Case study

It occurs to me frequently of late that my life seems to be tracking weirdly closely with the collective consciousness of the United States.

There, I said it. I am a microcosm of 300 million other lives. Not to overstate my importance or anything.

Here are the facts: Like much of America, I have come to the realization in the past year that I have too much debt, that I have been living beyond my means, that I need to scale back in every facet of my life. That gardens are good. That shiny things are usually bad.

These are not entirely new realizations for me, and in fact I've been moving in the direction of Shoeless Hippie for sometime. But my convictions in these matters have accelerated over the past several months. Except, whereas the average American is probably buying grocery store generics to save money, forgoing an additional widescreen TV and considering whether they really need to expanded cable package, my version of scaling back seems closer to Going Amish than anything else.

The desire: To live sustainably in a modest, naturally-built home on a plot of 25 or so acres in a rural area. To grow 75% of my own food. To make 25% of my family's clothing and textile needs.

I appear to be on the cusp of a new life chapter. Or perhaps the cusp has passed and I am now in the early pages of that chapter. Cusping tends to be something one identifies best in retrospect. But in any case, it is a very new and delicate and tender notion that has taken root -- one that involves a complete life change my current existence into some that, while not wholly unrecognizable, would be radically different.

Bloom

Jonas turned one year old on Saturday, prompting a host of emotions. I can remember the days leading up to his birth with near-perfect clarity. Yet, the weeks that followed -- when he used to sleep in his bouncy chair on the kitchen table, when he was so tiny he slept in his Moby carrier for hours on his daddy's chest, when all but his tiniest newborn clothes hung off him -- seem distant, and believably a year ago.

Of course there is a part of me that wants to freeze him in time. Every year as my birthday approached, my mother used to say, "Ok, I'll make you a deal. You can turn [insert upcoming age here] but then you are stopping." It was a joke, but I was always so eager to get on to the next age. To be a big kid and sit at the back of the bus. To be old enough to go to high school. To be old enough to drive. To be old enough to leave home and go to college. To be old enough to drink. To be old enough not to feel so young and foolish and clumsy anymore. Now, of course, I'm approaching the age where I would happily take her up on that offer. But it took nearly 30 years to get there.

The day before his birthday, Jonas decided it was time to start truly walking. He had taken his first steps on August 1, when we were up visiting my grandmother in Arlington. And since then, if you set him on his feet and he was in the mood, he would take a few steps - five or six or seven - before dropping to his knees and crawling the rest of the way to the desired destination or object. Crawling was faster and easier. But on Friday, something switched over and he spent more than 50% of his time walking. On Saturday, it was 75%. And Sunday, it was 90%.

This has come amid a flurry of changes. Beginning during our trip to Iowa earlier in August, Jonas started eating much better. Never a picky eater, neither was he a big eater. But, perhaps inspired by the farmhouse, he took to eating much larger meals during our time there. He also started behaving much better in the car. Both of those changes have continued since we returned to Virginia. He also began speaking more clearly, and added at least five words to his vocabulary in the 1o days we were in Iowa. That increased vocalization -- I'd say his vocabulary is about two dozen words -- has also continued.

As much as I want him to stay right as he is today, watching this flower of life unfold is so miraculous, so enchanting that I wouldn't want to rob him of the chance to change, to grow, to blossom. It is a new state of emotion when you have a child: wanting something for that person. On behalf of that person. Yes, if you are fortunate enough to find a true partner in life, you experience that feeling. But when it is a child you are raising, the feeling is so much stronger and so much more prevalent.

I want things for myself, I want things for Egidijus. I want things for my family and my friends. And I am devoted to doing what I can to bring about those things for the people I love. But there is no length I would not go to for Jonas. It is just one of many new emotions that his addition has prompted.

So many new things. What did I do with my time before? What did I think about? What did I desire? Were all the places he occupies within me empty before, or did his birth simply create new spaces?

The road not (yet?) taken

This posting has been delayed, not out of lack of something to say but out of lack of knowing how to say it.

FloydFest was just as enjoyable as we had hoped -- more so. Jonas loved all the music and, with the exception of one very brief nap, spent seven hours dancing - in his stroller, on our shoulders, in the grass. Dancing, dancing, dancing. His ability to find a rhythm after only a few bars of a song just astounds me. He must be on dozens of cameras; every time I turned around someone else was taking a picture of him. The Duhks even noticed him waving his arms back and forth while he sat on his daddy's shoulders. Our little extrovert. Incredible.

Floyd is every bit as beautiful as I remember it. The elevation is nearly four times that of Charlottesville, which sits in a valley. This means you can see a lot further from the top of a hill around Floyd. Growing up in Iowa, where you can see for miles upon miles in every direction, I find that I crave that kind of vantage point. Living in the foothills or among the trees is nice, but I need to be able to see some distance, otherwise my brain feels muddled. I spent two years in Vermont feeling like I couldn't think straight. And one of the main reasons we bought our little fixer-upper in Belmont is because of the view of Monticello, Brown and Carter Mountains out our back door.

But, as is my tendency, I remain unsatisfied. I want to see even more. Ideally, I'd like to be able to watch the sunset without feeling like I'm missing some significant part of it because it dropped behind a mountain range or hill.

But that's a really minor thing. What is far more alluring about Floyd is the mix of folks there. Born-and-bred, transplants, aging Hippies, new-age Hippies, back-the-the-landers -- all represented in Floyd County. And yet, everyone is so darn friendly to one another, and to strangers. There is some kind of simpatico that has developed there that makes it the most comfortable tiny town (population 450) I've ever stepped foot in.

We were last in Floyd in September 2006. We thought it was beautiful. We thought the vibe and the mix of people was exceptional. We toyed with the idea of settling down there. But, it is rural, there isn't a strong economy and we didn't feel ready to start our own business, or whatever we would have to do to make a living in a place like that. And, we found our little house in Charlottesville, which was just meant for us, and the rest is history.

But our trip last weekend proved that the pull toward Floyd and all it represents remains strong. Despite how much we love Charlottesville. Despite how much we adore our little house. Despite all of our friends. Despite everything we envisioned when we bought and then renovated our place -- the images we've had of how we might expand it, the love and time we've devoted to making a nest for ourselves. Despite it all, a feeling lurks that there is Something Else out there for us.

So this week I slowly churned through this new feeling. The vision of the homestead up on the backbone of the Blue Ridge. Among the eclectic mix that comprises that community. With our own businesses. A different house. Potentially chickens and goats. Land. Country life.

But leaving Charlottesville. Leaving our beloved house. Leaving our friends. How could we think of such a thing? Why not be content with what we have? Why look for anything else?

I half-hoped I could answer this conundrum before writing something here, but it hasn't happened. And I don't think it will any time soon. For now, it is something to chew on, to roll around and around in my mind until it is smooth and familiar and I feel I understand its dimensions. And the correct path comes into focus.

Festive

We are headed to FloydFest this afternoon -- our second time in Floyd and our first time at the festival. I have no idea what to expect, but if I can fly to Lithuania and back with a 10-month-old, I can handle a crowd of hippies with an 11-month-old. 

We loved Floyd when we visited in Fall 2006. I first heard of it on a public radio show about Virginia attractions. They discussed FloydFest and the town itself, which aspires for a marriage between hippies and country folk and, by most accounts, succeeds. 

We pondered setting up our household there before we stumbled on the little house here in Charlottesville. We made the right choice, but perhaps Floyd remains in our future yet.

Just peachy

Peach picking happened on Sunday and has yielded, in chronological order: one fruit crisp, 84 ounces of jam and two frozen pies, 

with six peaches to spare.

I tried some of the jam this morning. It turned out a little stiffer than the strawberry jam, but I like it. With two peach pies in the freezer as well, (I even made the top crust for them from scratch -- thanks Joy of Cooking), I accomplished my major goals with the peaches, so I'm feeling pretty satisfied.

Next jam on deck is actually a jelly: Apple-Basil. I had this a few years ago from the local Farmer's Market and I have never forgotten it. I need to find a recipe, but the basil is growing tall in a container in the back and the apples are slowing ripening in the orchard on Carter's Mountain, so it is just a matter of time.

The Pick-Your-Own option seems like one of the best short of growing your own. Although the Dream Homestead would certainly include a whole orchard of different trees, for now this is what I can do. 

So I wait for the apple season for my next round of Jam Madness. Although just last night my friend Amy mentioned that her concord grapes are ripening, and she might be willing to donate them to the Jam Madness cause. *Insert evil jammy laugh here*

Amish paradise

Back from our three-week trip to Lithuania and back to the usual routine, with some amendments. As is my tendency, I spent a good deal of the trip turning over in my brain the things I'd like to do differently when we return and, starting this week, it is time to enact some of those changes. 

One change is walking more. We ran an errand to buy dog shampoo on Monday night; other than that, I haven't touched the car for three days now. Jonas and I walked to the gym and back today. And it is occurring to me as I write this that I probably could be making dog shampoo from scratch, and therefore not needing to buy it.

Who does that? Who makes dog shampoo? What is my problem? If anything, my living-off-the-land/everything-from-scratch fantasy has worsened rather than improved. Even after spending quite a bit of time in the country at my sister-in-law's house, which is located in the woods in the middle of nowhere, Lithuania. Where the only place to walk is through the woods around the house. And a grocery trip involves at least a half-hour drive. But, as if part of what feels like a growing conspiracy, my sister-in-law's husband is perfectly suited to such a life and, what with his handyman skills and mushroom-hunting skills and general living-off-the-land skills, I'm completely enveloped in this idea at this point.

We harvested three gigantic zucchini from our garden two days ago and I spent yesterday grappling with them. I blanched & froze two of them and grated the third to make zucchini bread - four small loaves and one big one. And I found myself thinking: what if the eggs I was adding to this recipe were from my own chickens? What if the applesauce was my own applesauce, canned last fall?

My new theory is that this near-obsession is how I'm taking on the "job" of being a stay-at-home parent. But, no matter how you analyze it, I can't beat it right now, so I'm joining it. You want to live off the land so much, Jenny? Earn it. Do as much of it as you can from here and if you prove yourself worthy, in a few years -- if you are still under the spell of the countryside -- you can consider taking on the real thing. 

So, I made zucchini bread. This weekend we'll go peach picking and I plan to make some peach pies and jams. Maybe even a chutney. Because chutney? Hard core.

Back to the land, again

I just finished reading The Year at Maple Hill Farm to Jonas as he fell asleep, and my overly-romanticized sense of farm life is in full swing. This has been an ongoing problem of late that was only made worse by my trip earlier this month to see my parents in Iowa. 

Having grown up in the Midwest, the daughter of a kid from a farm and now married to one, you'd think I'd know better. I do, in fact, know better. Farming is impossibly demanding, unpredictable, arduous work. It ties you to mother nature in a way few other livelihoods do, and you are thus choosing to cast your lot with a force over which you have zero control. There is no real rest. There is no real money; our seasonal Buy Local newspaper insert just printed data on Virginia farms, noting that the average farm in this state turned a profit of $10,000 last year. Um, yeah. If that is true, I am absolutely INSANE for constantly flirting with this idea.

And yet, I do. I cannot seem to help it. I know I'm romanticizing it. I know that I haven't even mastered my scrappy third-of-an-acre urban plot, so how could I be even fathoming of this idea? I want to travel, especially in retirement. One doesn't do a lot of traveling with ye ol' farm life. I detest commuting, and I like being able to go for walks in town, run errands quickly and indulge in ice cream and Thai food on a whim.

But lately, a sort of weariness has begun to grow in my chest. Although I like the convenience of living in town for running errands, the point of those errands -- the act of consuming -- has started to really weigh on me. The clutter of items at the drug store makes my head feel heavy. Target, which I used to love with abandon, now makes me feel edgy and anxious. Where does all this stuff to buy come from? China, yes, but think of all the molecules comprising it. Think of all the atoms of plastic and packaging and metal and paint. Molded into things we suddenly need, suddenly cannot live without. And then use up. And then discard.

Why I feel the need to live in the country in order to stop consuming is another question. One could dash one's consumption habit while living in town. So what if it is easy to run out and get things instead of making them or doing without? Combating Easy is a test in and of itself.

There is something of the rhythm of the land that is endlessly appealing to me. Growing up in Iowa, I loved watching the seasons on their endless parade. The way one fades into the next, imperceptively at first, but with gaining momentum. I liked how the sea of corn or soybeans around our house marked time with its growth and harvest. And it is this element of country life that is most enchanting to me. The very reliance of the uncontrollable force of mother nature is exactly what I like about it. It often seems to me that is a human's nature habitat and this -- this air-conditioned, electrified, refrigerated, automatic, preprogrammed existence -- is not.

Ever since Jonas' birth, my desire to run a homestead has grown ten-fold. It started with baking, an activity I've always enjoyed but lately find myself craving. It has moved to gardening and canning and I don't know where it is headed next. My only saving grace right now is that my house is so tiny. Any larger, and I'd have purchased a sewing machine already, I'm sure of it. I dream of a room full of fabrics and ribbons and beads and glue and all sorts of crafty things. I dream of a pantry full of jars of fruits and vegetables I grew and processed myself. I dream of a chest freezer overflowing with sweet breads and pies. I have clearly lost all sense of reasoning.

It is obvious to me that this back-to-the-land calling is borne out of some other longing or desire or lack of fulfillment. It is clear to me that I am being completely irrational and emotional when I ponder all of this. My mind has it straight on this. But my heart is still somewhere in the fields of Iowa, watching the seedlings emerging.

A Plague on Frogs

I actually knew the answer to yesterday's edition of the Geo Quiz on The World, a program carried on our local public radio station. The clue was an island known as The Emerald Isle of the Caribbean with a breed of frog called a Mountain Chicken. The answer: Montserrat, which Egidijus and I spent our honeymoon. 

The segment then went on to discuss how the Mountain Chicken is falling prey to the same fungus that has been killing frogs the world over. The guest speaking about the problem noted that the frog has been killed off all over the island, except for a remote valley. He and his colleagues recently traveled to Montserrat and removed several dozen frogs so they can put them in a controlled setting and hopefully keep them safe from the fungus until they can reintroduce them to their natural habitat.

I knew EXACTLY the frog they were discussing. These creatures were all over the island while we were there. They come out at night in such droves that it was nearly possible not to run over them, since they stood right in the middle of the road. While I am semi-accustomed to seeing small furry animals running across the road in front of my vehicle now and then, I was entirely unprepared to see creatures hopping in my headlights. 

The other memorable thing about the frogs of Montserrat was the deafening noise they make at night. The first evening we were there, we literally struggled to fall asleep over the din. We actually shut the louvre windows of our bedroom as many nights as we could to avoid this problem. I have a video I shot of our villa, in which all you can hear is the sound of the frog songs filling the night air.

And now, according to what I heard on this program, these frogs are all but silenced. I cannot imagine how quiet that must seem to the locals, like someone who grew up in the city -- reassured by the nocturnal noise of sirens, horns, car engines and echoing voices -- who then tries to adjust the relative silence of an evening in the country. 

But perhaps the most shocking thing about all of this to me is how quickly this extinction has taken place. We were there in October 2007. That's 19 months. In 19 months, the frogs on the island have gone from deafening to silent. 

I have heard quite a bit over the past few years about how amphibian populations, and especially frogs, are being among the hardest hit by global warming. From the loss of habitat to the rapid rise of fungal diseases, like that killing the Mountain Chicken, thousands of species of frogs are threatened or perhaps already lost. But, as with anything like this, such dire warnings are abstract to the mind. Until you know the answer to the Geo Quiz, and then everything changes.

Dreaming of sweet corn

The first seeds went into the newly minted garden boxes tonight. We planted peas, lettuce and corn as the sun was setting on a second blisteringly hot day. 

Although spring is just getting into gear, the heat made it feel like a summer night, and we planted and worked until the light was gone from the sky and we had to fumble to pick up our tools as we trudged back up to the house. If it weren't for the blooming dogwood watching us off to the side and the lack of fireflies in the dusk air, I could almost believe it was the middle of the summer.

Such promise.

Better steward

When I was in elementary school, my family was featured in the local newspaper for our recycling efforts. This was nearly two decades ago, when recycling was not yet mainstream. My parents, who were far more progressive than I ever appreciated back then, embarked on an ambitious project to recycle everything they possibly could. They canceled trash pickup, started a compost pile and began burning their trash. This meant we had to be vigilant in our recycling, as the remainder was headed for the burn pile. 

The large barn behind our farmhouse was enlisted in the effort, as were make-shift tables and loads of brown paper bags. We sorted the items according to type, with your basics -- plastics, glass, cans -- and more challenging items, like light bulbs and batteries. Then we would haul it into town, a 20-minute drive, to an equally make-shift recycling center where we would empty the bags into various bins, collect a few dollars for the redeemable cans, and be on our way, to begin the process all over again.

How the local paper caught wind of all of this, I do not know. But nonetheless, there we were in black and white, with our very own article and picture. A novelty amid the farms and homesteads of central Iowa. 

Now I live in town and I have a bright red recycling tub to put out in front of my house every Friday for the city to whisk away. Over the years of living with this system, I have slowly weaned myself off of sorting everything into brown paper bags by type, and now it is a jumbled collection of collapsed cartons, milk jugs, beer bottles and tin cans. Recycling has become an expectation, and when I am at someone else's house and they don't recycle, it raises eyebrows. 

Now that we have a Green Movement afoot, I find that I have grown a tad complacent with my green activities. Certainly nothing I do now would land me in a newspaper. Recycling, washing and reusing plastic Ziplock bags and employing reusable shopping bags. CFL light bulbs, buying organic when I can, resisting the urge for what is processed and packaged ... but these are all comfortable, reasonably easy things to do. And they are not enough.

On this Earth Day, I resolve to push myself out of my comfort zone, as my parents did more than 20 years ago, as they stood in front of our aging barn, frozen in the pages of a country newspaper, pioneers of a very different sort.