Blow-ins

They are nearly everywhere I turn here: blow-ins, the endearing Irish term for those who are not from these parts. The village "in calm of middle country" is full of folks who, for whatever reasons, have gotten off the bus because they didn't want to go where it was headed. And somehow they ended up here, lost in the middle of Ireland, in Cloughjordan.

Cloughjordan has many distinctions: birthplace of Irish revolutionary Thomas MacDonagh, and named after a stone brought back from the crusades (Cloughjordan means stone; Jordan would be the crusader's rock's source). But these days, it is the Ecovillage that is being built here that draws both new blow ins and locals who are both curious and interested. We stumbled upon the village virtually, and unsure whether the appeal was the Eco-centric foundations or the appeal of an address in Tipperary, decided we had to see for ourselves.

So we are here, in Cloughjordan, trying to figure out how to visit four pubs in three nights, how to balance respecting folks privacy with our wanting to ask a thousand questions. And of course, this being Ireland and a small town, we needn't have worried, for people know (of) us--those Americans--before we have a chance to open our mouths. Short chats in the street, across a fence, on the front step and in the living room, longer discussions where we pick up the thread a day or two later.

But it all boiled down to broccoli. Delicate purple broccoli sprouts, bountiful in the village these days. We saw them on our first tour through the village, fully jet lagged, a crate full in the CSA barn, with a sign on them that said "loads;" piled on the counter behind the lady of the house who offers to show us her home office, offered like a bouquet and tucked into the basket of the baby's stroller. Best of all, they were there, these yuppie blow-ins (for they certainly cannot be considered a native species) heaped in a Pyrex dish, an offering to the groaning table at the community supper to which these blow-ins were warmly welcomed.

Gyre

A friend recently snapped a picture in his local supermarket. Amazingly, this fresh perspective of such an everyday place sparked quite the discussion. Different people saw different things: one person wanted to know where the people are (sobbing on the floor?); one commenter from the UK thought it was local; to me, it made it pretty clear where the Pacific garbage patch was coming from.

And it got me thinking again about the whole contrived experience of the supermarket. Carefully orchestrated choreography, designed to make you slow at certain (high-priced) items, themed end-cap displays to add to your list of must-haves for the season (n.b. "season" here refers to created events, like the Super Bowl party or Halloween).

The perspective makes it all clear: little bump-outs try to make you think something is compellingly different. But from this view you'd be hard-pressed to discern what section of the supermarket this is: baking, snacks, pasta? It all looks the same from here, just an ocean of packages.

Now, think of what you see at a farmer's market. If it's anything like the ones around here it's mostly food rather than "bland sugar-coated nonsense," (to quote the photographer) and a bag or basket carried on your arm serves the same purpose as the mega-cart designed to look like a cartoon race car. All those tents and people make it look more like a party than a store. I can also compare it with my CSA, where it is painfully obvious whether we are purchasing vegetables or meat, for example. Both of which would make for a more attractive picture postcard than this shot.

A gift

A farmer once told me that buying an apple at the farmers market is different from buying one at a big chain supermarket, but buying a book at an indie bookstore is no different from getting one on Amazon. "A book is a book," he said, "there's no difference in quality."

So begins the post of a Facebook friend this morning. It seems that in the wake of stories like the one published a few weeks back on the ruthless tactics employed in the large warehouses where people are exploited to pick our books and CDs and iPad covers and ear buds, a few people are reconsidering online purchases. It certainly affected me, an avowed online shopper.

When I lived in Portland, it was a lovely way to spend a rainy afternoon (and there are plenty of those), meandering through Powell’s City of Books. Back in the 70s, you could still smell the motor-y smell of the car dealership that had once occupied the space, and walk over the plywood that covered the erstwhile grease pits.

The habit stayed with me: college book lists meant a day trip Powell’s, both at the beginning of the semester (to buy) and the end (to sell). It was there that I fondled my first fine French Pléiades tomes, clad in calfskin, while my brother stocked up on Chilton manuals for his fleet. When I moved away, I found a local bookstore, Puss n’ Books, a place where you could lose yourself and your child for hours. Predictably, it could not bear the competition from the new kid on the block, Amazon, and so was no more.

So, I tried Amazon—who hasn’t? But I missed the used books, knowing that I was giving old books new life, and somehow connecting with other readers. When Powell’s went online, it regained its status as my go-to bookstore; it was as they say, a no-brainer. (You can see a link to Powell's on the left.)

But music was harder. My husband prefers a physical CD, so I had to go elsewhere when the local CD exchange emporium shuttered: the automated emails, the huge box and bubble wrap for the small item, the tracking number letting me follow its path across the country, the impenetrable customer service.

Then came another personal perfect storm: Mac McClelland’s warehouse wage slave article, and a post by my Irish fiddle teacher that he had a CD out—all about the time I was looking for the perfect something to mark Darling Husband’s birthday. With the CD located across the pond, I had to rule out buying it in person, so online it was. I clicked the link, expecting the slick automated shopping cart and checkout, and hoping against hope that it wasn’t a big warehouse with a sore-backed minimum wage slave.

It wasn’t. It was Walti, a friendly German fellow, who just happened to live in the village next to the one I had lived in Germany, and his website was refreshing: we’ll send your CD with an invoice, and we depend on your honesty to pay promptly. An exchange of emails between two people—no auto-reply bots—and CD and payment were both on their way.

The CD is lovely, familiar and new voices combined on familiar tunes, and Darling Husband likes it. I appreciate that the transaction was on a human scale. It is here that I must disagree with the farmer above: what I bought may be a commodity in the sense that CDs are manufactured (though in this case, Walti is selling his own voice), but buying from a person instead of a corporation meant that my experience was authentic and positive, something the big box folks will never be able to commoditize, as hard as they may try.

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.

Fruit platter

I have assumed my corporate mantle, in spite of Mother Nature's efforts to bring Seattle to its knees. It was no triumph of humanity over nature that got me out of an iced-over airport, just patience and dogged determination. After my 24-hour travel odyssey, I was rewarded with a hotel room, and a upgrade to the executive level.

There is a certain comfort for the weary road warrior to know exactly what to expect: the branded soft bed with choice of pillows, big fluffy towels, a desk and huge-screen TV with an assortment of cable channels. Unfortunately, the food is nearly always equally as predictable: a breakfast bar of bagels, toast and pastries, with juice, cut fruit, coffee and tea.  The fruit platter, regardless of the season, is a prime example of homogenized food: cantaloupe, honeydew, strawberries, watermelon and pineapple; only the garnish (raspberries and blackberries this week) changes.

Hotel lunches offers up a little more variety, but afternoon snacks are invariably a cookie and coffee. It's no wonder that business travelers stream out of hotels for dinner, seeking a hole in the wall that dares to serve something other than chicken Caesar salad or steak and potatoes.

It was in this context that a couple of us set out in the hour between the end of the meetings and needing to catch a flight home--anything to get some fresh air before heading back into a sealed box. So imagine our surprise and delight in turning the corner to be greeted by rows of easy-ups: a farmer's market. Tables groaning under baked goods, fruits, meats--real, seasonal food; the people lining up to buy the food outnumbered the sellers.

In that moment, the reminder that the seasons still exist not just as snowstorms to disturb flight plans and that the earth provides without shipping pineapples across the globe, I relaxed. Just the sight of frost-kissed greens, and the promise in that oasis of bounty in an icy concrete jungle, and I could feel the tension leave my body and my shoulders drop.

Turnips and kale, bread and eggs; not cantaloupe and strawberries. Farmers in the city, life in winter.

End of the road

In the fall of 1977, my parents decided to splurge: they bought a new car. Lest you think these Depression babies were throwing caution to the wind, note that their thrift showed through: they waited until the end of the model year to be able to negotiate on the price, and they eschewed nearly every option--including a radio. It was also only the second new car either of them had purchased.

It was bad enough from a teenager's viewpoint that the car was so incredibly sensible (shoulder belts before they were mandated), but the radio was insult to injury. Still, it meant my brother inherited the old one--a 1968 model, and I got to learn to drive in a new car.

It turned out to be one of those models that never had any major issues along the way, and when I returned to the US with a husband in tow in 1989, my parents gifted us the car to serve as our second wheels. All we needed was a house with a two-car garage. It was still shiny, with a just a few dings and rattles, but still, no major issues.

Our family grew, we purchased a wagon, and the old Volvo became Darling Husband's classic ride. The Mom-mobile changed a couple of times over the years, but the blue beast kept on going.

We bought touch-up paint in increasingly larger containers and gave up trying to wax it to shiny. In 2001, after a fellow blue wagon got totaled, it gifted its front seats and floor mats to the '77.

For its 30th birthday, we bought the car a tank of premium and new classic car plates, along with a lifetime exemption from renewal and tailpipe checks. It purred and kept going.

This year, with a teenager, we joked that if it was good enough for me to learn to drive in, it was good enough for him. And so Jr. Firefighter slipped behind the wheel and learned to drive.  He dutifully noted that the turn signal on one side wasn't always lighting, so we took it in for some work. We ended up rebuilding the taillight, since no new replacement part could be found.

And then, four days after Jr. Firefighter earned the magic piece of plastic, the car spiked a fever. No amount of coolant seemed to help, and the mechanic found the cancer had spread to several areas. Words like "machining" were uttered. Like the old Quaker carriage, all the parts seemed to be failing at once. I think, said the mechanic, it's time.

Right on schedule, the first of the seven stages of grief, denial, kicked in: we could just fix it, really, it just needed some quality time and some new parts. But when we started attaching numbers to the rather long list, it became clear that this car had come to the end of its run.

A charity that specializes in fixing up old reliable cars declined; even for a Volvo, they said, we don't think it's worth it. The guy in Ballard who does electric conversions said it was too young (!); he only takes pre-1975 Volvos. So today, we shall take a last family photo in front of it one last time, and sign papers to release our interest in it to a salvage yard. It has been a very good run.

But it has also been a model of bucking the trend, a manifestation of our values: maintaining a car is always less expensive and more environmentally friendly than buying new.

New, the car cost $7900, and we are actually getting a few dollars from the yard: $256. That averages to about $225 a year for car ownership. If we had followed the national average and replaced it with the equivalent new model every five years, we would have spent over $130,000; if we'd bucked the trend and waited 10 years between cars, we would still have spent close to $75,000.

Driving it until it can no longer be driven and sending it to a pull-a-part yard is "using it up, wearing it out." Its parts will help keep others in its model (made until 1993) alive, as we eke out as much use before it ends up in a crusher--to be melted into steel and recycled into a new car.

As we considered replacing it--because a three-driver family needs three cars, right?--we quickly realized that we will never be able to repeat this performance. Darling Husband will keep an eye on the classifieds, but for now, we shall remain a two-car, three-bus pass family with a healthy savings account and a clear conscience.

Full day

There is a delicious crispness in the air, the one that the poets among us wax, well, poetically about. The shifted hour means there is a wee sliver of light when the alarm rings (for I can no longer rely on the sun to wake me), and the warm man next to me makes me yearn for hibernation. But it is evening for my Parisian client, who is waiting to hear from me so she can head towards her own duvet, so rise I must.

Bleary-eyed, I wake the sleeping devices on my desk and they beep and blink to life. The file has arrived unharmed from its transatlantic trek, and looks to be in good shape. (Would that it were that easy for us!) I will work, but it will not be long hours of drudgery. Very good news indeed. There is time to join the waking men folk for breakfast.

I suppose I should put on lipstick, don a frilly apron, and produce fresh croissants, but this is a work week, so the toaster will have to do. Little One opts for toast flooded with butter and topped with cinnamon sugar, washed down with cocoa. Darling Husband does the honors, heating up a mug for himself, laced with peppermint syrup (he is no fan of pumpkin spice). I snuggle into his back, and make my own, laced with coffee, for I must be alert to understand the vagaries of smart buses and on-board telemetry (hey, isn’t that what my car has?).

But I am peckish too, and note that the boys’ foray in supermarket hunting has brought home my old friend Crumpet. Toasted twice, smeared with butter, I take a bite. Something is missing, I think, and wonder if there is an open jar of last year’s blood orange marmalade. No, but there is that grape jelly that didn’t quite gel that the boys keep asking for in their lunch. Sure enough, it is perfect, a tangy, sweet foil for the cool crisp morning.

But lest you think this is just a poetic snippet, and that my family treks out into the dawn with full bellies and perfect love in their hearts, a plot emerges: Little One shouts out, "I lost my tooth!" And indeed, there it is, the second this week (I pity the poor parent who will have to deal with two coming in in quick succession, but she will have to take it up with the Tooth Fairy). My day is now complete, with a wry smile for my husband, who knows tonight's date will take on a whole new dimension when we get home. Kisses all around, a trek back into the house for the forgotten bits, and off they go, as the breeze turns to splatty rain.

A perfect start to the day.