2 Mar 2011
I went running this morning (shamefully, it was the first time that I woke myself up before work to do this) and then spent the entire morning by myself cleaning up months worth of bunny poop. For what it was worth, I finally understand bunnies in the larger picture.
To feed them, we cut down bush-like trees and cut off the green ends. The green ends are relatively very little; we throw the rest of this giant bush in a pile that grows rapidly day to day. Then the bunny droppings and chewed branches get thrown on another—also rapidly growing—pile. So much waste for a few bunnies, each of which will hardly make a substantial appetizer for a family of four, right? At least chickens give eggs along the way before you eat them! But this is why this farmer, Angelo, mandated that farmers stay for a minimum of three weeks: it is necessary to see the larger picture. If a WWOOFer sees just one part of it, s/he may walk away thinking to have understood a linear process, when in fact all processes on a farm like this are circular.
I realized that the first pile of bare branches goes to become fire wood, and the second goes to become rich, nitrogenous compost for the garden! We don’t cut down all of those giant bushes just for the bunnies; we would have to do it anyway to heat the house. In fact, we would probably have to cut off the wild green ends, anyway, as alive they won’t kindle a fire and dead they are a brittle nuisance. As for the second pile, for a healthy garden animal droppings are a top notch source of nutrition…the natural, circular process of nutrient recycling that modern chemicals are trying to replace (with the goal of turning a self-sustaining process into a capitalist one; not, as they will claim, to feed more people). So while I spend the better part of my day scooping up bunny poop and wheel barreling it to the garden, nothing was a waste like before it may have seemed; it all connected to the larger picture!
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
Dura, la Vita del Boscaiolo...Again!
1 Mar 2011
Today, I spent six hours moving pieces of wood around. Picking them up from one pile and moving them to another.
Again, difficult the life of a lumberjack!
Today, I spent six hours moving pieces of wood around. Picking them up from one pile and moving them to another.
Again, difficult the life of a lumberjack!
WWOOF Italy Farm Lesson: Life Change
28 Feb 2011
Donatella was a jewelry artist for 18 years in Calabria before moving here. She made beautiful jewelry obviously catered to a market to sell, but also artistic pieces. Here she has one tiny piece in their home that if she didn’t point out, I never would have seen. It’s a beautiful waving, earth, wind, and fire design on the front, and in the design on the back are three rings. In order, there is one of two bodies reaching out for each other, the next with them embracing, and the last…a little erotic. AsI am gathering about Angelo's past, she also, clearly, lived a different life before this. It is so good to see this part of these people, to be reminded that they are not people who grew up removed from society but rather grew up immersed and chose to step out.
That said…am I allowed to wait until I’m 28 or 30 (about the age they left) to move away from a resource consuming, selfish, modern life? Or is it only defendable to wait until that age if it takes that long to realize that my society’s way of life is profiting from taking advantage of the rest? At my university, I carried around reusable silverware and a metal water bottle in my purse; I road my bike everywhere; and I helped lead environmental groups/awareness/initiatives on my campus. That was what I knew, so in my small way—relative to what I knew—I was making a difference. But only so long can I continue to live in a city and pat myself on the back for purchasing local or organic produce, taking public transportation, and unplugging my appliances when I’m not using them. Relative to what I know now, I’m not doing much. I am still completely dependent and thus necessarily using many resources at the expense of other people having enough, and I am still living a life necessarily tied to crude oil and supporting the status quo. If I want to live in the most sustainable way possible—and lead by example—it means I need to produce for myself, according to Angelo. So does this mean I should go back to the land entirely and produce for myself, like Angelo did?
Or maybe I can defend being selfish for some seven more years? As one of my Couch Surfing hosts put it—also a psychologist, coincidentally—“knowing one truth but continuing to act as if there were another is a mental schism, as bad as any mental illness.” Ouch. So what do I do? New York is far from sustainable, whether I like it or not (although, for what it’s worth, it has to be much more sustainable than suburb living). Do I stay in New York? I can try to change New York (I won’t change it into Angelo's Tempa del Fico, but a couple more bicycle lanes, public compost drop-offs, and public recycling would be a big step up).
Can I? As my friend Eric and I had cunningly planned, maybe I can run a rooftop organic garden and build my house out of mud in the garden. But making an earthen home in the middle of concrete NYC is hardly sustainable, either. Organic vegetables will not be so healthy produced in the air of smoggy Brooklyn, and my dream of beekeeping will surely die when the sensitive bees die from the pollution.
Before I knew how much of a drastic change Donatella had made and was trying to express my conflicting interests, she said, “Devi fare un cambio vita”. You literally “must make a life-change”. Simple as that: you decide what it is that you want most, and you make the life-altering decision to do it, even if it means that you will do only that. Donatella now spends her days working in the garden, canning, cooking from scratch, driving her girls from their isolated farm to and from school, and spending all of her time making day to day life work. (Summed up implication: frequent tango, blues, or salsa dancing are not what should take priority in my future.)
This all said, I still haven’t completely given up the idea of city living. I can reduce my impact to almost zero, or I can impact others to reduce theirs by five percent. And five percent for everyone in a city of eight million people…
Donatella was a jewelry artist for 18 years in Calabria before moving here. She made beautiful jewelry obviously catered to a market to sell, but also artistic pieces. Here she has one tiny piece in their home that if she didn’t point out, I never would have seen. It’s a beautiful waving, earth, wind, and fire design on the front, and in the design on the back are three rings. In order, there is one of two bodies reaching out for each other, the next with them embracing, and the last…a little erotic. AsI am gathering about Angelo's past, she also, clearly, lived a different life before this. It is so good to see this part of these people, to be reminded that they are not people who grew up removed from society but rather grew up immersed and chose to step out.
That said…am I allowed to wait until I’m 28 or 30 (about the age they left) to move away from a resource consuming, selfish, modern life? Or is it only defendable to wait until that age if it takes that long to realize that my society’s way of life is profiting from taking advantage of the rest? At my university, I carried around reusable silverware and a metal water bottle in my purse; I road my bike everywhere; and I helped lead environmental groups/awareness/initiatives on my campus. That was what I knew, so in my small way—relative to what I knew—I was making a difference. But only so long can I continue to live in a city and pat myself on the back for purchasing local or organic produce, taking public transportation, and unplugging my appliances when I’m not using them. Relative to what I know now, I’m not doing much. I am still completely dependent and thus necessarily using many resources at the expense of other people having enough, and I am still living a life necessarily tied to crude oil and supporting the status quo. If I want to live in the most sustainable way possible—and lead by example—it means I need to produce for myself, according to Angelo. So does this mean I should go back to the land entirely and produce for myself, like Angelo did?
Or maybe I can defend being selfish for some seven more years? As one of my Couch Surfing hosts put it—also a psychologist, coincidentally—“knowing one truth but continuing to act as if there were another is a mental schism, as bad as any mental illness.” Ouch. So what do I do? New York is far from sustainable, whether I like it or not (although, for what it’s worth, it has to be much more sustainable than suburb living). Do I stay in New York? I can try to change New York (I won’t change it into Angelo's Tempa del Fico, but a couple more bicycle lanes, public compost drop-offs, and public recycling would be a big step up).
Can I? As my friend Eric and I had cunningly planned, maybe I can run a rooftop organic garden and build my house out of mud in the garden. But making an earthen home in the middle of concrete NYC is hardly sustainable, either. Organic vegetables will not be so healthy produced in the air of smoggy Brooklyn, and my dream of beekeeping will surely die when the sensitive bees die from the pollution.
Before I knew how much of a drastic change Donatella had made and was trying to express my conflicting interests, she said, “Devi fare un cambio vita”. You literally “must make a life-change”. Simple as that: you decide what it is that you want most, and you make the life-altering decision to do it, even if it means that you will do only that. Donatella now spends her days working in the garden, canning, cooking from scratch, driving her girls from their isolated farm to and from school, and spending all of her time making day to day life work. (Summed up implication: frequent tango, blues, or salsa dancing are not what should take priority in my future.)
This all said, I still haven’t completely given up the idea of city living. I can reduce my impact to almost zero, or I can impact others to reduce theirs by five percent. And five percent for everyone in a city of eight million people…
Thursday, April 14, 2011
WWOOFing in Italy: Precarious Work 2
27 Feb 2011
Back to topic of precariousness.
The ladder I’ve been using to get up high is clearly a home-built latter, perhaps built years ago and meant to last half the time it has lasted. It is wobbly, rotted, feels constantly moist, and looks like the one hinge holding front to back will spit at any moment. But painting half the wall on this ladder, the top corner while standing on the very last rung, was a cinch. Next came using the ladder to reach the two rotting beams of wood stretched across the frame for the [eventual] second floor, placed there for me to use as a temporary floor. And then came the even more precarious work of standing atop an old, rotting chair, atop the rotting wood beams (which I reached by using the rotting latter).
“Don’t fall!” Angelo yelled to me as he left me alone to work.
“Keep your ears open for me while you’re outside,” I said, “If I do fall I’m not a very loud screamer.”
“Do you have only one headphone earplug in?” he asked, noting that I had taken out one ear bud to talk to him, “Make sure to tip your head a little bit to the opposite side to reset the balance. You’ll be fine. Bye!”
Difficult, the life of a lumberjack.
Back to topic of precariousness.
The ladder I’ve been using to get up high is clearly a home-built latter, perhaps built years ago and meant to last half the time it has lasted. It is wobbly, rotted, feels constantly moist, and looks like the one hinge holding front to back will spit at any moment. But painting half the wall on this ladder, the top corner while standing on the very last rung, was a cinch. Next came using the ladder to reach the two rotting beams of wood stretched across the frame for the [eventual] second floor, placed there for me to use as a temporary floor. And then came the even more precarious work of standing atop an old, rotting chair, atop the rotting wood beams (which I reached by using the rotting latter).
“Don’t fall!” Angelo yelled to me as he left me alone to work.
“Keep your ears open for me while you’re outside,” I said, “If I do fall I’m not a very loud screamer.”
“Do you have only one headphone earplug in?” he asked, noting that I had taken out one ear bud to talk to him, “Make sure to tip your head a little bit to the opposite side to reset the balance. You’ll be fine. Bye!”
Difficult, the life of a lumberjack.
WWOOFing in Italy: Precarious Work
26 Feb 2011
Living away from the land and in a modern city or town, we deliberately forget how precarious daily life always has been. We have hospitals everywhere, machines or professionals that do our physical labor, news reports of every freak-accident and catastrophe and statistics that tell us exactly how likely we are to die in any particular action. My mother sends me texts threatening to call the police for a lost person if I don't respond to a phone call after five hours, for Christ's Sake!
Here, I am doing physical labor all day and, should an accident happen, I am an hour drive down winding mountain road to the nearest hospital. Living off the land, you simply worry less about accidents. What good will more worry do? People are closer to the natural state of things here: we all are born, we all will die…let’s not waste too much time worrying about it. The work needs to be done regardless. The adventures of three-year-old Nong Ti in Thailand was the perfect example of this. Or, for example, using an electric sander on stone walls without a facemask or goggles or driving a tractor after five glasses of wine .
Living away from the land and in a modern city or town, we deliberately forget how precarious daily life always has been. We have hospitals everywhere, machines or professionals that do our physical labor, news reports of every freak-accident and catastrophe and statistics that tell us exactly how likely we are to die in any particular action. My mother sends me texts threatening to call the police for a lost person if I don't respond to a phone call after five hours, for Christ's Sake!
Here, I am doing physical labor all day and, should an accident happen, I am an hour drive down winding mountain road to the nearest hospital. Living off the land, you simply worry less about accidents. What good will more worry do? People are closer to the natural state of things here: we all are born, we all will die…let’s not waste too much time worrying about it. The work needs to be done regardless. The adventures of three-year-old Nong Ti in Thailand was the perfect example of this. Or, for example, using an electric sander on stone walls without a facemask or goggles or driving a tractor after five glasses of wine .
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
WWOOFing in Italy: Olive Oil
23 February 2011
How much does Olive Oil cost in the US?
Today, now that the rocks had been sanded, it was time for me to go back through the entire house, this time to oil them. Gallons and gallons of olive oil will be used in this process. Of course we do not use olive oil because it is the only appropriate oil for the job; there is simply a lot of it. If only I had limitless space in my backpack and could carry a year’s supply of homemade extra-virgin olive oil home with me! But in that case, in a bag of limitless room I would have to add chestnuts, kiwi, fresh goat cheese, mozzarella balls, lemons, eggs from the family farm, unmarked bottle of home-produced red wine gifted from the neighbors, gelato… This hypothetical bag with limitless room is also padded. And refrigerated.
Work here has reminded me of my first job at age twelve: staining and polyurethaning woodwork in my parents’ home. Only this time, no stained hands, no sticky mess that can only be cleaned with toxic chemicals….just natural, nutrient-rich olive oil. the more I spill on myself the merrier. I’ve been using it as body lotion already, anyway, so every spill is just an excuse to better moisturize!
How much does Olive Oil cost in the US?
Today, now that the rocks had been sanded, it was time for me to go back through the entire house, this time to oil them. Gallons and gallons of olive oil will be used in this process. Of course we do not use olive oil because it is the only appropriate oil for the job; there is simply a lot of it. If only I had limitless space in my backpack and could carry a year’s supply of homemade extra-virgin olive oil home with me! But in that case, in a bag of limitless room I would have to add chestnuts, kiwi, fresh goat cheese, mozzarella balls, lemons, eggs from the family farm, unmarked bottle of home-produced red wine gifted from the neighbors, gelato… This hypothetical bag with limitless room is also padded. And refrigerated.
Work here has reminded me of my first job at age twelve: staining and polyurethaning woodwork in my parents’ home. Only this time, no stained hands, no sticky mess that can only be cleaned with toxic chemicals….just natural, nutrient-rich olive oil. the more I spill on myself the merrier. I’ve been using it as body lotion already, anyway, so every spill is just an excuse to better moisturize!
WWOOFing in Italy: Recreational Farming
21 February 2011
I spent a long weekend visiting old friends in Salerno, the main city in the province. Johanna had come from Austria to a family in Salerno the same year that I had been an exchange student in Vallo, and we had become great friends in a very short time, traveling Europe together the following summer and remaining pen pals for the past six years (that’s right: in 2011 I still have a real pen and paper pen pal!) Knowing that I would be near, Johanna came on her week break from university to visit her host family, a family that had been like a second family to me during my exchange year. Anna Maria and Franco, Johanna’s host parents, own a classy seafood restaurant in Salerno. Franco grew up on the land outside of Salerno in Buccino, and in recent years he has maintained the land that his parents owned. This is a phenomenon of many well-[enough]-to-do Southern Italians: they own a farm but live in the city. They are “farmers” that go to their farm to escape from city life and pay someone else to care for it for them.* Franco has hens, roosters, bunnies, goats, dogs, and even a horse, all of which he sees about once a week on his day off from the restaurant. The farmhouse could not be more bucolic: when you arrive to the big gate out front by four dogs wait excitedly for Franco’s car to arrive; mountains covered in farmhouses and orchards lined with olive and fruit trees surround it; and hens, roosters, goats and rabbits all live in one big farmyard pen in harmony. Even at the farm in Tempa del Fico the bunnies are separated in three cages (the young, the adult, and the mating couple), the chickens are caged in together on all sides, and the donkeys are penned together, too. The farm in Buccino was a proper scene from Charlotte’s Web. I realized, this is exactly the role that this farm serves. Whether this structure is the best or not (not a judgment; I certainly like to think that it is!) it fits their one-visit-per-week image of a harmonious farm. I mentioned eating the rabbits to Anna Maria and she said, “Oh, no! I would never eat my rabbits! They would have to die of natural causes.” I suppose this is the difference between recreational farming and livelihood farming.
* Not just my cultural notation: I found my thoughts proven correct in a (fabulous) book, The Italians, that described the phenomena of city people owning but not necessarily working their farms, “Southern farmers anyway prefer to live not on the land but in nearby towns” (Barzini 244).
I spent a long weekend visiting old friends in Salerno, the main city in the province. Johanna had come from Austria to a family in Salerno the same year that I had been an exchange student in Vallo, and we had become great friends in a very short time, traveling Europe together the following summer and remaining pen pals for the past six years (that’s right: in 2011 I still have a real pen and paper pen pal!) Knowing that I would be near, Johanna came on her week break from university to visit her host family, a family that had been like a second family to me during my exchange year. Anna Maria and Franco, Johanna’s host parents, own a classy seafood restaurant in Salerno. Franco grew up on the land outside of Salerno in Buccino, and in recent years he has maintained the land that his parents owned. This is a phenomenon of many well-[enough]-to-do Southern Italians: they own a farm but live in the city. They are “farmers” that go to their farm to escape from city life and pay someone else to care for it for them.* Franco has hens, roosters, bunnies, goats, dogs, and even a horse, all of which he sees about once a week on his day off from the restaurant. The farmhouse could not be more bucolic: when you arrive to the big gate out front by four dogs wait excitedly for Franco’s car to arrive; mountains covered in farmhouses and orchards lined with olive and fruit trees surround it; and hens, roosters, goats and rabbits all live in one big farmyard pen in harmony. Even at the farm in Tempa del Fico the bunnies are separated in three cages (the young, the adult, and the mating couple), the chickens are caged in together on all sides, and the donkeys are penned together, too. The farm in Buccino was a proper scene from Charlotte’s Web. I realized, this is exactly the role that this farm serves. Whether this structure is the best or not (not a judgment; I certainly like to think that it is!) it fits their one-visit-per-week image of a harmonious farm. I mentioned eating the rabbits to Anna Maria and she said, “Oh, no! I would never eat my rabbits! They would have to die of natural causes.” I suppose this is the difference between recreational farming and livelihood farming.
* Not just my cultural notation: I found my thoughts proven correct in a (fabulous) book, The Italians, that described the phenomena of city people owning but not necessarily working their farms, “Southern farmers anyway prefer to live not on the land but in nearby towns” (Barzini 244).
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