A Haiku Homestead Almanac

[Originally published in the Juneau Empire, L'Attitude, March 2011]

Poets fill me with wonder. How does a person, a simple human, take pieces of mundane life and experience, or everyday views from a window, and re-order them into the sublime, the witty, or the soul-wrenching truth? Poetry is not for the lazy, I tell you.

I’m reminded of this by every edition of L’attitude, when I discover that my neighbors, childhood friends, and acquaintances are actually poets. In fact I’ve started to get a bit self-conscious about my prosaic contribution to this little local gem. Bread, toothpaste and plastic bags – what are these when compared to heartbeats, celestial voices, and birdsong? Pretty meager, really.

But must they always be? One person’s loaf of bread may be another person’s masterpiece, right? Dorothy Parker took the politics of relationships and turned them into cutting wit (Men seldom make passes / At girls who wear glasses.). Elizabeth Barrett Browning turned politics and social injustice into bouquets of words (Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, / And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn; / But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length / Into wail such as this — and we sit on forlorn / When the man-child is born.) And from her secluded room, Emily Dickenson made clear, sharp observations of the world (“Faith” is a fine invention / For Gentlemen who see! / But Microscopes are prudent / In an Emergency!).

So what’s a girl to do who loves lists, schedules, and plans, but also wants more poetry in her life? Well, maybe one person’s calendar can be another person’s form of self-expression. Being relatively new to gardening, hunting, and stay-at-homesteading in general, I’ve labored to put together my own “almanac,” to remember what I need to do each month. I’ve been diving into books and gathering internet resources to sort it all out. But maybe I should step back a moment, and look at it anew. Instead of trying to capture hours, I can try to capture how those hours feel. Oh, I don’t know how to explain it… I’m not a poet for goodness’ sake! But here’s my

Main Street

(Haiku) Homestead Almanac, for your reading pleasure (or at least for your reading).

January

Plan and repurpose.

Hands make warm afghan, with love,

Then open a book

February

Vegetable seeds,

Listed with hope of spring warmth.

The pantry echoes.

March

Tomato seeds wake.

Wood and glass shelter covey

Of quail, dream of eggs.

April

Cole, leaf, squash, onion

Unfold, prepare for life outside,

But lose friends to salad

May

Mother’s day scolds frost.

Dark soil made ready for new life,

Coil of worm bodes well.

June

Crab in dungeon deep,

Shrimp below flashing sockeye.

Wind in sails brings lunch.

July

Family, friends, summer camps,

Bonfire on rocks, driftwood blaze.

Winter is so far away.

August

Gun and pack ready.

Berries fall, deer leap and run,

But mushrooms sit still.

September

Chill air, like homebrew

Tastes bittersweet with last fruit.

Bulbs promise the spring

October

Clean spade winks at soil

Reclining under blankets.

Stacked wood laughs at cold.

November

Wood pops and glows red,

Like the yarn of winter gifts

And cranberry bite.

December

Spin down like snowflakes

On snow angels, celebrate

A good year’s ending.

Sarah Lewis is a local architect and student of sustainability, who hopes the serious and talented poets of Juneau will eventually forgive her. But she really enjoyed her attempts at haiku!

Life on Capitol Hill

First published February 2011 in the Juneau Empire, Neighbors section

The women of Capitol Hill are a rowdy bunch. Once a month we meet for lunch at a downtown café to swap Capitol Hill neighborhood news. Who’s traveling, moving, having a baby, or retiring, who’s foundation’s leaking, and what’s up with the parking situation. Important, weighty stuff. The café management often asks us to quiet down as we sip our tea. OK, maybe we’d like them to, so we could seem a bit edgier. There’s something old-fashioned about meeting with neighbor ladies to exchange neighborhood news. But it’s also very timely; a foil against too many hours spent with computers – and deeply pleasant.

And the Capitol Hill neighborhood is a pleasant place to live – even though you can’t find it on a map. Officially, there are three main neighborhoods directly adjacent to the downtown business district. Juneau Townsite is the largest neighborhood, wrapping the sides of the half-bowl in which the downtown sits. The Chicken Ridge neighborhood perches on the western, top edge of this bowl, wrapping around to

Basin Road

. The House of Wickersham is a prominent Chicken Ridge feature. The Starr Hill neighborhood is at the top of the eastern edge of the bowl, resting against Mts. Maria and Roberts. The Mt. Roberts trail starts from the top of Starr Hill.

Because of crazy downtown topography, it’s easy for micro-neighborhoods to develop, regardless of where the map lines are drawn. The Capitol Hill neighborhood is technically in the Juneau Townsite, and includes a bit of Chicken Ridge, but is defined by its most prominent neighbor: the Capitol Building (weird spelling tidbit: “capital-A-L” is the city, “capitol-O-L” is the building, so saying Capitol Building is actually redundant. Whatever!). Capitol Hill extends from roughly

5^th Street

up to 7^th, and from the drop off west of

Main Street

to Capital School Park. Really, it’s the hill above the Capitol. Thus the name was suggested a few years ago by a neighbor who was confounded that it hadn’t always been called that.

I love living on Capitol Hill, though I can take little credit for this good fortune. It was my parents who bought a declining house on

Main Street

back in the early 70’s, for something crazy like $20,000. My husband and I bought it from them in 2003 for a significant bit more, but still a good price because, well, it’s a house that was built during the Gold Rush and has been attempting to decline ever since.

That’s one of the hallmarks of living on Capitol Hill. With many homes built in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, if my neighborhood had its own coin, on one side would be a lovely historic home and on the other would be that same home, falling apart. Colorful Juneau history and constant renovation are a way of life on this hill. And many neighbors don’t just accept this reality, they revel in it. Like the owners of the neighborhood B&B, Alaska’s Capital Inn, Linda Wendeborn and Mark Thorson. They chose Capitol Hill for their home and business partly because it was built by one of Juneau’s founding fathers, John Olds, for his young bride, and filled with Juneau history. But also because it would give them an opportunity to get their hands calloused by making it shine again. And they are not alone. As finances and time allow, or as the old homes demand, Capitol Hill neighbors are frequently spotted at Good Hardware.

And they might even have walked there. Walking is a many-layered benefit for the downtown neighborhoods. First, there’s security in having everything you need within walking distance, especially if you have kids. (Unfortunately there are quite a few things within walking distance that we don’t need, as well. I have yet to find a need for emeralds, a fur bikini, or moose-poop swizzle sticks, and we could do with fewer bars). Second, who needs cardio boot camp at the club when you’ve got

Main Street

. Third, and most important, every time you greet a neighbor while out walking, the cohesion of the whole neighborhood is strengthened.

Because that’s really what makes a neighborhood most livable. Good neighbors. When asking residents what they like most about Capitol Hill, a consistent answer was knowing that they could rely on their neighbors; to be helpful, to be kind, for a friendly chat, to buy raffle tickets from the neighbor kids, to help shovel a sidewalk, to keep a sliding truck from hitting your car, to collect the mail and feed the animals while you’re away, to write a letter to the editor about a shared concern, and even to respect your privacy though they live only five feet away.

Another way in which Capitol Hill neighbors rely on each other is as defenders of our livability. We want most of the people in our neighborhood to live here, not lock up and head home for the night. Which is a valid concern in a neighborhood that has always been at the edge of the government and downtown commercial areas. For more than a century both of these interests have ebbed and flowed up the edge of Capitol Hill. In fact, from around 1895 until 1920, the Territorial Governor’s house and office were located on the north-west corner of 6^th and Main, a block farther up Main than the Capitol Building. (This forgotten fact was rediscovered by a neighbor intrigued by an historic photo of a large house that she should have seen from her living room, if it were still there.) Mining offices and boarding houses were historically found on Capitol Hill, as well, and these are still reflected in an engineering office, a B&B, and several in-home offices and apartments. The general consensus is that the current mix of uses makes for a comfortable, thriving neighborhood.

And part of what makes it thrive, we all know, is our namesake neighbor, the Capitol. In fact, many Capitol Hill residents look forward to the mid-winter thrum of the Legislature moving back in. The feeling is entirely different than when the surging tide of summer cruise ship passengers covers the downtown. In summer, Capitol Hill mostly observes the throngs from our cozy hill, smiling a welcome to the few hardy souls who venture up

Main Street

. During Legislative session, we’re much closer to the action. Decisions that effect the whole state, good or bad, radiate out from our neighborhood. There’s a weight to that.

And maybe that’s why we make a point, on Capitol Hill, of “celebrating our commonalities,” as one neighbor put it. We’re good neighbors to each other because we try to focus on the many ways our lives can intersect, rather than on how to more accurately divide our properties. We have garage sales, neighbor lady teas, monthly lunches, kids in our yards, no-electricity pot-lucks (well, just a couple of those during that “No-Snetisham Spring”), girl scouts selling cookies, gardeners trading tips and cuttings, and a phone tree for bear sightings. We’re not overly concerned about having

Main Street

dug up and repaved this summer, and maybe it’s because we have personal experience with the need to renovate things when they start to fall apart, and know it’s difficult, but worth the trouble.

So the women of Capitol Hill will continue to meet once a month, to catch up on the news of the neighborhood. And often comment on how we hope other Juneau neighbors are doing the same.

A Holiday Meal on Every Table

(Originally published in the Juneau Empire, December "Neighbors")

I’ve read in several places that enough food is produced on Earth to feed all its people. Yet as I write this, and as you read it, people are starving on our planet. The problem is one of distribution, it seems. Economic, political, and geographic barriers keep food from getting to places on this globe where people have none, or keep people from getting to the food. While in other places, our own city among them, people have access to more food than they need.

But even in Juneau there are people who don’t know where every meal will come from, much less holiday dinners. The distribution barriers in our community are typically economic (though politics and geography do play a role, of course… an article for another day) because Juneau is an expensive place to live and eat.

There are several organizations addressing this distribution problem in Juneau, though, and admirably. There are also many concerned and kind citizens who make it a holiday goal to distribute their plenty to those who have little. My family is among those lucky enough to have more than we need. So for us it’s a Thanksgiving and Christmas tradition to donate holiday dinners for delivery to other families who are not as lucky.

But I’m conflicted about what I put in those boxes. Over the past few years I’ve become more conscious of what I purchase, eat, and serve to my family. I now want to know how far my food traveled, how the animals were raised and fed, how the plants were grown, how the land was treated, even how well the workers were treated. In our global food distribution system, this is not easy, and I’m regularly weak (I love green bean casserole, and don’t tell me it can be made with fresh beans… pah!) but I’ve gotten better at supporting systems that have fewer or no negative impacts on the earth and its people. I pay more for this effort, but buy only what we need and no more, so our food bill has not risen significantly, while our enjoyment certainly has.

So last week, for Thanksgiving, what did I put in the food boxes I donated? Food that I no longer purchase for my own family. I know that many others did this, too, and I want to emphasize that there is nothing wrong with this at all. The boxes I packed were filled with nutrients, variety, and tradition. But they were also filled with unnecessary preservatives, sugars and fats, and supported sections of the food industry that prioritize profits over human and global health. Why is my standard for giving to others different than that for my own family? I’ve decided that for Christmas this year, I’m going to do better.

So I contacted Slow Food Southeast Alaska (contact them through slowfood.seak@gmail.com or Facebook), chaired by Elizabeth Dubovsky, to find out what they recommend I put in my December holiday boxes. International Slow Food (as opposed to “fast food,” in case that wasn’t obvious!) promotes the concept that all food should be “good, clean, and fair.” Good food, by Slow Food standards, is delicious and created with care from healthy plants and animals. Clean food is nutritious and good for our bodies, as well as good for the environment. Fair food is accessible to all and produced by people who are treated with dignity and justly compensated for their labor.

Here are 10 ways Slow Foods Southeast Alaska recommends we can make our donated food boxes “slower”:

1. Substitute “organic” whenever possible; it’s healthier for humans (producer and consumer alike) and the environment.
2. Add fresh foods like potatoes, yams, winter squash, carrots, and apples.  Fresh foods provide more flavorful nutrients than processed, prepackaged foods.
3. Include foods that are “whole” and not processed.  Whole grain rice rather than processed rice; fresh potatoes rather than instant mashed potatoes. The least processed products contain the most nutrition and fiber.
4. Donate affordable foods that are nutrient-rich. Dried beans or lentils, for example, with directions on how to prepare simple, tasty dishes with them.
5. Choose foods that come in minimal packaging. Less wasteful and you’ll often pay less for larger amounts than for individually wrapped servings. 
6. Buy foods that are from the Pacific Northwest - or better yet, from Alaska!  Keeping our dollars in our local/regional food economy is an important way of ensuring a sustainable future for our communities. Potatoes and carrots, salmon and reindeer, and berry products. All are grown, harvested, and processed in Alaska. Ask your grocery store to tell you where to find them (or ask the store to carry them!).
7. Include a homemade pie or other baked goods that don’t require refrigeration.  Check if the receiving organization can accept them (the Food Bank can’t, but the Glory Hole can and needs 200 pies by December 20!).
8. Include healthy “snacks” and finger foods like nuts, raisins, and other dried fruits.
9. If you know the box will be used quickly, you can include perishable items like butter, milk, cheese, and meat. Choose organic, free-range, and/or local whenever possible.
10. Instead of a box, donate both the ingredients and your time to cook a meal for one of the local organizations that feeds people directly, like the Glory Hole or your church.

Finally, it’s important to remember to keep it simple – the people receiving these boxes may be living in less-than-optimal situations and are probably under stress. They need easy, tasty, comfort foods to celebrate the season with. So after I’ve filled a box, and if I know it will all go to one recipient (many boxes will be unpacked and distributed to different families, as needed) Slow Food recommends that I include some good recipes.

I have a Thanksgiving ritual of looking through a book in my library called “Hungry Planet: What the World Eats,” by Peter Menzel and Faith D’Aluisio. Comparing my family’s weekly food supply with that of families in, say, Chad, I’m truly thankful to live in a country where there are minimal barriers to feeding my family healthy meals on a daily basis. But when comparing my weekly family food budget to that of a family in Turkey, where they spend only 1% on prepared foods, and their table groans with fresh fruit, vegetables and bread, I know that American over-abundance is not always the way to good eating. Let’s even out the distribution, wherever and whenever we can.

Sarah Lewis is a local architect and freelance writer. She recently pickled several quarts of Alaska-grown carrots and wishes the Food Bank could accept some because her family thinks pickles are the way to world peace.

Isolation, Scarcity, and Salmonberries

(First published in the Juneau Empire, L'attitude section, February 26, 2010)

“San Francisco of the North” is what I’ve heard Juneau called. And though we do have steep streets, Gold Rush buildings, and the Pride Chorus, I can think of a few differences. The most important being that Juneau surpasses San Francisco (and almost every other American city, of course) in beauty and neighborliness. But another huge difference between Juneau and The City by the Bay is our complete geographical isolation. When it comes down to it, we’re all alone out here. A price Juneauites pay for natural beauty and friendliness.

E-mailing, Tweeting, Friending, Skyping, and old-fashioned phoning connect us to the world, of course. But our real connections are only through the air and over the water… a fact that makes Juneau simultaneously strong and fragile. It’s true that we can happily separate ourselves from some evils of the world, but there’s another side to that coin: it’s a challenge to bring in the goods of the world. In Juneau’s past, that meant scarcity and reliance on local resources. Today it means high prices and reliance on fossil fuels for shipping the world’s resources to us… a new recipe for scarcity.

For my family, the 2008 Snetisham Avalanche brought this home. Some families need a periodic swift kick, to remind us there is scarcity and real financial insecurity in our land of plenty. And when shown the specter of a two-thousand dollar electricity bill, my family was swiftly kicked! After a panicked 60% reduction of our electricity use, and a stint in national news with our neighborhood electricity-free dinners, we took a moment to reflect and spin the experience around:

“So… If our electricity bill skyrocketed because of a switch to smoggy, expensive diesel from clean, cheap electricity… and we’ve been relying for years on that same smelly diesel to get food and goods shipped from Outside… shouldn’t we rely more on local sources for those as well, to save money and increase reliability? (Oh yes, and do our part to reduce carbon emissions and save the world?)”

From swift kick to paradigm shift: reducing our use and purchase of goods from Outside and shifting to resources that are available closer to home – from fuel and food to soaps and services – means we will be less affected by volatile fossil fuel costs (and the environmental damage they do), more resilient to economic shifts, and helping the local economy do the same.

My family is not alone in making this change, I’ve discovered. And though folks of like mind are concerned about climate change and the environment, we’re not hippies, Peak Oilers, or disaster survivalists. We don’t even remember to carry cloth bags to the grocery store most of the time. We’re just folks who want to afford a life in this beautiful place, even when fossil fuels pass $5 a gallon, milk passes $8 a gallon, and toothpaste passes $6 a tube. And we want all Southeast Alaska’s natural resources to be available to every Juneau family far, far into the future.

So how are we diverse Juneauites doing this? Are we gathering fiddleheads, seaweed and berries? Weatherizing our houses? Upgrading our heating systems? Cooking with wood? Hunting more? Driving less? Baking bread? Crocheting and knitting? Buying used? Selling homemade goods? Looking longingly at chickens?

The answers are different in each home and neighborhood, but always interesting. And that’s what these pages in L’attitude will offer in coming months: many sides of the green life in Juneau, including green families, green neighborhoods, green ideas and saving greenbacks. Sustainability is not an elite effort in Juneau and the Empire wants to show what you can do or where you can learn more about living a green life.

Isolation puts our city and citizens at risk of scarcity. Scarcity will drive people out of Juneau… and we need everyone. Regardless of age, economics, education, ethnicity, or politics, our people make Juneau a sustainable and continuously vibrant community. We don’t want folks heading out for places like, say, San Francisco. Because I challenge you to find a single succulent, wild salmonberry there, much less people who enjoy them, each other, and life, more than in Juneau.