The Distinction Between Homesteading and Survivalism

  This morning was the big clean-out day in my pantry and larder. Through the years, one tends to amass items that, for a short time, seem important but upon further reflection bear no real significance to one’s current daily activities or lifestyle. Today I came face to face with the small nooks of my own hording and asked myself, truly, if these items were really necessary for me to continue to hold on to into the future. Some of the treasures I uncovered included various shapes and sizes of vessels for holding any number of products; gallon jugs, half gallon jugs, salad dressing-sized jars, glass cylinders for ferments, etc. etc. etc…. Every item I touched was covered in a thick layer of dust indicating their obsolescence to my current life stage. So I sucked it up, grabbed a cardboard box and one by one placed these items into the give-away pile. Some I pondered longer than others before placing them into the box….my inner preparedness expert screaming out that ‘someday-I might need this or that’ and when that time comes I will be overcome with regret for placing said item willingly into the hands of someone else. And then a part of me opened up and was overjoyed with the prospect of the future life that existed for everything contained within that box.  To someone else, my ‘yesterday’ would be their ‘today’. And with a great sense of relief I placed the box in my car, forever sealing its fate.

  Next on my list was my stockpile of canned and dried food. Each jar I touched contained hours of love and labor. Each had been prepared under the best of intentions; the long-term security of my family’s needs. I ruminated over the small mountain of clearly past-prime goods that started to build on my pantry floor. Then, one by one, I opened the lids and dumped the contents into the compost.  And inside, part of me rejoiced and part of me cried.

  The reality of the matter is that it is impossible, even when you try your hardest, to hold on to everything. All these jars were my attempt to hold on to the sunshine that I felt years ago, to hold on to the colors and flavors that I no longer feel a desire for.  These jars were meant to hold onto a feeling of safety and of ‘enough-ness’ in a time when I felt so much vulnerability and desperation (and despair).  Today, I came face to face with my past and chose, for the most part, to move into the future.  I realized that there is a distinct difference between survivalism and homesteading and often that line is a blurry, hazy mess of emotions based off of past life experiences and future hopes and dreams.  A survivialist goes it alone; a homesteader believes in the power of community.  I mean really, how naïve we humans are to believe that we have the ability to make do in this world without reliance on the talent of others. Truly, my pantry is not large enough to ‘survive’ any major catastrophe longer than a few weeks, maybe months. How large of a horde would one need to really survive or more importantly, to continue to thrive? Frankly, thriving is not something I would choose to do alone and instead feel it is much more rewarding to continue into the future believing that given the opportunity to test ones abilities, we would all be better off working together.

  So today, I transitioned back to being a homesteader and made one more move away from the depressing world of survivalism.  I will continue to set aside the provisions I need to keep my family well-fed and comfortable and I will hold on to the tools I still feel are relevant given my own personal talents. But I will no longer hold on to the quiet expectation that has lingered on and off in the back of my mind that, if the moment arrived, somehow my family’s future would be fulfilling without the assistance of others.  This little lie is the distinction between optimism and fear. I am letting go of my fear and am trusting in my friends.

A Scathing Letter to the Editor of Vegetable Growers News

Recently I read the Editor’s Letter in Vegetable Grower’s News entitled ‘The unintended effects of activism’.  Any of us who are in the organic farming world know that this publication is provided free of charge to growers because it is subsidized by advertising and ‘informational’ pieces provided by large ag companies ranging from seed providers to herbicides. There is often very little ‘news’ that applies to the organic industry but I still choose to skim through it from time to time to keep on issues that are affecting larger, industrial crop producers. This op-ed piece in particular I found completely troubling from a human rights perspective to the point that I felt driven to write this counter-piece.

The whole editorial revolves around the ‘battleground for a living wage’ and the rate that producers will now have to pay to their employees if legislation does in fact take place to raise the minimum wage from the measly $7.25/hr to $15/hr; a move that is poised to take place in increments over the next 6 years. Frankly, I am personally appalled that the minimum wage nationally can still exist under $10/hr. On a recent trip to the grocery store, I purchased cereal, cream and milk, bottled water, two frozen pizzas and a watermelon for my children. The total at the check-out counter came to over $60 to cover the expenses of one shitty ‘take-out’ style dinner and maybe enough breakfasts to feed my kids for a little under a week. At the federal minimum wage level I would have had to work nearly 10 hours (over a full 8 hour workday) to make enough to pay for this very basic grocery trip. There would be nothing left over to pay for our mortgage, my car, the gas to put in my car, health insurance, and the clothes to keep my family from walking the streets naked much less any type  of free-time activities (like taking my kids to the city pool).  Fuck that.

So it angers me to see this balding, aging middle-class white dude telling me what an atrocity it is that the ag industry will actually have to give their farm hands a raise. Sir, have you ever worked in ag or have you only written about it? If you have spent any time laboring on your hands and knees in the blazing hot sun or a freezing cold November rain, you know that your time spent working a full 8 hour day better be damn well worth more than a couple of frozen pizzas. Which, frankly, is why you sir did not choose farm labor as your career but instead chose the very cushy job of journalism (As I sit here at my comfortable desk drinking my fair trade coffee w/ organic cream…I know how hard of a struggle it can be to write some words on a piece of paper in my pajamas).

Your letter states that the reason to avoid raising the minimum wage is a loss of jobs, an increase in mechanization and moving production out of the US. Sir, this has already happened. All large farms have been working tirelessly to rid themselves of the headache of actually having employees. Who wants to pay L&I and Federal Employment Security Taxes anyway? And if you think that it is so overly simple to move production out of the country, please remember that moving production actually means having some good arable land with water and fertility resources to actually move to. These aren’t shoe factories, they are farms!

And your argument that farmers cannot recoup costs because they cannot set the price on goods is weak. You big farmers set the system up this way for yourselves during the last century, now deal with the consequences. You yourselves are no more than slaves to the industrial food complex. Stop whining about your lot in life and organize a revolt. Start asking to be compensated for your commodities at a fair exchange rate. Work with each other as growers rather than against each other. Form a fucking farm union. Remember what unions used to be good for…they used to keep ordinary people from getting screwed by big business! Take a stand rather than continuing to play the victim. This spineless mentality is getting so old.

And, rather than continuing to spew the dogma of the antiquated machine known as modern agriculture, why not encourage farmers to step up and do the right thing. Raise the minimum wage and encourage your workers to make a living rather than remain enslaved in poverty. Farming is a highly skilled, physically intensive job. Stop whitewashing the facts. Stop perpetuating the myth that farm work is unskilled labor unworthy of a reasonable rate of pay. This is a fallacy and it is offensive to those of us who have spent our lives with our hands (our white hands) in the dirt. I am fucking sick of migrant labor (the majority of the workforce in large ag) being treated like less than human. When will this end? Never, without a change in attitude toward one’s employees. Shame on you, Mr. Lee Dean for continuing to perpetuate this system of capitalism at its worst. I hope when you are sent to hell, you will be bent over for 8 hours, picking strawberries by hand on a 90 degree day for $58 before taxes.

In Praise of Homework

On a regular basis, I come face to face with articles telling me that homework is not helping my children. These pieces are laced with strong feelings about the value of childhood and playtime and the complaint from parents that they don't want to spend their after school time 'fighting' with their kiddos to complete the assignments that have been sent home in their backpacks.
I have many friends who feel inclined to take the homework packet and chuck it directly from the take-home folder into the recycling bin. I hear these stories and then proceed to keep my mouth zipped tightly shut. I am not looking to start a fight, but I can't help but vehemently disagree with the 'anti-homework' movement. In my experience, some children may actually need homework to thrive.

I concede that homework may not be for every child, but it is certainly a necessity for at least one of my children. Now at the age of 9, my oldest and I have had years of negotiating after-school routines. I have found that our happiest days incorporate a very rigorous homework schedule; just the opposite of what is advocated by the 'no-homework' movement. Although there are probably some kids who would use their after school time to play outside, create artistic masterpieces, or challenge themselves with advanced reading and writing, my kid is not one of those. My child would choose instead to spend any and all extra unstructured free-time playing video games and lounging on the couch until dinner or even bedtime. And I am certain that he isn't the only one. Giving him the freedom to 'just be a child' is not helping  him....in fact, I am pretty sure that left unchecked it will cause more harm than good in the long term.

Homework serves many purposes in our household aside from the skills that they are intended to strengthen. First and foremost, homework gives me insight into what my children are learning at school. By sitting with my kids or at least being present while they are completing their take-home assignments I can see where they are struggling and where they are excelling. When I know where the point of struggle comes from, it allows me to step in and 'guide' them through the learning process to help ease the stress and frustration that comes along with a difficult task. I don't give my children the answers, I just help them to think about their assignments in a different way and offer alternative suggestions on how to achieve success. This has helped my reluctant learner to become more confident and engaged academically and has helped my younger learner to feel comfortable sharing learning suggestions with others in her class that may also be struggling with the same concepts. When I know where they are excelling, it allows me to offer my kids greater opportunities for learning that keep them challenged and engaged. This helps to eliminate the boredom that comes along with mastery. It gives us the opportunity to discuss, together, the 'bigger picture' of the target subject (beyond just grade-level) and for the kids to choose for themselves how they would like to progress. For my oldest, it usually means  learning math concepts that involve algebra, geometry and basic calculus since grade-level math (adding, subtracting, and multiplication) is no longer interesting. Without the homework, I would not know where their individual skill levels fall in relation to what is happening in class. I actually give my kids additional homework to help them explore subjects that they are passionate about...and they like it.

For me as a parent, homework is also the tool that I  use to keep my children engaged in learning even when school is over for the day. That is a pretty important skill to master; as important as unstructured play. I have seen very clearly that our society puts a weak (at best) emphasis on life long learning. Since I am in disagreement with this as well, it is natural that I find myself opposed to the 'no homework' mindset. Moreover, I feel that free time should be a chance to learn about all of the things that interest you but that you didn't have the ability to study during the hours of the day that were set aside for structured, goal-oriented learning. Homework sets a precedent that just because the school day is done, it doesn't mean that learning should stop. This is a skill that I wish more adults possessed as well.

Homework offers some structure and routine to after school free-time. I find it interesting that so many people argue for a lack of structure in free-time for elementary aged children when it is so obvious how important structure and routine are for pre-schoolers and toddlers. Elementary aged kiddos still thrive on routine. They like consistency. For us, homework lessens the anxiety that comes along with too much free choice. Trust me, that sounds ridiculous, even to me....but I still believe it to be true. The school days that do not involve homework evoke a different 'feel' and often, my children are more likely to mill about fighting with each other; uncertain of what their role is in this unstructured time. Because homework is such a part of our daily ritual, my kids will now assign themselves their own version of 'homework' if none has been assigned to them. They find it comforting. Homework is used as a transition time between 'school time' and 'home time'.

Elementary school homework is the 'soft' transition into accountability. If you think it is hard to get your kiddos to do their assignments now, just wait until middle school or high school when after-school work begins to take an hour or more to complete rather than 10 minutes. I don't believe that you are doing your children any favors by delaying this inevitability. Again, homework establishes the routine that will become a common, unavoidable theme later in life.

 Lastly, I believe that homework sets a precedence for responsibility. As a parent, if you are taking your child's homework and throwing it away, it is telling your child that it is okay to give the finger to work that you don't agree with. Honestly, there are many times that I would like to do the same thing with my work. However, if I started to chuck every work assignment that I didn't agree with or thought was boring, I would eventually be fired. The homework that your child is bringing home in elementary school is the easiest that it will ever be in their entire life and it is your chance as a parent to start instilling a sense of responsibility for completing the task (however mundane) that is assigned to them.

Obviously, I am expecting a lot of mixed feedback regarding my own personal opinion on the subject. I am not saying that homework is right for every family, but I am tired of hearing that is wrong as well. Ultimately, parents are as responsible as schools in the education of their children and it will be up to each family to decide what the important things in life are. In our family, we place a high value education. Homework helps us to strengthen our familial bonds around this fundamental core value. Please stop telling me that I am harming my children by asking them to be active, life-long learners.

TATTOO

**This piece was written for the Write On The River annual writer's competition where it received an Honorable Mention for non-fiction writing.**


Her grandmother called it a sin.

  March got her first tattoo when she was twenty-one. A Christmas gift from the Wolf (her lover), it was a modest self-drawn snowflake inked into place by a shaky-handed apprentice to the great Wanda H. of Peoria, Illinois.  They had driven 7 hours along flat, featureless winter roads to fill a weekend with wake-n-bakes, hard music, heavy drinking, long-standing friendship, unspeakable love and some virgin ink. The needle offered a new sensation to her life and her brain felt in tune with the rhythm of its sounds and the heat from its sting. Later, standing in the filthy bathroom with her shirt pulled up over her head, March carefully removed the bandages from her shoulder, examined the art she had acquired and smiled. It was as if someone had opened the door to an invisible cage and allowed her to walk out, free.

  Thinking back, March remembered the first time she had entered this room. Flash Art encased in protective acrylic sleeves filled the walls as her high school girlfriend flipped through the pages of each plastic-bound book of images. It was a neon-filled parlor in a Wisconsin tourist trap of a town. Overweight moms and Harley dads and newly turned eighteen-year-olds exploring their freedom and not much else. She couldn’t even remember the symbol that had finally been chosen since it was meaningless. Art didn’t live here. This was more like a dare. This way, was without love.....

  Her next visit to a parlor happened within the year but, again, it was not she who sat the chair. Standing alongside her enigmatic friend, March watched as the artist tried to make sense of the sinuous space left behind from the scoliosis along Little Bird’s spine. Little Bird had been a gymnast as a child and the rigors of training and poor genetics left her twisted but strong. The final piece followed the center of Little Bird’s back, but not the bones beneath. It was a list of carefully chosen symbols in black and flesh, set with an overly-heavy hand. The art healed dark and scarred and beautiful like Little Bird herself.

  At a party that winter, someone pulled out a home tattooing kit and began working the soft skin inside Kiah’s lower lip. Small stabs of blueish ink began to form out the word that would remain there forever. On the perpetrator’s wrist lived a bolt of lightning and on her partner’s hand a crescent moon.  Eventually, March would watch those two people grow older together, separate, remain friends and finally dissolve into obscurity. But still, the bolt and the moon remained alongside the memory of that night.

  In the spring, March got home late from class and had to ride her bike as fast as the wind to reach the shop in time. He was already in the chair and the work was nearly complete. The Wolf had chosen an ancient script that wrapped gracefully around his muscular calf. The needle began to bounce as it passed over the bone in his shin and he drew in his breath deeply to compensate. The size and scope of the art was larger this time, the session lasting hours. In the end, the Wolf was tired and drawn and shivering with adrenaline. March followed him home and kissed his watery eyes.

  The fall was crisp and golden. Always happy, Cat decided that her time had come and asked if March would sit with her while the ink work was done. Cat’s skin turned red and blotchy beneath the needle and small droplets of blood exuded themselves from the damaged tissue. A cacophony of musical notes spread gracefully across her supple back; a symphony to play on forever….

  And then, nothing. For years, there was nothing. No needles. No Art….at least not for March. She wandered into a small shop at some point during the hot summer and had almost conceded to a meaningless piece of work if only to have some connection again to the transcendence, focus and love that the ink offered. She made an appointment; but never showed up.

  Then quite suddenly and unexpectedly March’s heart was again moved. Captivated, for 10 years she carried a photograph tucked carefully inside the creased and dirty pages of a CrimethInc. novella.  Occasionally, she would pull out the aging paper and wonder if she would ever commit to fulfilling her desires. Once, she thought the image to be lost and nearly panicked; so encircled was her soul around its subtle meanings for her life. A mustang ensnared by a pair of griffins. In the face of certain death the steed remained poised and strong, meeting its fate boldly and without fear.

  It was her 37^th birthday. The Wolf had arranged for her to meet Little Bird in a back-alley parlor amidst the chaos and beauty of Capitol Hill. The room had tall tin ceilings and walls the color of new blood. The vertical surfaces were adorned with mounted animal heads (boar and coyote)and the gilded frames of petit paintings in oils and acrylics. The windows were large open panes of glass and as the needle worked, March watched a man walk past dressed in tube socks, underwear and nothing more. Over the course of four hours, the soft skin of her belly became transformed into the gruesomeness of a truth only she could really understand. The wings of each beast spread out toward the bones of her hips with the head of the wild horse dipping gently below her navel. As the ink flowed, March did not cry out. Indeed, she barely moved. Her thoughts remained quiet and her breathing came in long flowing sighs as she explored the calmness of the world inside her mind. After all this time, March had again found peace….. At last.

The Retirement of a Generation of Farmers

**I wrote this short essay as part of our farm's CSA newsletter this week. I thought it would be best to share it on the blog since the gravity of it's contents is something to be considered among a broader audience than just our CSA. Maybe you agree?

Yesterday, I was once again reminded that farming is a very special career choice. I openly admit to getting frustrated at least once or twice a summer (maybe 3 times!) with the workload and lack of time off. Willy is much better at coping with it than I am and he certainly takes the brunt of the work upon himself. Often, he is at the farm literally from dawn until dusk with me arriving at a more civilized hour and leaving before it is time to make dinner. He really, hardly, ever complains. He loves his work and feels an almost parental attachment to the fields and the crops. While most people enjoy a few days off every week (that little thing known as a weekend), Willy may take off a 1/2 day now and again but never, ever more. The idea of leaving the farm for an overnight (or 2!) does not cross his mind. Indeed, he has told me regularly that he doesn't feel like he has to go to work when he gets up in the morning. Farming to him isn't work, it has become who he is.

So it is with great sadness yesterday that I was reminded that more than a handful of very dedicated farmers in our area are retiring this season with no one stepping in to replace them. This isn't the type of job you advertise for. There rarely is that one special person who wants to step in and 'buy the farm'; accepting the responsibility, long hours and low pay that come along with this commitment. Farming as a career choice makes very little sense; it is a lifestyle choice, or nothing.

To put our predecessors lifetimes into perspective, Grant Gibbs just celebrated 40 years of farming on his homestead in Leavenworth. 40 years of fighting the weather, building the soil, scrambling to find help, and persisting against all odds. Those farmers who are retiring are some of the pioneers of organic agriculture in this region. Watershine Woods, Jerry Pipitone, Ken Toevs... (and across the state Terry Carkner, Nash Huber and others...) they have all decided that it is time to move into the next phase of life. An entire generation of farmers who's time has come and gone. The gap that they are leaving behind makes me feel nauseated and humbled. Farming is a career built on experience. Year after year an accumulation of knowledge increases one's skill and chances of success. Those who have spent a lifetime in the soil hold a wealth of knowledge greater than any doctorate degree can decree and broader than any book can hold. So who is left to turn to for advice and support when these scholars are no longer available?

'We are all counting on you now.' was the message I was left with yesterday after discussing this situation with my dear friend Kim Lohse (another pioneer in her own way as she, in her retirement, continues to champion for local food) 'But no pressure!' she says with a smile. And isn't that the truth of it? One generation retires and the next must step up and try and fill their shoes. But I don't nearly feel ready to lead the charge. Somehow, an entire generation gap has presented itself between those who are retiring and our younger generation who are still learning the ropes. Where are the farmers who come in between? An entire middle-age missing from farm life.

I sincerely hope that our generation and the one following us can pick up the slack. I don't really know if we can, but I know that we will try. I am continuously inspired that there are people like my husband who find that their place in life comes with calloused hands and dirty work clothes. With any luck, there will be more choosing this path behind him.

On Bees and The Fragility Of Our Food System; An essay on the eye-witness account of a honeybee massacre

I recently returned from a mini road trip to Seattle where I doused myself in culture, the arts and some amazing Puerto Rican cuisine. It was a long time in coming and I really relish the chance to don my city shoes, tapered jeans, chic skirt or something other than a pair of grubby work clothes and strictly utilitarian footwear. Visiting the Westside (wet-side) of the Cascades reminds me how very close we are to the Pacific Ocean. It is easy to forget the smell of damp, salty air on our Ponderosa Pine  and sun-drenched Eastern Slopes. I love to wake up on a sunny Ballard morning, walk out the door and greet the neighborhood. There is truly a part of me that loves city life....
But after 24 hours of  indulging in the privileges that only sidewalks offer, I begin to feel out of sorts and mildly uncomfortable; like wearing a coat that is one size too small. There is a very real and Vulcan-like instinct to assess my surroundings for what they really are...namely an ecologically unsustainable bubble of hipster culture. Sure, there are curbside gardens, but realistically these little 4 ft-by-4ft plots are not capable of feeding a household. At most, you may get a good salad or two once a month and maybe some garnish for your afternoon mojito.  At this point, Urban Claustrophobia begins to settle in and I am thankful that I get to jump back into my Subaru and high tail it out of town and back over the mountains to my country roads......almost....
Usually there is some anthropogenically generated roadblock that keeps me from escaping the urban interface unscathed. This trip was no different.
Except, that it was.

This time, the roadblock was a 3 mile back up at the intersection of I-5 and I-405 just North of town. That morning while eating breakfast, my friend told me he had heard there was some type of accident involving a truckload of bees. As I drove North out of Seattle and gradually lumbered to a rolling stop with all of the other late morning commuters, it occurred to me that I may have found myself taking part as an eye-witness to this bee massacre. Slowly, each lane crept forward in the timeless 'stop-and-go' dance that is now an unavoidable part of suburban life. I kept to the outside lane hoping to catch a glimpse of the over-turned truck.

The first signal of the approaching accident site was the honeybee that careened into my windshield about 300 yards South of the crash site. As we crept closer, small clouds of disoriented bees zigged and zagged between the traffic until the over-turned truck was in sight. It was a beautiful, warm day and the windows of my car were wide open. Approximately 200 feet from the crash I was hit with the overwhelming smell of honeycomb and wax; the scent any bee-keeper knows only too well.
The sight that lay before me was devastating. My heart ached in a way that I have never before experienced as I lay eyes on the mountain of broken bee boxes,supers, frames and comb; all having been pushed into a massive pile on the side of the road by WashDOT in an attempt to re-open one of the 3 lanes of Northbound Interstate. The carnage stood over 15 feet high. A fire truck stood nearby supplying a high powered stream of water to the first responders who were vigorously soaping and scrubbing the freeway free of honey.  Alongside the guardrail, in full bee suits were the 3 Latino farm workers who were invariably in charge of the large load. (* I will continue to document the ethnicity of the farm workers I observe until there is no longer a disparity between us out in the fields*). Meanwhile, lost bees continued to fly in search of their missing queen, their brood, their homes.

It was seeing the farm workers with their grim expressions, that really brought home the devastation of this event. The likelihood of them being gainfully employed was quickly slipping away with each broom-stroke. The farmer who had been expecting this shipment of bees to pollinate their crop would be getting the call that, indeed, no bees would be coming, as the window for pollination steadily drew to a close. The owner of the hives would also be receiving a call informing them that they were no longer the owner of some 100 or more bee colonies; a season of contracts negated prematurely with countless other farms left short on pollinators for the upcoming season. And most tragically, the hundreds of thousands (if not millions) of bees whose houses had been lost that day were nearly and almost undoubtedly destined to die as well. With no queen, no brood and nowhere to go, they continued to fly aimlessly, encountering one windshield after the next.
Who writes the insurance policy for a flatbed of bees?

And this is the system we have built for ourselves. In our ever increasing enthusiasm for playing God to the Natural World, we have placed ourselves precariously in exactly this position. We are continuously increasing the level of responsibility that We Humans have over the well-being of the World's many Creatures. Our folly is the undoing of the lives of our subjugates. In mythology, the persecuted cursed the gods for their callous disregard. Have we not become our own protagonists?

 I will remain obstinate to a paradigm that carelessly tampers with the natural order of our intricate living systems until we have proved ourselves worthy of such a position. From my perspective, we have a long way to go.

Dirtbags; a guide

*An edited version of this essay will be appearing in The Good Life Magazine in May of 2015

Becoming a well-seasoned dirtbag is a skill acquired over years of intentional fun-seeking away from the boundaries of the urban corridor. Although it is best to start at a young age so that the intricacies of living on the road become second nature, anyone has the potential of aspiring to future dirtbag status (just look at Fred Becky).

**A Quick Word of Advice: Avoid calling yourself a dirtbag  in public until you are at least 17 years of age. Avoid calling your parents dirtbags too....especially  in front of figures of authority....like your teachers....even if they are. This is a term of endearment that some people don't understand.**

The following is an easy step-by-step guide to the conversion of a sane, high IQ individual on a promising career path into a low-wage earning, high velocity, free spirited, dirtbag. Results will vary among individuals.

Step 1-Develop a love for a sport or activity where destination travel is a key component. The love of travel is not a prerequisite but it does aid the transition process from responsible student/adult into carefree adventure seeker. Suggested activities and/or careers that will gain you dirtbag experience points include snowboarding/back country skier, climber/mountain guide, mountain/dirt/adventure biker, surfer, kayaker/rafter, long distance hiker/runner, fisherman, anything involving a sail, park service employee,outdoor ed. major, nature photographer/writer, geologist, biologist, and journeyman anything.

Step 2- Be (and remain) idealistic.Idealism makes up for the lack of working capital (i.e. cash) that upholds the self esteem of the responsible folks. When cash fails, ideals blossom. Have ideals about politics, religion, the environment, society. Have ideals about love and family, war and peace, and good literature.

Step 3-Be comfortable around dirt. This means, be comfortable around your dirt, other peoples dirt, being dirty and plain old dirt. Be able to lie in the dirt, without a blanket. Be able to brush the dirt off of an item and think of this as 'cleaning'.

Step 4-Cook out of a can or be able to craft gourmet meals using free and/or scavenged ingredients. This may mean opening a can and eating the contents with your fingers or a modified utensil (crackers) with or without heating up the contents of the can before consumption. Some items to consider ingesting include tuna fish, ramen noodles, ketchup soup, dried fruit, blocks of cheese,chocolate chip cookies, coffee with cocoa packets and salami sticks. When in doubt, be able to identify the local bakery or  brewery to fill in where your personal talents fall short. Add +5 to your experience points when your Jet Boil meal incorporates vegetables and possibly, chopping.

Step 5- Be able to Tetris your under-sized, under powered Toyota Camry with all equipment necessary for a multi-week excursion with or without pets/co-pilot. This usually requires the purchase of multiple Rubbermaid roughneck totes that have been black sharpied with Duct Tape labels such as: Clothes, Camping, Food, Cooking, Gear and Emergency. Or skip the bins and the Tetris and aim for the 'scatter and dig' approach, maximizing the entire storage capacity of your trunk but requiring excess parking lot space for actually finding that last red cam. Add to your life's goals: purchase all-wheel drive Subaru (or possibly Toyota Tacoma with modified bed turned sleeping compartment/gear storage). If dirtbag is only a persona you don on weekends due to job constraints where personal appearance and mode of transportation invite judgement from co-workers and neighbors,  consider the Honda Element as a more suitable urban substitute.

Step 6-Practice improvisation and creativity. As a dirtbag you will be called upon to improvise such necessary items as tent poles, shelters, splints or slings, can openers, and any number of items that may be missing, broken, lost or forgotten. It is your ability to think creatively that will keep you cozy, dry and safe in nearly any conditions presented.

Step 7- Don't forget some reads, a journal and a good camera. Travel with a compendium of obscure publications and dog-eared maps. Old guidebooks, copies of the Alpinist, Frequency or Taproot are always welcome companions when wifi service becomes non-existent. Develop an eye for natural beauty or that perfect descent and capture it on film. Draw, paint and create on your rest days. Art always scores chicks.

Step 8-Love yourself. You became a dirtbag because of your passion for the interesting and beautiful places in this world. Be comfortable being you, even when those around you are not comfortable with you being you. Learn to convey your passion to others through words, photos and essays. You may be surprised how many other people secretly long to be dirtbags too.

Step 9-Raise future dirtbags. Fill your kids' heads with propaganda like 'Camping is Fun!' or 'Jump around and you'll warm up.' Make rhetorical statements like 'Well, we could go out to eat but wouldn't you rather stay here and have a fire?' Bribe them with marshmallows and their very own headlamps. Let them choose the hike out of the book. Stack the family tree; introduce your dirtbag friends to your kids as 'aunt' and 'uncle'. Be prepared for these future dirtbags to grow up to become tax attorneys, investment bankers or fashion editors instead.

And, if dirtbagging it just isn't for you anymore, there are alternatives.There's always the home in the sprawl, the lawn to mow, 15 lbs of potato chips and beer hoping to join your midsection and a full  televised sports schedule waiting to engulf you. If you have found yourself inadvertently stalled out on this side-adventure, remember that it is never too late to get back out there. The dirtbag life is always calling and the rest of us will still be here, waiting for you.

Climbing Out

We drove out to Vantage, WA today for a little family climbing time. I commented to my husband during the drive on how much the landscape had changed since we first started climbing in this part of the state. He reminded me that our first visit to this area was over 15 years ago. Our first guidebook to Climbing in Washington State is testament to this truth. There, next to each route, is a date and a little note about the style of the ascent. And yes, indeed, most of those dates fall somewhere in the range of 13-15 years in the past.

Now the landscape is different on the drive out to the basin. Mass amounts of money have been poured into the agricultural industry as farmers (and Big Ag) race to fill the gap that will inevitably be left once California officially runs out of water. The mighty Columbia River runs its course through this shrub and sage covered landscape of broken down volcanic basalt. Natural annual rainfall amounts are pitifully low; yet man-made irrigation is transforming this landscape into one reminiscent of the Central Valley of California. Its hill slopes are being scraped flat and planted with endless aisles of apples, grapes, wheat and hops. The town of Quincy is blossoming with an influx of capital including the ever-growing Microsoft server banks that hold immeasurable amounts of useless data (including this post). There are vacation homes and wineries and B&Bs and parking lots full to the brim with people out for the weekend. What a thing, to witness the urbanization of a landscape and to remember lonely campfires, the call of coyotes and the forced comfort of sleeping in your car.

                                                                          *******

I am no longer afraid of being tied to the end of a rope. I used to be mildly terrified. I started climbing so that I could take the edge off of my fear of heights. When I was 12 years old, I crawled and clawed my way to the top of a 3 story fire tower on Rib Mountain in Central Wisconsin. I was passed by any number of people who casually climbed the wooden stairs. On my hands and knees, shaking with fright (and nearly back-tracking to the ground) I tried to catch up with my grandparents and my sister; waves of vertigo washing over me as I looked toward the ground.

I started climbing in college almost on a whim. My best friend and I took a weekend class through the outdoor education wing of the University of Minnesota, Duluth. During that 8 hour class, they taught us how to hip belay (does anyone ever actually do this?) and I climbed 2 whole pitches....barely. That was the last time my friend ever went climbing. I was not so easily deterred. I wandered down to the indoor wall a few times before the year was out and surprised everyone by groveling my way up a crack system on my first try.

My husband and I spent the formative  years of our relationship bonding over climbing and snowboarding. We nearly lived climbing for the first 4 years of our marriage....although many times the day for me would end in terror and tears (except at the gym). I was never really comfortable being on the pointy end of the rope and although I managed to work my way up into the low 12s on top rope, my hardest lead remained somewhere around the easy 11s....and that milestone was a massive mental stretch on my end. My husband (at one point) claimed that it is likely what killed my love of rope climbing.

What saved our climbing relationship was bouldering. I was allowed to fall to the ground. In fact, I KNEW that if I fell I was going to hit the ground. For some reason, I found this re-assuring. I never really trusted rope climbing because I never really trusted the rope or the gear or even my partner to save me from free-falling through space and eventually cratering into the earth. So, as much as my husband showed an aptitude and passion for rope climbing he nearly gave it all up to wallow in the boulders with me. But we had a marvelous time. Squamish was our second home for 3 straight summers and we made friends with Canadians from across the continent and looked forward to seeing them again and again.
 I blew out my shoulder on the last weekend of the last year one move away from gaining outdoor V6 status. I worked this problem hard for an entire season; I have never projected anything more. My shoulder has been fucked ever since...although to me it is my souvenir from the happiest of days with the person I love best.

When we moved to Leavenworth, life changed yet again and in some accidental way climbing got shelved in favor of new tethers like building a business, having kids and building a house. Like a noose, these tethers threatened to strangle both myself and my husband and at times I felt like we were drowning together into a slow fade. This town can be cruel. The tethers of adulthood are seen in some ways as failures. Where everyone lives free and the pursuit of personal awesomeness is viewed as the end goal of life, giving up personal ambitions can feel like a crime. I traded in 10 years of muscle and freedom for the eventual payback of  familial stability. At times, it was hard to rationalize the inevitability of this decision and I will not lie and say that there weren't moments where I was not without regret. But I can also say that looking back there is no way around this beautiful treacherous path; only a way through.

But lately, the most amazing thing has been happening. I have found that all of these encumbrances have begun to ease their grip. And in a sense, I now look forward in time and dread the day when my children will pull out their pocket knives and cut away at the webbing that has bound us together for so long. I have found that when I am climbing, I am no longer afraid of heights because I have so many other things that I fear more. I look forward to my time tied to the rope because it allows me to forget these other fears and to simply be; to move across the face of this beautiful world and to dance over the abyss. I have  inadvertently found myself on the other side of my own personal struggle. Now, nearly 40 I am faced with the daunting task of rediscovering my body but not rediscovering myself. I know who I am, which is why I feel so calm.

Ghanima

Preface: This was the essay I wrote for the Write On The River state-wide writer's competition in the spring of 2014. I feel honored to have been recognized with the prize of 2nd Place for a Non-Fiction essay. It is very personal and has taken me a long time to feel comfortable enough to share it openly. It is my heart laid bare.

I became an adult the day my dog Ghanima died.  

Ghanima had been a 3 month old stray when I found her on the Rez. She was the starving runt of a mixed litter. She had fleas, was covered in mange and had the most beautiful emotional eyes I had ever seen in a dog. I knew she was meant to be with me.

Ghanima was a fierce and loyal friend who preferred life out under the stars to the warmth of our home. She gracefully made the transition to over six different houses, as my husband and I struggled to find our place in the world, and she learned the property lines of each.  Her self-assigned position was border patrol, which she excelled at.

The day she died was the same as the day before. We met our neighbors at the bus stop. Ghanima smiled and wagged her tail, greeting each one of us in turn with a lick and a quick rumble of hello from her soft black and white throat.  She crossed the road to run up the hill, chasing a scent that eluded her. I let her go; my first child....the child you have before you have children. The one who teaches young couples how to care for themselves, how to care for another, how to be reliable and trustworthy. The one who teaches you how to be a parent. I let her go, remaining innocent to danger, tragedy, circumstance.

I heard the truck approaching. There was a deep rumbling that bounced off of the valley walls and traveled on ahead; around the blind corners. This was not a regular day.  The schedule was wrong. Maybe the driver was running late? Maybe he was ahead of schedule and humming happily.

I became aware of my children; analyzed their patterns of play, wanting to keep them away from the road. I looked across the pavement to see where Ghanima may be, hoping she was still on her wild goose chase through the forest high above. However, during my visual search Ghanima and I locked eyes which only drew her closer to me.

I began to yell...what could I do? I could not leave my children; I could not reach my dog ahead of the approaching truck. As she edged her way down the hill toward us, I yelled for my sweet girl to stay there, to sit, to stay. The panic in my throat convinced her that she must be in trouble and she began to come to my side to make amends. We locked eyes again, mine pleading with her to wait. Please wait, please wait. I knew there was not enough time for her to make it across the road. I was paralyzed....helpless and afraid.

The distance between life and death was minute. She made no sound. She looked at me, confused, and then was gone. Her body lay still. Silent, alone on the cold, black ground. I ran to her wailing, maybe moaning, but I could barely hear myself.  The soft brown eyes that I had known for nine years did not move. Her body was warm. When I lifted her, I felt the ribs shift under her skin. Her blood on my black jacket ran hot and red. It stained my jeans and covered my hands as I carried her body over to the shoulder and gently lay her on the gravel, safe from further assault. I had never in my life experienced this sensation....the bitter loss of love right before my eyes. I lay my head on her chest to be closer to her and began to sob. I buried my nose briefly in her fur and inhaled her sweet dog scent.

In the distance, my children were screaming. I drowsily came to my senses and made my way back to them...my hands still stained and sticky, my jacket dripping, the puddles on my jeans spreading into a coppery, dry stain. I grabbed hold of my children and pulled them in tight. We held each other and I calmed them the best I could. The three of us distractedly made our way down the driveway to our house. I barely remember saying goodbye to my neighbor and her child as they continued to wait for the school bus. I barely remember putting my children in the car and explaining that we needed to go rescue the body of their beloved pet.  I ran up to my room looking for anything I could use to cover the body, to gather it up and transport it to....where? I found a clean white sheet in the bottom of the pine chest next to the bed.

On the way out to the road, we passed another neighbor. He must have heard my screams from earlier because his eyes were crinkled with concern and mild curiosity. We passed by with barely a wave of the hand.

I drove the wrong way down the highway to the place where Ghanima’s body lay and jumped out with the sheet. I wrestled with her limp body and for the first time in all of her life truly felt her weight on my arms. My small frame could barely manage to move her sturdy, muscular body into the car.......

                                                                                                              

She is buried in our yard now, amidst the fruit trees and berry bushes. From where she lay, there is a view both to the north and south along the length of the canyon. It’s the place where the sky is large and where she can still see the boundaries of our property. We still talk about her in present tense. In the mornings my son and husband often walk down to visit her and wish her good morning.

The day Ghanima died was the day I realized that there was no safety net between myself and the violence of the world. I became that net for my children. I hope my love is strong enough to catch them when they fall.

The Wars No One Believes In

I am staring down the barrel of turning 38 this coming March.With this comes the absolute understanding that middle-age is here and that the clock is only moving forward. I will never be 27 again. So, this has lead me to reflect a little on life over the last 30 years and how things are not getting better even though I hold on to the Utopian vision that this situation is only temporary. Like a voodoo doll, I have been probing and poking at the sore spots in my mind.  Here is a brief list of items that have led me to conclude that a war is indeed being waged against my/your/our adulthood. Some of it is a matter of circumstance, some is cultivated, and all of it is societal. And, unfortunately, unless we begin to recognize its reality, it will spill over into a war against our children as well. So without further ado.....the proof is in the diatribe.....

When I was in 7th grade, the 1st Gulf War started. War was a new concept for us as students. Although abstract concepts such as the Iran-Contra affair had made small dents on our impressionable minds, the open commitment of troops to an over-seas conflict was foreign and frightening. My 7th grade history teacher Mr. Nimic tasked us with keeping a war diary as part of our winter quarter. We were to watch the news and report on what we were learning about the engagement. I still remember quotes on the walls of our room such as 'Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.' It took me at least another 15 or 20 years to really grasp the reality of this statement.
It has now been almost 25 years since I was asked to keep this journal. Our engagement in the Middle East has been more or less a constant in my life during this entire quarter century. An engagement sold to the American people as 'temporary' has begun to drag out for a lifetime of conflict and has reached a status quo in our society that is barely even acknowledged any more (It has been years since I have even SEEN a yellow ribbon bumper magnet). We don't even take the time to vote for funding to care for our beloved 'troops' who are now legions of veterans struggling from the strangle hold of PTSD. Government graft and corruption in the form of large military contracts has reached the culturally accepted status of 'business as usual' much to the dismay of our underfunded domestic laundry list of  'to-do' items.
As I slowly and steadily climb toward middle-age I realize that those of my friends who are barely much younger than me (and by all rights are considered full-fledged adults, legally speaking) have had an entire lifetime filled with images of warfare and have lived with the definition of Democracy as defined by the constant restriction in their personal rights sold under the premise that our nation's safety comes first and their freedoms come second. I have realized that they do not know a life before this became the standard sacrifice we have all been asked to make as our way of showing our allegiance to a nation committed to defending the freedoms of others. I say this only half seriously as at this point in my life, it is hard for me to choke this statement out with a straight face. People will not protest a war if they do not know life without it.

Not long after the the war diaries I recall several other events that changed the course of our future...the first being a newscast documenting the rising wages of both doctors and lawyers in the United States (I remember telling my mother that I was going to become a lawyer so that I could make a lot of money). Healthcare and litigation marched on, hand in hand and everyone was getting rich....except for the blue collar worker. These poor saps were labeled 'unpatriotic' and made into targets on national TV as unions were busted and jobs were confiscated, effectively bankrupting whole cities.Vasts portions of our nation could no longer afford to purchase goods 'made in America' due to the undercutting of working class salaries. It made it even easier to sell our nation to the lowest bidder (China, anyone?) and brought in the age of designed obsolescence.  Salary inflation became an accepted part of life as well....but only for those whose jobs held the correct title; doctor, lawyer, insurance agent, stock broker, middle man. What  I have come to understand; wage inflation is accepted when its inception is linked to careers with a tradition of higher earning potential and when the under educated are targeted as 'undeserving' of a higher wage and are labelled as 'unskilled' or even 'unpatriotic'. If this message is reinforced by mass media on a regular basis, the general public begins to believe it as truth....especially if this message is repeated throughout years of adolescence into young adulthood. Why would we argue for anything but this model when this is all we have known since the tender age of 12 (or for an entire lifetime as is the case of my younger adult friends).

Then, a lawsuit involving a hot cup of coffee changed our world forever. Suddenly, willful ignorance to the obvious became a cash cow and self determination was no longer a family value. The people demanded retribution for their stupidity and many a trial lawyer was happy to oblige. We entered the age of litigation, law suits, and general mis-trust of one another. This was in 1994. Enrollment in law schools swelled and the generation raised on 'The Breakfast Club' and 'St. Elmo's Fire' were being groomed for adulthood in the age of 'me first' economics. Ironically, it is largely this generation, a step above my own, who continues to propagate our current economic model. And why shouldn't they? This is what they were trained to do.
 It also became very 'uncool' to be intelligent. We as a society accepted the idea that the lowest common denominator was as high a bar as we wanted to set for ourselves....anything above the LCD put you in the bracket of 'over-achiever'...a cultural fopaux that still exists today including in public education. Intelligence and critical thinking have taken a backseat to NASCAR, country music songs about the 'drinking class', and the us vs. them mentality encouraged by one of our nations greatest presidents.

The war on women and families has been a treacherous one. The profits from this war are HUGE which makes it a hard one to put an end to. Until kids my husband and I were operating our household under the DINKY  model. Yes, we had student loans and a car payment and a mortgage, but no kids. This model has become a norm in our society and most households can no longer support themselves in general day to day living without the double income.Once kids enter the picture, the little bit of extra cushion accumulated in young adulthood evaporates leaving parents in the desperate struggle to financially continue to make ends meet while raising children without depending on government assistance. Although Women's Liberation was founded on the basis of equality for both sexes, it has failed us as modern-day men, women and families. It has caused a skyrocketing rate of price inflation during our short lifetime (the ever-growing economy is due in part to a doubling of the workforce and the diminishment of the the value of the dollar. As a result a larger per- household income has not led to more savings or a higher standard of living.). Rather than offering women the choice of participating in a career outside the home, it has made it necessary. We now All (men and women alike) share the right to be behind on the laundry, stay home with sick children, cook a hurried dinner, sub-contract out domestic duties such as housekeeping and in general bear the burden of the stress that comes along with never having enough time or monetary resources to actually get ahead.  In fact, we are falling farther and farther behind all the time. A recent study concluded that the middle class can no longer afford items that were once considered the hallmarks of middle class living; a new car, vacations, higher quality food etc...
Also, children themselves have become devalued in favor of large profits. During the years of my childhood, programming on TV was based on the idea that the hours before 9 PM were family viewing time and the hours after 9 PM were for content geared towards adults. The upsurge in Cable Television blurred this line and the internet killed it all-together.And then, pornography became a thriving business during the age of the internet. It suddenly became the responsibility of the parent rather than the society to try and safeguard children against this insidious invader.  Instead of a society that has a general outlook that is conservative toward the preservation of childhood, we live in the modern day equivalent of a base and degrading culture that children are forced to co-exist with. The general encouragement of pornography in our society is disturbing to me as a parent. Raising both a boy and a girl I see a conflicting message being sent to both sexes. My daughter is expected to be both a motherly virgin and a submissive whore. My son is to be both a loving father and a warmongering rapist. WTF people, WTF.

So what have we been given that eases the strain of these societal burdens and allows us to forestall dealing with all of this terrible news? Well, that would be the war on adulthood. We live in the age of instant gratification and are treated about the same as a child trapped in an adult's body. Want to stay up and play video games all night? No problem! That is your right as an adult. Want to buy that new pair of shoes but don't feel like paying for them right now? Use your credit card....its your right. Want to sit in front of the TV drinking all day this weekend...you earned that right by showing up to work this week. Want to eat nothing but potato chips and drink soda with every meal...congratulations, this is your right too. But you don't have the right to change the way politics runs or the way Wall Street handles money or the right to protest our 60% military spending budget, our crumbling East German-esque infrastructure (yes, this is the direction our nation is headed....don't be fooled), failing schools, diminishing quality of life, and toxic environment. Those jobs are better left to the real adults.

 And I keep thinking, exactly when do we become adults? It seems to me that this is a right that not many people my age (or younger) are looking for or forward to....it just isn't very fun. It seems like  the right to be an adult will come sometime just before we begin suffering from dementia and are committed to a raisin ranch. And our inability to handle adulthood, what will that mean for our children? This is something to ponder....

So the first adult-like task is to remember history. Begin to love it. Read it...from many sources. We are Rome unless we choose another path. Our future awaits but first we must take responsibility for our present by understanding our past. And then, we have to start acting like adults which means taking action, of some kind, in some way to improve this shit-hole of an existence that we have allowed to be created for us. We are entering the middle of our lives. We have the right to become adults. On behalf of my children, it is a war I am willing to fight.

The Fall of Rome in song and words......

An Essay on Reality

Holy Hell, what kind of world am I living in? I feel like I am living in a dream. For a long time now, reality has become less obvious and the lines between fact and fiction have become blurred.

Farming for me has always been a joyful act. Actually, a joyful accident. Spending time in the dirt has helped to calm the panic that rages inside me. It has grounded me and given me a distraction from the overwhelming noise of the world...a tune that is out of tune; a rhythm that I cannot follow without falling out of step; a song that I know the words to but refuse to sing.
The more blogs I read by other farmers the more conviction I feel towards the methods that Willy and I have chosen to use on our own farm. Although it is beautiful and effective, it is far from the norm.

I just finished reading a blog that was recommended as one of the best farm blogs in the nation....I am going to repeat this....one of the best farm blogs in the nation. This blog went on and on for pages about the virtues of large scale Ag. It showed endless images of massive semi-sized combines, argued the shortsightedness of scientists in blaming GMOs and insecticides for the demise of the honeybee, discussed farming futures and commodity markets. This is virtuous farming in the eyes of our nation? You've got to be fucking kidding me.

Thanks but no thanks fellas. Keep your GPS driven combines and your armies of migrant quasi-illegal slave labor.

On our family vacation, we spent some time in and around Pismo, CA. Every November we close up the farm and head out of town for a few weeks to show our kiddos the world. We rent a minivan and drive through Washington, Oregon, over to Utah, across Nevada and finally to California. During the entire drive, Willy and I scan the fields and look at the agriculture endemic to a particular area. We point out different crops to the kids (Uugh-huh...More grapes...is the typical response from the back seat).The stretch between Salinas and Pismo CA. is the 'salad belt' of the United States. Of all the ground we cover, this is the only place where there are crops resembling the ones we grow at home on our own farm. Namely broccoli, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, salad mix, kale, head lettuce, strawberries and cabbage.

There is a little corner of the Oceano Dunes SVRA (think 4 wheeling heaven with 2 story high sand dunes) where you can walk out on a boardwalk to see a variety of migratory waterfowl in their winter habitat; the small Oso Flaco lake which is stuck between the berms of the surrounding Oceano Dunes SVRA and the Guadalupe-Nipmo Dunes National Wildlife Refuge. We went to check it out since part of our trip involves the identification and cataloging of bird species that are new to us.
 Butting up to the parking lot for this boardwalk trail are the farm fields of the southern edge of the Coastal Range...the western flank of the San Joaquin Valley. Broccoli and strawberries stretch out as far as the eye can see....until your eye is broadsided by the sight of the Phillips 66 Santa Maria oil refinery that sits about a mile in-land and smack dab in the middle of the aforementioned fields (Images of oil covered sea-birds filled my thoughts during the entire walk).
The fields are full of farm workers; it is almost Thanksgiving. Not a single worker is Caucasian. A Mexican flag waves proudly from one of the multiple harvest vehicles.
So, this is agriculture of the future? Fields so large you cannot see the other side, an oil refinery in the middle, workers who do not consider this country their home?
I immediately became homesick.

What am I getting at here? I guess what I am saying is that I am proud of the way we farm. And I think we are doing a good job. Since my reality is looking at a forest full of wildlife when I am out working, it is hard to see farms set up any other way. I don't like to be belittled by my nation because I believe that small organic farms are advantageous to both the people they serve and the life that interacts with them. I believe that the alternative is a crime on so many levels that formulating it into words is close to impossible. It is a crime of the spirit.

So Viva la Tierra Madre. Because I know that when I die, you will be the one to set my soul free.

The Phillips 66 Oil Refinery near Oso Flaco Lake