Walking by the garden recently, my attention was grabbed by a noisy rustling in the dull, dead leaves. A bird flew up, a flash of red caught my eye. In a moment I realized it was a towhee—a friend I hadn’t seen for a couple of decades. Where had this beautiful bird been all this time? The population of songbirds has been precipitously falling in recent years, due to human activities. Was this the reason why I hadn’t seen a towhee for so long? Are they getting rare and this sighting might be my last?
The Eastern towhee is described in one of my bird books as a “large New World sparrow.” Like some other cousins in the sparrow family, towhees forage on the ground. They use a “double-scratch” method of kicking both feet back simultaneously to expose bugs. Quite unlike the single-leg, more dignified and regally-paced scratch of a chicken, a towhee really gets into its dance—which is why it noisily caught my attention.
Back in the 80s, when I last spotted this bird, it was known as a rufous-sided towhee. The taxonomy of songbirds has been shifting in recent years, as DNA analysis and more acute observations have become available. It’s tough to follow a little songbird around the woods and note its habits. A recent breakthrough in this area has placed miniature transmitters on these birds, so they can now be tracked.
The towhee’s back and head are black; it’s belly is white. Sandwiched between these stark penguin colors are bright rufous sides. I think rufous is a bit of a tame word. I would be inclined to call it “screaming burnt orange,” especially when spotted in dull March, when the bird creates a racket among dead brown leaves on a still morning.
As another tidbit of a towhee taxonomy shift, New England towhees are red eyed while those south of Georgia have pale yellow eyes. (I didn’t get close enough to this guy to note the color—or whites—of his eyes.) These were once thought to be separate species but now they interbreed in the Carolinas. (Resulting in orange eyes, maybe to match their sides?) During the Pleistocene period Florida was an island and some towhees apparently became isolated there and their eye color morphed to yellow. Now they are mixing again. Darwin would love it.
I hope that my sighting of the towhee means that it’s making a comeback—at least a come back to our woods. It’s scary to think of where this human-caused collapse of songbird populations might be going. We need our feathered friends—both for the useful niche they occupy in the environment (read: bug eating) and for those flashes of beauty that cause our souls to soar.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
It’s Not Cabin Fever
In mid/late March a kind of itch stirs deep down inside me—an itch that is simply not able to be scratched. The solution lies outside myself, and it seems that there’s nothing I can do but wait. And wait I must—but with increasing impatience and petulance. The hankering behind the itch is to get outdoors; to once again soak up the sun’s warmth and play in the dirt.
Back in January and February the discomfort was called cabin fever. The cold and forbidding outdoors kept us mostly confined to the vicinity of the woodstove. We knew winter was in charge and would continue to hold sway for a couple of months. There was little hope of staying outdoors for any length of time, so we suffered heroically and stoically and turned to indoors activities.
But then a freak 75-degree day in early March draws you outside, and puts visions of veggies and berries in your head. It’s a glorious experience! But it’s nothing more than a tantalizing untimely taste of spring. Cold reality quickly sets in and tells you to hang on—true spring with its rebirth of life is not yet here.
Disappointingly we withdraw inside once again and feel that itch grow a little more irritating. No, it’s not cabin fever. It’s more like being in prison, but you know you’re about to be paroled. The misery is that you don’t know when you’ll be released. Someone else (Mother Nature is the warden in this case) holds the keys and insists upon dawdling with other preoccupations—disinclined to care about the fact that you are on tenterhooks and frustrated at your powerlessness to do nothing but pace the cage. Take a deep breath, let out the pent-up disgruntlement, and take solace in the knowledge that your day outside will come.
Back in January and February the discomfort was called cabin fever. The cold and forbidding outdoors kept us mostly confined to the vicinity of the woodstove. We knew winter was in charge and would continue to hold sway for a couple of months. There was little hope of staying outdoors for any length of time, so we suffered heroically and stoically and turned to indoors activities.
But then a freak 75-degree day in early March draws you outside, and puts visions of veggies and berries in your head. It’s a glorious experience! But it’s nothing more than a tantalizing untimely taste of spring. Cold reality quickly sets in and tells you to hang on—true spring with its rebirth of life is not yet here.
Disappointingly we withdraw inside once again and feel that itch grow a little more irritating. No, it’s not cabin fever. It’s more like being in prison, but you know you’re about to be paroled. The misery is that you don’t know when you’ll be released. Someone else (Mother Nature is the warden in this case) holds the keys and insists upon dawdling with other preoccupations—disinclined to care about the fact that you are on tenterhooks and frustrated at your powerlessness to do nothing but pace the cage. Take a deep breath, let out the pent-up disgruntlement, and take solace in the knowledge that your day outside will come.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Where’s the Dividing Line?
We humans have long believed ourselves to be fundamentally different from other creatures. We’ve pointed with pride to the many achievements of Homo sapiens as proof of our difference, even as evidence of our superiority—achievements such as the Pyramids, Gutenberg’s printing press, and the Twinkie. Of course, we’re far more reluctant to recognize our other unique “accomplishments” such as DDT, instruments of war, and global warming—but that’s a topic for another time.
I find it fascinating that many of the barriers we’ve erected between ourselves and other members of the animal kingdom are tumbling down, as science plods its inexorable way forward. We once were confident that making and using tools distinguished us from all other critters. We pointed to our African ancestors of hundreds of thousands of years ago, who fashioned sophisticated stone tools and then used them to become brilliantly effective hunters. It separated them from the other great apes. Surely that was special!
In the last few decades, however, research has demonstrated that other critters have developed pretty impressive tool skills. We first had to admit that chimpanzees do it, then other primates. More recent studies have shown that even “lowly” crows construct and employ some complex tools.
Well, OK, if we’re not unique in tool use, surely we are fundamentally different in our cognitive abilities. You know, that big brain of ours, with its massive cortex. In particular, we’d like to think that our consciousness, our self-recognition is unique. A dumb animal looks at its reflection in a pond and just sees another dumb animal, right? It has no ability to comprehend that it’s staring at itself, right?
Wrong. Numerous clever experiments have placed animals in front of mirrors (they do it with mirrors!) and have clearly demonstrated the existence of self-recognition. (On the part of the animal, that is. I assume the researchers already were able to recognize themselves.) In a recent study a dot was attached to a magpie, in such a way that the dot could be seen by the magpie only in a mirror. Guess what? The bird soon realized that the mirror image was itself (it began scratching at the dot) and not another animal.
Will these results begin to sink into our psyches and tell us that we are not as different and as unique as we once erroneously believed? Will we soon come to revere all creatures (not just humans), rather than insensitively abuse them? We’re all in the same boat—Homo sapiens, all the way “down” to bacteria. That boat is called Earth and it needs the mutual acceptance and tolerance of all its critters—especially from us, the critter who believes it’s on top.
I find it fascinating that many of the barriers we’ve erected between ourselves and other members of the animal kingdom are tumbling down, as science plods its inexorable way forward. We once were confident that making and using tools distinguished us from all other critters. We pointed to our African ancestors of hundreds of thousands of years ago, who fashioned sophisticated stone tools and then used them to become brilliantly effective hunters. It separated them from the other great apes. Surely that was special!
In the last few decades, however, research has demonstrated that other critters have developed pretty impressive tool skills. We first had to admit that chimpanzees do it, then other primates. More recent studies have shown that even “lowly” crows construct and employ some complex tools.
Well, OK, if we’re not unique in tool use, surely we are fundamentally different in our cognitive abilities. You know, that big brain of ours, with its massive cortex. In particular, we’d like to think that our consciousness, our self-recognition is unique. A dumb animal looks at its reflection in a pond and just sees another dumb animal, right? It has no ability to comprehend that it’s staring at itself, right?
Wrong. Numerous clever experiments have placed animals in front of mirrors (they do it with mirrors!) and have clearly demonstrated the existence of self-recognition. (On the part of the animal, that is. I assume the researchers already were able to recognize themselves.) In a recent study a dot was attached to a magpie, in such a way that the dot could be seen by the magpie only in a mirror. Guess what? The bird soon realized that the mirror image was itself (it began scratching at the dot) and not another animal.
Will these results begin to sink into our psyches and tell us that we are not as different and as unique as we once erroneously believed? Will we soon come to revere all creatures (not just humans), rather than insensitively abuse them? We’re all in the same boat—Homo sapiens, all the way “down” to bacteria. That boat is called Earth and it needs the mutual acceptance and tolerance of all its critters—especially from us, the critter who believes it’s on top.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Blinded by the Birds
Over the last couple of decades I’ve become increasingly drawn to birds. The more I come to understand and appreciate these creatures, the deeper my admiration. There is something captivating about birds: their beautiful colors, their graceful flight, their gorgeous singing, their funny behaviors. Maybe we humans envy the ability to fly, so we gaze at them with awe and vicariously soar along.
But birds also fill a crucial role in their world: their voracious appetite for bugs keeps the numbers of many insect pests in the safety zone. Knowing that human activity—destruction of habitat and several forms of environmental harm—has taken a devastating toll on bird populations, I feel an urge to do what I can to make their lives a little more peaceful and healthy, when they decide to inhabit our corner of the world. Then, later in the season, when their fancy turns to live bugs, we reap the benefits.
I set up a bird feeder years ago and faithfully keep it stocked with seeds and suet. Throughout the winter half a dozen kinds of feathered critters fly to and from the feeder to nearby branches, then bash apart sunflower seeds and litter the ground with the shells—sort of an avian-generated mulch. I enjoy the sounds of birds throughout the nearby woods, but am also magnetized by the sight of these perky creatures who are magnetized by the feeder.
If I stand at a distance and watch the feeder frenzy, I become captivated by their antics. Most of them (like chickadees and titmice) carry away a seed to whack it open on a nearby branch. Others (like finches and cardinals) squat on the feeder tray, mashing seeds open with their powerful beaks. I’m often compelled to dig out my binoculars to get a closer view.
It seems that if one gets sucked this far into bird antics, attempts at bird photography are inevitable. So I began shooting some photos, but quickly realized that, without unreasonably expensive telephoto lenses and such gear, good photos were beyond my present equipment. So why not build a blind close to the feeder, crawl into it with my camera, and see what I get?
After pondering various ways to blind myself to the birds, I came up with a scheme to try: sit on top of my stepladder and drape myself with a green tarp. OK, it’s pretty homely, but we have privacy here to do such weird things. If I leave the tarp sitting by the feeder—draping the stepladder—I find that the birds quickly learn to ignore the giant green lump. It doesn’t move and has no threatening tentacles.
When I climb under the tarp, peeking through a hole I cut in it, they tend to ignore me after a few minutes—even though my feet protrude from the bottom a little bit. (I’m careful not to shuffle them. And birds never saw a tarp with feet before, so they have no fear of it.) My blind seems to be working fine. I’ve gotten closer shots than I could otherwise, but it does get a little stuffy under there. Oh well, sacrifices are required, if you’re gonna get those National Geographic-like pix.
But birds also fill a crucial role in their world: their voracious appetite for bugs keeps the numbers of many insect pests in the safety zone. Knowing that human activity—destruction of habitat and several forms of environmental harm—has taken a devastating toll on bird populations, I feel an urge to do what I can to make their lives a little more peaceful and healthy, when they decide to inhabit our corner of the world. Then, later in the season, when their fancy turns to live bugs, we reap the benefits.
I set up a bird feeder years ago and faithfully keep it stocked with seeds and suet. Throughout the winter half a dozen kinds of feathered critters fly to and from the feeder to nearby branches, then bash apart sunflower seeds and litter the ground with the shells—sort of an avian-generated mulch. I enjoy the sounds of birds throughout the nearby woods, but am also magnetized by the sight of these perky creatures who are magnetized by the feeder.
If I stand at a distance and watch the feeder frenzy, I become captivated by their antics. Most of them (like chickadees and titmice) carry away a seed to whack it open on a nearby branch. Others (like finches and cardinals) squat on the feeder tray, mashing seeds open with their powerful beaks. I’m often compelled to dig out my binoculars to get a closer view.
It seems that if one gets sucked this far into bird antics, attempts at bird photography are inevitable. So I began shooting some photos, but quickly realized that, without unreasonably expensive telephoto lenses and such gear, good photos were beyond my present equipment. So why not build a blind close to the feeder, crawl into it with my camera, and see what I get?
After pondering various ways to blind myself to the birds, I came up with a scheme to try: sit on top of my stepladder and drape myself with a green tarp. OK, it’s pretty homely, but we have privacy here to do such weird things. If I leave the tarp sitting by the feeder—draping the stepladder—I find that the birds quickly learn to ignore the giant green lump. It doesn’t move and has no threatening tentacles.
When I climb under the tarp, peeking through a hole I cut in it, they tend to ignore me after a few minutes—even though my feet protrude from the bottom a little bit. (I’m careful not to shuffle them. And birds never saw a tarp with feet before, so they have no fear of it.) My blind seems to be working fine. I’ve gotten closer shots than I could otherwise, but it does get a little stuffy under there. Oh well, sacrifices are required, if you’re gonna get those National Geographic-like pix.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
The March of Spring
It is now mid March, and spring is well sprung. The many anticipatory weeks of longingly looking for early signs of the vernal period are over. It’s here! The endless stretch of the late winter doldrums is finally behind us. Celebrate! Equinox is just around the corner. The pace of awakening is quickening.
There is no gloomier time of year for me than the couple of months following winter solstice—when the pace of seasonal change slows to a glacial crawl. The root meaning of solstice is “sun stand still;” and nothing seems to move for weeks on end, except blowing snow. The old expression “slower than molasses in January” pretty much says it all for me. But now excitement bubbles up from within, as the welcome signs of spring are everywhere. Life is moving, is rejuvenating itself!
The earliest hints of spring—seen back in February—were very subtle and often invisible. One had to take it on faith that they were really there. Buds began to swell ever so slightly, animals stirred in their dens, and the days (if one really took note) were a teeny bit longer.
Now the signs are far more strident than mere hints. They are in your face! Days are strikingly longer. Birds begin to practice their territorial and mating calls—intermittent and tentative at first (as if their chirps are a little rusty), but getting bolder by the day. The more audacious of them already are singing long and lustily. Until recently the birds flocked cooperatively, sharing food and territory—but now they occasionally squabble and feint at one another, as if seeing which one will blink first. They are warming up for paring off.
The tree branches have gradually shifted from their gray-brown winter dullness to a shy flash of burgundy—soon to show a lusty red. Look close and you can see buds swelling and tentatively lifting from the protection of their twigs, as if to look cautiously around, before daring to burst open. They are pregnant with possibilities. Look closely at the ground and you can see the first tiny shoots of plants poking up. Oops!, there’s a crocus blossom. How did that happen so fast?
All these vernal outbreaks of nature also elicit a welcome change in us homestead humans. A warmish day will draw us outside to revel in the fresh air and sunshine. The garden calls out for its first ministrations—to which we joyfully answer with an overly-abundant enthusiasm. Then we find ourselves nursing aching muscles the next day. That’s OK; our spirits are lifted so high by spring’s arrival that a few aches are a welcome price. Hmmm, I wonder how this year’s first tomato will taste.
There is no gloomier time of year for me than the couple of months following winter solstice—when the pace of seasonal change slows to a glacial crawl. The root meaning of solstice is “sun stand still;” and nothing seems to move for weeks on end, except blowing snow. The old expression “slower than molasses in January” pretty much says it all for me. But now excitement bubbles up from within, as the welcome signs of spring are everywhere. Life is moving, is rejuvenating itself!
The earliest hints of spring—seen back in February—were very subtle and often invisible. One had to take it on faith that they were really there. Buds began to swell ever so slightly, animals stirred in their dens, and the days (if one really took note) were a teeny bit longer.
Now the signs are far more strident than mere hints. They are in your face! Days are strikingly longer. Birds begin to practice their territorial and mating calls—intermittent and tentative at first (as if their chirps are a little rusty), but getting bolder by the day. The more audacious of them already are singing long and lustily. Until recently the birds flocked cooperatively, sharing food and territory—but now they occasionally squabble and feint at one another, as if seeing which one will blink first. They are warming up for paring off.
The tree branches have gradually shifted from their gray-brown winter dullness to a shy flash of burgundy—soon to show a lusty red. Look close and you can see buds swelling and tentatively lifting from the protection of their twigs, as if to look cautiously around, before daring to burst open. They are pregnant with possibilities. Look closely at the ground and you can see the first tiny shoots of plants poking up. Oops!, there’s a crocus blossom. How did that happen so fast?
All these vernal outbreaks of nature also elicit a welcome change in us homestead humans. A warmish day will draw us outside to revel in the fresh air and sunshine. The garden calls out for its first ministrations—to which we joyfully answer with an overly-abundant enthusiasm. Then we find ourselves nursing aching muscles the next day. That’s OK; our spirits are lifted so high by spring’s arrival that a few aches are a welcome price. Hmmm, I wonder how this year’s first tomato will taste.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Blog Intent
This may seem a little late to be writing on what my intent is with this blog, but it might be useful to reexamine my motivations. Before embarking on writing this blog I spent several months pondering what I was hoping to do with it—what my aims were. I still wrestle with those intentions, seeking to clarify my purpose.
By dint of choosing the title “Hermit Musings” I made some decisions as to its intent. To muse is to ponder, reflect, ruminate, evaluate, meditate. My intent here is to chew over things and to write about them.
Many times I’ve asked myself, Who am I writing for? If I were describing very personal matters, I’d best enter them in a journal. In contrast, if I were writing for a wide audience, I’d try to get published in a magazine. I like to do both of those, but the blog is somewhere in between; I’m still not sure where.
As I’ve pondered my motivations, I’ve come up with a few topics that I’m trying to explore in this blog and a few topics I intentionally avoid. One area I love to explore is my interactions with and readings about the natural world. I like to ponder nature’s wonders that I see and learn about, reflect on them, dig a little deeper, and thus either seek to understand them better or have a little fun playing with the possibilities they suggest.
A second area I delve into is trying to figure out the true nature of existence—get past the immediate and surface impressions and try to get a peek at a deeper reality. How and why did things come to be what they are? How does my world tick?
A third motivation is to practice the writing art—trying to organize my thoughts and express them in a coherent manner. In my private journal I am free to be sloppy when I wish to, but the blog is written with the expectation that someone might read it, and thus it behooves me to respect their time and try to write as concisely and understandably as I can.
Threaded through all of these motivations is my basic desire for improved understanding—of my experiences, of my world, and how to communicate with others.
There are a few areas that I try to avoid in this blog: current events, politics, the very personal, judgments, and certainties. Current events quickly grow stale. Politics can be divisive. I’ll keep the personal stuff to myself. I don’t feel that I am in a position to judge anyone, and there is little in life that is certain (especially just when we think it is).
So these are my musings. I don’t claim to have a corner on the truth or possess any definitive answers to life’s phenomena. I prefer to sit with the mystery, accepting the fact that I don’t know the answers. I’ll try to keep an open mind, chew on things, and see where it takes me.
By dint of choosing the title “Hermit Musings” I made some decisions as to its intent. To muse is to ponder, reflect, ruminate, evaluate, meditate. My intent here is to chew over things and to write about them.
Many times I’ve asked myself, Who am I writing for? If I were describing very personal matters, I’d best enter them in a journal. In contrast, if I were writing for a wide audience, I’d try to get published in a magazine. I like to do both of those, but the blog is somewhere in between; I’m still not sure where.
As I’ve pondered my motivations, I’ve come up with a few topics that I’m trying to explore in this blog and a few topics I intentionally avoid. One area I love to explore is my interactions with and readings about the natural world. I like to ponder nature’s wonders that I see and learn about, reflect on them, dig a little deeper, and thus either seek to understand them better or have a little fun playing with the possibilities they suggest.
A second area I delve into is trying to figure out the true nature of existence—get past the immediate and surface impressions and try to get a peek at a deeper reality. How and why did things come to be what they are? How does my world tick?
A third motivation is to practice the writing art—trying to organize my thoughts and express them in a coherent manner. In my private journal I am free to be sloppy when I wish to, but the blog is written with the expectation that someone might read it, and thus it behooves me to respect their time and try to write as concisely and understandably as I can.
Threaded through all of these motivations is my basic desire for improved understanding—of my experiences, of my world, and how to communicate with others.
There are a few areas that I try to avoid in this blog: current events, politics, the very personal, judgments, and certainties. Current events quickly grow stale. Politics can be divisive. I’ll keep the personal stuff to myself. I don’t feel that I am in a position to judge anyone, and there is little in life that is certain (especially just when we think it is).
So these are my musings. I don’t claim to have a corner on the truth or possess any definitive answers to life’s phenomena. I prefer to sit with the mystery, accepting the fact that I don’t know the answers. I’ll try to keep an open mind, chew on things, and see where it takes me.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Low Tech, Long Lasting
Our culture has created a high-tech, throw-away society. The high-tech part can be alluring and exciting to us all—to wit, the long lines outside a big box store when the latest electronic doodad goes on sale. Furthermore, due to rapid improvements that are made in these products, manufacturers are encouraged to make them shoddy and fragile. Who expects them to last? They quickly get trashed and replaced. We consumers are encouraged to do our part to participate in an ever-expanding economy; never to feel satisfied, to constantly be grasping for more.
Years ago my spouse and I migrated from the city out to the country, to explore living closer to the land—what is often referred to as “simple living.” It really is anything but simple, since it requires a lot of effort and a complex routine to make a go of it. Since it also bucks the trend of a high-tech, throw-away lifestyle, a more accurate term for our approach might be a “low-tech, long-lasting” lifestyle.
What are we seeking, as we attempt to live a low-tech, long-lasting existence? A major goal is that it requires a minimal income and hence allows us to achieve as much freedom as possible from a dependence on having a good income and acquiring stuff. It’s a non-consumerist path. It also requires more of a do-it-yourself lifestyle, that finds us seeking ways to indefinitely maintain or construct our own doodads. Its greatest reward is that it can lead you to have more time to value the more mundane things of this world—such as the satisfaction of using a fine hand tool, walks in the woods, pausing to gaze at a sunset, or sitting and watching a new kind of bug crawl up your arm.
Low tech, long lasting means that one seeks doodads that are durable, uncomplicated, and well suited to a purpose. A simple hand tool can be a lifetime companion. Low-tech items are also easier on the environment—they use fewer resources and create less trash.
Some of the ways we’ve tried to practice the low-tech, long-lasting lifestyle are to buy vehicles and appliances that last (good luck!), buy hand tools, carefully wash and wear clothes until they get thin and gauzy, repair broken items, and search for doodads that are tough. It’s a process that teaches you, the more you get into it.
The low-tech, long-lasting life is a struggle, when one lives in a high-tech, throw-away world. It’s going against the cultural grain. For example, it often requires a lengthy search trying to find the low-tech and durable items that hide like needles in commercial haystacks. It can be a path that’s strewn with false starts and mistakes; when you think you’ve selected an item that will last, only to find that it’s another flimsy doodad that quickly breaks down.
No, the low-tech, long-lasting lifestyle is not simple. How much effort do you put into seeking enduring items? When do you give up the struggle and take the easier, less sustainable route? When do you compromise, in order to live in this world and communicate with it? It’s a never-ending challenge. Even the answers are not simple.
Years ago my spouse and I migrated from the city out to the country, to explore living closer to the land—what is often referred to as “simple living.” It really is anything but simple, since it requires a lot of effort and a complex routine to make a go of it. Since it also bucks the trend of a high-tech, throw-away lifestyle, a more accurate term for our approach might be a “low-tech, long-lasting” lifestyle.
What are we seeking, as we attempt to live a low-tech, long-lasting existence? A major goal is that it requires a minimal income and hence allows us to achieve as much freedom as possible from a dependence on having a good income and acquiring stuff. It’s a non-consumerist path. It also requires more of a do-it-yourself lifestyle, that finds us seeking ways to indefinitely maintain or construct our own doodads. Its greatest reward is that it can lead you to have more time to value the more mundane things of this world—such as the satisfaction of using a fine hand tool, walks in the woods, pausing to gaze at a sunset, or sitting and watching a new kind of bug crawl up your arm.
Low tech, long lasting means that one seeks doodads that are durable, uncomplicated, and well suited to a purpose. A simple hand tool can be a lifetime companion. Low-tech items are also easier on the environment—they use fewer resources and create less trash.
Some of the ways we’ve tried to practice the low-tech, long-lasting lifestyle are to buy vehicles and appliances that last (good luck!), buy hand tools, carefully wash and wear clothes until they get thin and gauzy, repair broken items, and search for doodads that are tough. It’s a process that teaches you, the more you get into it.
The low-tech, long-lasting life is a struggle, when one lives in a high-tech, throw-away world. It’s going against the cultural grain. For example, it often requires a lengthy search trying to find the low-tech and durable items that hide like needles in commercial haystacks. It can be a path that’s strewn with false starts and mistakes; when you think you’ve selected an item that will last, only to find that it’s another flimsy doodad that quickly breaks down.
No, the low-tech, long-lasting lifestyle is not simple. How much effort do you put into seeking enduring items? When do you give up the struggle and take the easier, less sustainable route? When do you compromise, in order to live in this world and communicate with it? It’s a never-ending challenge. Even the answers are not simple.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Getting the Wood In
A splendid winter experience is cozying up to a fine fire in the woodstove, as it radiates its warmth throughout the house. On the most bitter days, when the wind howls threateningly outside, we can stand close to the stove, slowly rotating, and feel the heat seep deeply into our aging bones. Wail away, Old Man Winter!
Our woodstove—being the sole source of heat for the house—is essential, so it’s warmth is something that we’ve sought to dependably provide. (More on that mission below.) It’s gratifying not to have to be subject to the whims and capricious supply lines of the gas and oil companies. And if the electric power goes out in a storm, not to worry; it has no impact on the woodstove.
We live in an underground house, so we burn about one-third the wood that our conventionally-housed neighbors do. We consume a cord and a half of wood each winter—a modest amount, of which I get more and more appreciative, as I age.
But all those advantages of our wood-burning routine come at a cost: the labor required to saw, haul, and split the wood. (There is no free lunch.) If those tasks are bungled, burning wood to heat one’s abode can transform from a pleasure into a grim ordeal. Over the nearly 30 winters that I’ve stoked a woodstove, I’ve learned a few lessons on how to successfully gather firewood (or not). There have been more than a few times when I miscalculated (cut too little) or was slow in splitting and stacking my wood supply. Then later in the heating season, I was scrambling to find and burn inferior wood—stuff that was too green, damp, or too decayed and punky. Rather than luxuriate in those cozy times around the stove, we found ourselves fighting smoky fires, cursing crappy logs, and shivering in the resulting chill.
The best guarantee of building a backlog of high-quality wood: get your butt out in the woods a year or more ahead of time and do the work. It’s mostly a question of discipline. We have plenty of oak trees—one of the primo woodstove fuels. Rarely do I have to cut down a live one—storms seem to do the job for me. (That’s nice. It’s an intimidating experience toppling a three-foot diameter oak.) The trees are reasonably close to the house. So we are quite blessed by a handy, high-quality wood supply. I simply have to avoid procrastinating and dive into my wood labors.
Yep, it sure is nice to load up the woodstove in the evening with hard, dry logs and then get up the next morning to find a hot bed of ashes waiting, into which I toss a couple of picture-perfect logs. The teakettle is swiftly whistling. It’s even nicer to know that there’s a big pile of well-seasoned logs, just outside the door.
Our woodstove—being the sole source of heat for the house—is essential, so it’s warmth is something that we’ve sought to dependably provide. (More on that mission below.) It’s gratifying not to have to be subject to the whims and capricious supply lines of the gas and oil companies. And if the electric power goes out in a storm, not to worry; it has no impact on the woodstove.
We live in an underground house, so we burn about one-third the wood that our conventionally-housed neighbors do. We consume a cord and a half of wood each winter—a modest amount, of which I get more and more appreciative, as I age.
But all those advantages of our wood-burning routine come at a cost: the labor required to saw, haul, and split the wood. (There is no free lunch.) If those tasks are bungled, burning wood to heat one’s abode can transform from a pleasure into a grim ordeal. Over the nearly 30 winters that I’ve stoked a woodstove, I’ve learned a few lessons on how to successfully gather firewood (or not). There have been more than a few times when I miscalculated (cut too little) or was slow in splitting and stacking my wood supply. Then later in the heating season, I was scrambling to find and burn inferior wood—stuff that was too green, damp, or too decayed and punky. Rather than luxuriate in those cozy times around the stove, we found ourselves fighting smoky fires, cursing crappy logs, and shivering in the resulting chill.
The best guarantee of building a backlog of high-quality wood: get your butt out in the woods a year or more ahead of time and do the work. It’s mostly a question of discipline. We have plenty of oak trees—one of the primo woodstove fuels. Rarely do I have to cut down a live one—storms seem to do the job for me. (That’s nice. It’s an intimidating experience toppling a three-foot diameter oak.) The trees are reasonably close to the house. So we are quite blessed by a handy, high-quality wood supply. I simply have to avoid procrastinating and dive into my wood labors.
Yep, it sure is nice to load up the woodstove in the evening with hard, dry logs and then get up the next morning to find a hot bed of ashes waiting, into which I toss a couple of picture-perfect logs. The teakettle is swiftly whistling. It’s even nicer to know that there’s a big pile of well-seasoned logs, just outside the door.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
Orbital Trash
Humans have been shooting rockets into Earth orbit for over 50 years. Although a few satellites have perished in spectacular reentry burnings, most of them are still up there. Their number increases almost daily. Once a satellite breaks up or a bit of junk gets loose up there, it will likely stay in orbit for decades, even centuries.
NASA tracks many thousands of pieces of space junk that could cause harm by flying into orbiting satellites or even manned spacecraft. The International Space Station (ISS) has been nudged into a slightly different orbit a few times, in order to avoid colliding with some debris.
Two recent events have added thousands of additional bits of trash to Earth orbit. In January 2007 the Chinese deliberately blew up (in a well-aimed collision with a rocket) one of their own defunct weather satellites, in what appears to have been a menacing warning to other space-faring nations: “We can be fearsome in space.” That explosion alone increased orbital trash by some 20%. Then in February 2009, a US and a Russian communication satellite collided—in an astonishing coincidence. That crash added much more debris, which is still being counted.
We humans seem to be prone to trashing our environment—whether on land, sea, or air (and now space). It’s as if we think that the great outdoors is so vast that our junk will somehow get swallowed up and never accumulate. But we’re trashing our world, and it’s accumulating fast. Our landfills are filling, our oceans are getting clogged up, our atmosphere is getting inundated with too much CO2. Now space junk surrounds the planet.
Back in 1978 a NASA scientist, Donald Kessler, sounded an alarm about orbital trash. He described (30 years ago!) an ever-increasing accumulation of litter that can get out of hand and begin to cause a cascading number of collisions out there. The US-Russian satellite accident may be an augur of things to come. Kessler warned that all that junk may eventually become so plentiful as to shut down space flights for generations. His ominous scenario is known as the Kessler Syndrome.
The major current concern about space litter is a calamitous collision with a space shuttle or with the ISS. A tiny piece of metal the size of your thumbnail can wreak lots of damage, when it smashes into your spacecraft at 15,000 mph. Close examinations of returning space shuttles have revealed small dents and holes from minuscule bits of space trash. What can be done about the accumulation? No technology that we now possess can vacuum the stuff up.
Will the problem continue to increase, to the point of completely stopping space launches? Will we wake up and quit trashing space, before it goes that far? Or will we follow the same path we have with global warming—ignoring the problem until it’s out of control? Tune back in, in a generation or so, for the answers.
NASA tracks many thousands of pieces of space junk that could cause harm by flying into orbiting satellites or even manned spacecraft. The International Space Station (ISS) has been nudged into a slightly different orbit a few times, in order to avoid colliding with some debris.
Two recent events have added thousands of additional bits of trash to Earth orbit. In January 2007 the Chinese deliberately blew up (in a well-aimed collision with a rocket) one of their own defunct weather satellites, in what appears to have been a menacing warning to other space-faring nations: “We can be fearsome in space.” That explosion alone increased orbital trash by some 20%. Then in February 2009, a US and a Russian communication satellite collided—in an astonishing coincidence. That crash added much more debris, which is still being counted.
We humans seem to be prone to trashing our environment—whether on land, sea, or air (and now space). It’s as if we think that the great outdoors is so vast that our junk will somehow get swallowed up and never accumulate. But we’re trashing our world, and it’s accumulating fast. Our landfills are filling, our oceans are getting clogged up, our atmosphere is getting inundated with too much CO2. Now space junk surrounds the planet.
Back in 1978 a NASA scientist, Donald Kessler, sounded an alarm about orbital trash. He described (30 years ago!) an ever-increasing accumulation of litter that can get out of hand and begin to cause a cascading number of collisions out there. The US-Russian satellite accident may be an augur of things to come. Kessler warned that all that junk may eventually become so plentiful as to shut down space flights for generations. His ominous scenario is known as the Kessler Syndrome.
The major current concern about space litter is a calamitous collision with a space shuttle or with the ISS. A tiny piece of metal the size of your thumbnail can wreak lots of damage, when it smashes into your spacecraft at 15,000 mph. Close examinations of returning space shuttles have revealed small dents and holes from minuscule bits of space trash. What can be done about the accumulation? No technology that we now possess can vacuum the stuff up.
Will the problem continue to increase, to the point of completely stopping space launches? Will we wake up and quit trashing space, before it goes that far? Or will we follow the same path we have with global warming—ignoring the problem until it’s out of control? Tune back in, in a generation or so, for the answers.
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