In Chimacum, on Washington state's Olympic Peninsula, there are probably more dairy cows than humans. It is a place where it's common to see a 1972 Ford F-100 hard at work, way past its expiration date. Where those who own a patch of ground extend their hospitality to friends to park a trailer/bus/boat and live a while until they find a job/squeeze/studio space. Where the pie is from scratch and serving bad coffee is a sin. In Chimacum, not everyone bothers to replace their missing teeth, and that is perfectly acceptable.
It is also the place where I became a hardwired environmentalist -- not because it was chic or because of yuppie guilt, but because it was a matter of survival.
I was introduced to Chimacum as a 12-year-old seventh-grader, fresh from a scholarship at a New York all-girls' school where diplomats and old-money families sent their daughters. My father moved us back to Washington for several reasons; being closer to his family and giving us a non-urban alternative topped the list.
I never quite fit into either culture, and I split back to the city in the middle of 11th grade, feeling as if I had outgrown the country. I went on to work many jobs, in offices and restaurants and newsrooms, in New York and New Mexico. But Chimacum had seeped into my DNA. The smell of fertilizer and the close-knit community called. I returned in the early '90s to be closer to my family, and because I couldn't figure out where else to go.
Places like Chimacum are rich in characters and scenery, but they are not rich in jobs, so I concocted a living during my mid-20s hawking my various talents: freelance writing, PR, waiting tables, running a dating service. (I also can sing "Home on the Range" in Yiddish, but no one has ever offered to pay me for that.) When I was broke, broken up, and needing a place to live in 1995, Berry Hill Lane became the obvious answer.
I managed to scrape together a down payment on a $25,000 piece of property a mile up the rutty, rocky lane: Five forested acres that housed three tiny cabins, fashioned from reclaimed lumber and windows that used to be part of a nearby hotel. The main one, 400 square feet with a loft bedroom, a makeshift kitchen, and a rusty old woodstove, would become my home. The octagonal cabin that I packed with my children's books and dubbed the "Regression Room" served as my office; most of my nonessential belongings ended up molding away in the third outbuilding. (Who knew ice skates could grow mold?) My monthly mortgage payment was the equivalent of what I pay for a haircut now.
It was more than enough space for me and my beagley mutt, Lucy, to dream our dreams of woods and poetry. And it was a serious education in self-reliance. There was no well on the property, and each drop of water had to be hauled in or collected from the roof. I had to pack out any garbage I created -- and pay to dump it. No Berry Hill Lane resident ever received a bill from the electric company -- we were off the grid. The juice that ran anything came from batteries charged by solar panels and gas generators. Forget about a toilet or bathtub or washing machine.
I traded chartreuse silk pumps for black leather Timberlands and figured out how to yield that satisfying crack-and-split from firewood rounds. Berry Hill's resident solar-power expert, Michael "Dr. Sparks" Bittman, guided me through the process of buying and installing two panels on my roof. And my lifestyle became more a reflection of the earth's desires than my own: The first winter, all those plants that had thrived in my last home froze into black, slimy messes because I'd let the fire die out for too long. When ice made the road too slick for driving one Christmas Eve, my truck nearly ended up in a ditch full of refrigerators abandoned by my neighbor. One time, a bear let himself in and took a big shit on my coffee table.
Ecology became personal, a matter of keeping warm, dry, safe, and clean. I stopped buying paper towels and used dishtowels and sponges instead. Propane-powered lights were on only when necessary -- the more gas I used, the sooner I'd have to truck the tank to town for a refill. My "septic system" involved an outhouse, a plastic bucket with holes in the bottom, and ashes from the fireplace.
Despite the aches and worries, I loved my life. But I still felt the urban tug. Eventually, I took a job in Seattle and then, in 2005, moved to Los Angeles -- a city with, among other things, an abundance of smog and a shocking lack of recycling.
In L.A., my environmentalism has shifted to a macro level. Every day, I urge millions of people to save energy.
I had come to California with thoughts of using my creative talents in the entertainment business, but that didn't look so hot after I saw what my hardworking, poorly paid friends in the "biz" went through. So six months ago, I went to work in the corporate communications department of one of the country's largest investor-owned utilities.
Friends were shocked that I'd taken a straight job after six years of freelancing, and that said employment was in a decidedly "unsexy" industry. I think I shocked myself even more -- how could a once-blissful homesteader become a utility employee?
I wondered if I was selling out. My personal jury will always be out about nuclear power, and my new company owns an interest in the San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station, near San Diego. I don't like that a lot of our portfolio comes from dirty old coal. On the other hand, I was warmed when I learned that our company's chair was a founder of the Natural Resources Defense Council.
I soon realized I'd be an operative working from the inside: I am paid to convince people to not buy so much of our product, to get them to conserve energy and save money.
I created a forum on our website in which customers can share ways they save energy. I'm in charge of the inserts customers receive in the mail, and it's my mission to make energy efficiency interesting and approachable -- especially for those angry and baffled by their bills. I tell them how they can earn cash when they buy an Energy Star-rated fridge or freezer, plus an extra $35 to $50 to haul away the old one. I tell them how, if each California household swapped out one regular, high-use bulb for a compact fluorescent, the total savings would be $75 million over a year. And I tell them that last year, my company purchased more than 13 billion kilowatt-hours of electricity generated by wind, solar, hydro, and other renewable sources -- more than any other utility in the country.
The business rationale for urging conservation, besides greater good, is that the more electricity customers use, the more strain it puts on the infrastructure, and the more we need to maintain and create new lines, poles, generation methods, and the like. The California Public Utilities Commission sets rates, and we can't charge more than what it costs us to procure and deliver energy. So it makes sense to work with and improve existing infrastructure, and convince people that saving money is a win-win situation.
I've come to realize that change comes in particles that make waves. Decisions each of us make every moment -- should I bring my own cup to the coffee shop? wait the half hour for my carpool buddy, or go it alone? look for local grapes? -- affect the larger picture. My intent is to help the good people of Southern California make the small, eco-friendly choices that really can change their lives.
My own life has changed a great deal since the days spent in my tiny cabin -- at least on the surface. I now live in a 1947 condo with hardwood floors (and ultra-efficient light bulbs). I'm probably over my days of peeing in a tomato can on a night when it's too cold to go to the outhouse, and I'll be damned if I ever lose a vintage beaded dress to mold again. But I still give up a silent thanks for every bubble bath I take, for every time I blow-dry my spazzy curls into sleek submission. Now I know just how much work it takes for the earth to give me those things.
I never meant to become a professional tree-hugger. I hung on to that tree because I had nothing else -- I would have slipped into the void. But once I had my arms around a tree of my own, my options opened, and I couldn't let go.
This Friday, don’t just Buy Nothing—use nothing!
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No Impact Man, Elizabeth Kolbert, and the civic sphere
Comments
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Samuel Fromartz Posted 5:29 am
05 Jan 2007
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hank Posted 10:51 am
05 Jan 2007
Is this piece in the 'corporate communicator' voice, for talking about electrification?
Did where and how you'd been living help you get the job, having been off the grid?
Can you see any stars where you live now? I realize you were living in a rainy part of Washington, but --- more stars now or fewer?
You mention being eager to get at least one compact fluorescent into each home -- I've been using them for years, but just found I could cure my insomnia just by taking the standard CFLs out of our evening reading lamps (to use "low blue light" for evening lighting).
I know of only one CFL that's low blue -- a little bit in the blue part of the spectrum allows some color perception. There are yellow buglights, but the completely no-blue light is oooougly.
Is the utility talking at all about light pollution?
And what are the fuels/energy sources for your employer? I recall California forbade building any new coal plants decades ago, so I assume you buy from outside the state?
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willa Posted 11:08 am
05 Jan 2007
Well, maybe she's not giving us the whole truth on her decision to move, and indeed why should she? The story isn't really about that. It might be more personal than you'd really want to get on the internet.
My sense is that it is more or less the whole story, though. As someone who's also spent life vacillating between the boonies and various "more-sophisticated" worlds, albeit not quite this dramatically, I can say that sometimes you need one, sometimes you need the other. At heart I will always prefer the boonies, always be unhappy if I have be surrounded by too many people too much of the time, but I'd be even more unhappy if I hadn't had the chance to get the kind of education you can only get in places where there are too many people for my taste. There are things I like, and occasionally even crave, about society, but that doesn't mean I don't "really" love the boonies.
Of course, I only speak for myself, but I do identify with her somewhat, at least based on this story.
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ffletcher Posted 2:54 pm
05 Jan 2007
But for those of you that would like to live back in the Country there are plenty of places that would love to have you. You really ought to consider checking it out. South Dakota, North Dakota, Nebraska, Iowa, Kansas have many small towns that have plenty of room for a family or two.
In my experience those 50 and older do best in making the adjustment to country living. Small towns are unique. The small number of people in the towns, there were 180 people where I grew up, make each town more unique that those who have lived in towns bigger than 5000 can really appreciate.
Back there in the remote north central part of the US you really can forget how many people there are in the world.
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Biodiversivist Posted 2:00 am
06 Jan 2007
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willa Posted 11:14 am
07 Jan 2007
I didn't scroll back up and look at it, and, well, like you said, it seemed like something you would say. :)
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angrydakinis Posted 11:37 pm
07 Jan 2007
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sunflower Posted 1:01 am
08 Jan 2007
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angrydakinis Posted 1:36 am
08 Jan 2007
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willa Posted 1:20 pm
08 Jan 2007
When I was a baby, my mom got out of a really bad situation in NYC--leaving not just the situation, but also her best friends, father, aunts, and my two much-older sisters who lived with their dad in New Jersey--and moved to Santa Fe. She rented for a year, and we had nothing. We had a Coleman stove, a beanbag chair, a table made of plywood with firewood pieces for legs, presumably a carseat for me, and four dogs. A year later, she begged loans from her family (who thought she was nuts) and bought an old adobe house that had burned 25 years before and had no roof, though most of the walls were still mostly there. She restored it herself, a little at a time, living in a travel trailer until the house had a roof again. We lived in the house for quite a while without running water, electricity, or heat other than a wood stove (in fact, while the running water and electricity only took five years, the wood stove was the only heat in the place for about 20). My grandfather used to get so mad because we had no telephone, and he couldn't fathom why a person would choose not to have a telephone (actually, I think my mom chose that partly so he couldnt' call her, but...).
Some of my earliest memories are of taking baths in a washtub heated on the wood stove, and of riding in this old battered Ford van she used to haul all the building materials except the vigas (roof beams, New Mexico-style). I don't ever remember resenting it. I don't ever remember wishing we were anywhere else. Everyone else had a tv; I got a pony when I turned 6 (also not the exclusive province of the wealthy, btw). It was the best thing she could have done, for me and for herself.
So if you think you're too poor to do what Vanessa did, or too constrained by your kid, or whatever, you're just not thinking hard enough.
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angrydakinis Posted 11:19 pm
08 Jan 2007
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willa Posted 12:52 am
09 Jan 2007
You were the one who said your kid kept you from moving away from LA to the boonies. I'm glad your kid is beutiful--I'm sure s/he is the most beautiful child in the world--but you can't have your kid and your boonies too, apparently, so if it's because of the kid, then either admit that you chose the kid over the boonies, or I'll assume the pregnancy wasn't your choice. Look, I'm a woman too, and I personally choose--for environmental and ethical reasons, and because I just plain don't want any--to avoid having children. You didn't choose that. Fine and good, but don't cry about it when your choice alters the choices available to you from then on.
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caniscandida Posted 1:47 am
09 Jan 2007
In fact, for the record, I do not think Willa said anything whatsoever about her ancestors' activities, to the effect that they could be construed as "gleaning."
Some folks in this country that prides itself on the rule of law pay attention to such details.
Which is not to say that there is no place for the Robin Hood principle. And many folks in this same country of ours are mighty sympathetic to it.
Anyway ... Willa, did you all have a post office box, at the main post office, in SF? I recall that that was a big event, in the afternoon, going down there, rain or shine, hitching up the pathetic green bike, and waiting for the mail. That was the only time in my life, when I subscribed to The New Yorker. Yes indeed, the afternoon visit to the post office was a big deal.
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katesisco Posted 11:01 pm
09 Jan 2007
Excerpt: choices are related to cash flow, as they have been forever throughout history. don't you think the indentured servants would have preferred to farm their own land? the big danger in america is bashing people over the head with their supposedly available "choices".
Exactly so.
kathleen sisco
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willa Posted 11:57 am
11 Jan 2007
And we did scavenge the odd item of building material, just never when "scavenge" was the polite term for "steal". A couple of things in our house came from the county landfill back before they started looming over everyone with earthmovers and burying the trash instantly as you finished dumping it (I guess the liability for the county must have been outrageous), and occasionally builders would give us scrap that they would otherwise have paid to haul off.
The thing is, when you build with adobe, there's not much to scavenge. We did reuse the bricks from the south wall (which is now all glass) in rebuilding some of the other walls, and we dug the dirt for the mortar from a bank near the house, but the additional adobes had to be bought (we didn't have the energy or the space to make our own). The roofing materials also had to be bought new, as did the windows and exterior doors. Interior doors, the tub, the sinks, and the cabinets and stuff mostly came from thrift stores (Salvation Army used to have a big outdoor yard where they sold all that kind of stuff).
It wasn't until I had lived a few other places and moved back home that I really realized just how, um, "special" my house really is. I mean, I love it, but...to anyone who didn't know my mom, it must seem like she was a seriously stoned hippie-type. Not that there's anything wrong with that--just that my mom was actually a rather proper sort of person, a nice Jewish girl from New York, who just kind of blew a gasket and decided it wasn't worth putting up with her nice Jewish lawyer husband just to have a nice house and a nice car.
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Biodiversivist Posted 1:33 pm
11 Jan 2007
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willa Posted 8:23 am
12 Jan 2007
I'd say I'd write it when I get too old and decrepit to do the other things I'm doing now, but then, my mother said that about quilting, that she'd take it up when she was too old to build houses and found horse rescues and whatnot, and she never got that old. :( So for now I'll settle for inflicting chunks of the story on unsuspecting blog commenters...
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angrydakinis Posted 11:19 pm
15 Jan 2007
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Oakleaf Mold Posted 4:42 am
12 Feb 2007
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