s fun, because it takes you through the industrial area: big warehouses, waterfront cranes and railroad yards. One of the more striking features are the mountains of containers. Literal mountains, hundreds of containers stacked ten or twelve high. They’re mostly orange, some blue, with names like Cosco, Matson and the like. But one mountain caught my eye as we stopped for a red light: A huge banner hung from the side of a cliff screaming, “CONTAINERS FOR SALE.” I thought of the relatively small mound of empty boxes in my garage, and realized what they were. The stuff that we buy comes from overseas, leaving us with not only a trade deficit, but a container surplus. No one is going to pay to ship empty containers back across the Pacific. But since people have a need to store their excess stuff somewhere (their houses are full), a container in the backyard may be just the thing.

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Of course, there will be presents under our tree this year, but many will be edible, handmade or re-purposed (yes, I shopped for presents at Value Village). Our presents will be swaddled in holiday fabric, re-used every year in increasingly creative ways, so there will be no wrapping paper waste. And there will be no need for a container or storage locker to store anything, since we just happen to have some empty shelf space.

A low-wattage Christmas

Number One Son had a fit today. The British neighbors were out, unfurling their strings of Christmas lights, and we needed to get to the store so we could do ours too. Right now! The fact that I had just mixed up some mortar to finish the downstairs bathroom shower didn’t seem to faze him.

I calmly informed him that Darling Husband and I had talked about it and decided to put the brakes on buying more of the ubiquitous strings of lights from China. I noted that if they wrote ‘disposable’ on the package, it might make people stop and think (then again, it might not). His eyes grew wide with disbelief, “Aren’t you embarrassed to not have lights up?”

This from the child who wept at the trailer for An Inconvenient Truth, who gently moves ladybugs to where the aphids are, and who merrily spent the afternoon replacing incandescent light bulbs with LED and CF bulbs last week.

I know he is at an awkward stage, the inner child wanting everything magical and simple, but the emerging adult understands that everything has a cost. I will search to see if I can find some simple, durable star lanterns—with replaceable bulbs) or instructions to make them). For this is a season of traditions, and I choose a tradition that does not involve standing in front of a mountain of imported strings, wondering if I spend a dollar more if they will last one more year.

I am reminded of the acquaintance who tried to sell us on attending the Christmas pageant at his mega-church. I can’t think of anything less Christmassy than microphoned choirs and baby Jesus production numbers with a cast of thousands. No, I prefer the low-key exterior and a warm inner light.

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.

Too much to drink

The rain finally let up a bit yesterday, and the water in our neighbor’s driveway subsided. I can’t say the same for some of the freeways and arterials around town, and certainly down south. They finally have a picture in today’s paper of I-5 through Centralia, the halfway mark between here and Portland, and home to outlet stores and other diversions for drivers passing through.

The last time we were in Centralia, though, we eschewed the big boxes and strip malls and headed to the old part of town. The train station had looked interesting from the tracks when I went down in September, and sure enough, we found a lovely, restored train depot, still functioning as a stop for Amtrak twice a day. Nirvana for Little One, and we came home with a pocket of smashed pennies. Soaked from the rain, we headed to the old downtown right across the street, and found a dark, warm pub (The Olympic Club) for a bite to eat and some hard cider.

As I look at the aerial photo of Centralia splashed across the front page this morning, I note that the old part of town is perched just high enough that it remains above the floodwaters: the soulless boxes and even the interstate freeway, however, are still underwater, two days later. Almost as if the founding fathers had decided to work with nature instead of arrogantly trying to master it.

We are thankful to be largely unaffected (there was a small mishap with a puddle, but it only resulted in a bit of extra laundry). We are grateful to be free of the huge task of mucking out from the storm, able to indulge ourselves in small seasonal tasks: filling the bird feeder, making up a batch of potato leek soup, lighting the first candles of Hanukkah. And wrapping presents for my brother, who is hoping the waters recede and the road is repaired before he plans to trek up for Christmas.

The sound of light

There is a single candle in the center of the room, and a few notes floating from a harp in the corner. Before my eyes adjust to the gloom, I think it is the usual accompanist, and can only make out which chairs are empty or taken, but not the faces. When Number One walks past with a candle, I realize that it is Teacher Jenny, his old preschool teacher, come home to roost in a new guise. I wonder what she is thinking, for it is she who introduced us to this contemplative festival of light as we head into the darkest season of the year.

The first year was in a tiny, cramped living room in the house that doubled as our nascent school assembly room. The spiral of pine boughs couldn’t have been more than a few feet across, and the children walking it were small. I recall the collective gasp when Little Annie bent too close to the flame and singed her hair, and the fleet spring of her teacher, who extinguished both fears and fire with a tight hug. I remember the year when we spilled into a Sunday school next door, with no harp, for Jenny had left the nest: her replacement was perched on a box in the corner with her flute, an angel-like Pan in her impish stature.

I recall the first time I saw this hall, and how I envisaged the spiral in front of me even on that bright spring day. It was clear to me that the space longed for this warm path. There was the year we put down sheets underneath, afraid that we would have to shampoo out sap, since we did not yet own the place.

I watch them now, these children. I have watched these preschoolers turn into young children, then older ones, and now I see a group of willowy almost-women with real curves, not-quite-men becoming more gangly with every step of their oversized puppy feet. When it is my turn, I want to linger, for the path is littered with treasures at every turn: a wooly gnome, a fern frond, a polished stone, a knitted ginger cat.

When the last candle is lit, the harp fades away, and our collective light fills the void. No one makes as to leave, no children fidget or cough. The silence radiates around us as we breathe in the warm glow. We fill ourselves with this light, and head home in the biting cold, ready to face the dark.

Turkey soup

There is a reason that I’m chopping carrots in my nightgown.

The two turkeys provided by two incredible women and the myriad of side dishes and pies were reduced to very little in the way of leftovers, but we snagged two treasures: a tiny plastic container of stuffing (enough to fight over, and a reason to see Patti again, to return the Tupperware) and a turkey carcass.

As expected when I eat things I shouldn’t eat (stuffing and pumpkin pie spring readily to mind), I woke with a headache. I swallowed some herbs and hoped for the best. Our Plan of the Day was to hitch a bus into town and take the monorail to Seattle Center, where Nose in a Book was to be performing with the Junior Symphony, but her mom called to say she was sick, so we regrouped. Black Friday and downtown isn’t particularly interesting to those of us who eschew materialism, and the sun was shining, so we made some calls. Some fellow first-grade parents were game for a day in the park and a good long walk, so we met up in St. Edward’s State Park and let the kids play for a bit, then headed down to the water. The cool air and warm sun felt wonderful, and we capped it off by helping them work their way through their yummy and allergen-free leftovers.

We had one more social stop for the evening, dropping in on our British neighbors for drinks and little noshes. By this time, my head had not improved and I was feeling crushingly tired, clear harbingers of a cold. And sure enough, the next morning I woke groggy and congested.

Darling Husband put on his shining armor and took both boys away for the bulk of the day, indulging the boys in such Daddy adventures as a blueberry pancake breakfast and cool shoe shopping. I figured I needed soup, but with nothing in the larder (I’d used it for the stuffing), and no one to do my bidding (here at least), I threw a sweater on over my nightie and headed to the kitchen. Making stock takes very little energy (no need to chop anything), and putting it on a low flame meant that I could get a good snooze in before making soup, also a low-energy effort. Celery, carrots and a couple of handfuls of rice meant that supper was simmering by the time the boys made their way home.

Well-meaning folk told me I would regret the potluck aspect of this Thanksgiving, that there would be no leftovers. They are right, but they were wrong. We haven’t had extra meat for sandwiches, but we enjoyed friends’ leftovers, and a bubbling pot of turkey soup honors the effort of the turkey growers, reminds me of the warmth of the gathering, and heals my sniffles.

Which is why I was chopping carrots in my nightgown.