Planting in the Holes

So I'm working the other day in my office, tap tap tap on the computer, when I hear the unmistakable grinding sound of a wood chipper right ouside my window. I slip on my fave flip flops, the orange ones from Mary, and head out the front door to find workers from a tree removal company feeding large tree limbs from my next-door-neighbors' property into the chipper. "Free mulch," it says on the side of the truck, and I see my opportunity. My way to get the sink hole on my front lawn filled and to expand my lawn elimination plan just a little bit, thereby easing my weekly push-reel lawn mowing burden.

I ask the guy in charge if he will dump some mulch on my sink hole before he leaves, and then I head out to meet my younger daughter at school. Her school this year is several miles away and we have taken to driving halfway and walking halfway. We have discovered a stone wall overlooking a babbling brook that we have never, ever noticed before and we sit there after school and have a snack, usually a juicy peach when I can find organic ones (which is hard) and so we started calling this resting spot the Pit Stop. A little girl who waits for her father to pick her up nearby this spot has joined us in finding turtles and looking for the beavers who have built a dam. She says the spot reminds her of the book and movie, Bridge to Terabithia, and I know already that the three of us will remember this spot as special when one day we think back on it.

Anyway, so we walk and drive home this day and as we come down the hill toward our house, I laugh out loud. The tree guy had dumped the entire truckload of mulch, right there on my front lawn.

Tending toward obsession a little bit, I spend the entire next day spreading a border of mulch along my front walkway, down my driveway and around my mailbox garden, connecting it all in a swoosh of mulch that will kill off a big ole' piece of lawn and provide me with a place to plant lavender and rosemary, black-eyed susans and daisies, and other food-bearing and pollinator-attracting front-yard-worthy plants.





















I also lay a path-and-bed system on the side of the house leading toward the backyard that will be, one day, filled with flowers and three new vegetable beds. I couldn't have been happier with my little wheelbarrow and pitchfork, the warmth on my feet as the compost spilled across them, the blank slate of grass on which my imagination was creating something new, something already beautiful in its possibilities.


















I had been at our new community garden already this week (after the opening ceremony last Sunday--check out this sweet 51-second video created by my new friend, Jim Hines), where I had dragged sixteen cinderblocks and pounds and pounds of soil and compost to create my little piece of harnessed sunshine, my goal to do it all for less than $50. Yes, I'm planting in the holes--the sink hole and the cinderblock holes, and perhaps, a certain hole in my heart, about which I will tell you, in January, when it is time.





















I had lingered there, at the garden, looking at the blank slate I had created, imagining. I was reminded of January, my favorite gardening month here in Atlanta, when I take hoe to soil and smell the sweet earth and bask in the still of a fresh dawn on a new gardening year.

And so the seasons change here now. The new blank slates on which I will write have been prepared. And the world's energy, which it seems has not called me to Kate's in France this year, has called me where I need to be.

Some Part of Me Felt Like I Had Found My Way Home (Or, What Happened at the Southface Eco-Office Dedication Ceremony)

So I stood there on the sidewalk in front of the Southface Energy Institute Eco-Office, some lemonade in a compostable cup in hand.

After hugging Judy of the CSA, who is now the marketing director of Southface, I had already bee-lined toward the outdoor gardens. I had already indulged myself in taking photos of raised bed gardens, a beehive, rainbarrels, composting bins, a bike parking area complete with an air machine, a plethora of nut and fruit trees, muscadine vines, extensive native plantings, and a dry creek bed that ends in a cistern.

So as I waited for the speeches, the native vine for the ribbon cutting draped across the stairs attractively, this UPS package car pulled up (I know they are called package cars instead of trucks, by the way, because I used to work at the global headquarters and this kind of detail is drilled into your head there; I also used to work at CNN and you were fined if you used the word "foreign" since, the theory goes, nothing is foreign to a network with global coverage).

And I shot this photo. I don't think UPS has any particular relationship with the Southface Eco-Office, yet is has a relationship with me, since I worked there. Since I've been following its move toward increased sustainability and leveraging the energy-saving lessons it is learning from its current status as having the largest alternative fuel fleet in the industry with 2,200 vehicles. And since I just heard that the UPS Foundation, in conjunction with the Earthday Network, is rolling out the Atlanta-based Clean Air Campaign's No Idling program at schools nationwide. (FYI, only one public school in my City of Dunwoody currently asks parents on the carpool lane to not idle.)

I didn't realize until I got home that this photo not only reflected me, but also reflected the Eco-Office and the people who were standing there waiting for the ceremony. It reflected us all. It reflected Atlanta. It perhaps, in some way, reflects you as well, and the changes that are happening in your company or country.

I traipsed around the Eco-Office on the expertly-given tour, driving poor Bourke and John crazy with questions (Are the cartridges used in the waterless urinals recyclable? Are these carpet tiles the ones that Ray Anderson of Interface talked about as the design solution that mimics the forest floor? In which cases would you recommend using low-VOC paints and in which would you use no-VOC paints? What exactly is marmoleum? Is the wood in the training center tables sustainably harvested? What are some examples of adaptive reuse within this building? What are the advantages of open-cell foam insulation? You get the drift!) when we finally emerged onto the Green Roof, right there in the shadow, ever so symbolically, of the Georgia Power building.

And some part of me felt like I had found my way home. First, you have the 1,700-gallon cistern, looking like the water tower where the Petticoat Junction sisters used to swim in that ridiculous TV show from the 1970s (okay, I'm dating myself, but I have no problem with that). Then, you have the sedum covering the roof, intercepted by a curvy path made of squishy square tiles, all feeling very inviting and homey and almost "gosh, I know this place." I remembered when I lived in a fifth-floor walk-up in New York City and I discovered the door that led to the roof and suddenly found myself out there every Sunday with a little lawn chair and my newspaper. Or how my friend and I used to make up choreography to Abba's Dancing Queen on the roof outside my bedroom window, or how I used to crouch out there at night after my parents thought I went to bed, watching the stars and writing poetry by flashlight.

I walked from stepping stone to stepping stone, the memories flooding me, the sensation under my feet of these soft tiles new, however.

"What are these made of?" I asked, and this was about when the rest of the group and John moved along, leaving Bourke and me up on the roof.

Bourke told me that Georgia Power was redoing a playground and was replacing an existing track. The rubber from that track was going to go into the waste stream until it was repurposed as stepping stones. So right there on the roof of the Eco-Office was an attractive example of a material being reused as a project between a power giant and a non-profit organization promoting sustainable homes, workplaces and communities through education and technical assistance.

Less talk, more photos--here is it:


















Okay, I'll give you more.

Here is the rooftop Petticoat Junction cistern:


















Here is Georgia Power beyond the Eco-Office green roof:

















Here are the nut trees and muscadine vines:





















Here is the dry creek bed:

















Here is the lemonade and the compostable cups:














Here is the Eco-Office, taken from the Southface Eco-Office's excellent online press kit:



Here are the girls from Petticoat Junction swimming in the water tower on the TV show:




















And here is the most important photo of all. My friend Judy:



















Oh, and did I mention that the Southface Eco-Office achieved the Platinum level in LEED certification? Establishing a LEED policy for new government buildings is on the Atlanta Regional Commission Green Community Certification checklist, and that is one of the measures on which we are working right now through our City of Dunwoody Sustainability Commission. After visiting the Eco-Office, I totally get it now.

And I got a trip down memory lane and a glimpse of the future as well.

What The Children Found That Was Important

We staked out the plots of the community garden yesterday and spread mulch for something like five hours. More than twenty people showed up and we somehow intuitively divided into several teams that I will call the Measurers, the Mulchers, and the Movers. I was a happy Mulcher.

The Measurers engaged in much discussion about the best way to mark off the plots and paths, aiming for perfectly straight lines as if our garden were a giant quilt. I even thought I heard a trigonometric formula or two over there, as well as words such as quadrants and diagonals. There was much hammering and lots of twine involved.

The Mulchers, on the other hand, shoveled mindlessly from a big pile of smoking wood chips into wheelbarrows while continually chatting. To the best of my knowledge, there was not one conversation about mulch or wood chips or even really about the garden. Whenever the Movers would show up with their wheelbarrows, we would get a quick update on what was happening with the Measurers so that we could be sure we were doing what they needed us to do. Then, we'd stop leaning on our shovels and start loading the wood chips, never actually missing a beat in our conversations.

There were several children there and I gave two of them my camera and asked them to take pictures of what they found that was "important." That was my only direction. One of them took the picture above, of the hands of a man who has been organic farming and gardening for more than 50 years and who will be turning 80 next week. This man, Rod, fell from the heavens into our lives about two weeks ago. It is because of Rod that we didn't plow the land since he likes to use no-till methods. Our soil is hard and poor, but Rod has no concerns about his ability to work with it. Most of us are building raised beds on our plots, but we are watching Rod closely this season.

When the heat of the day got too strong and the length of our time working got too long, people began to peel off, sweaty and tired and satisfied, pledging to come back next week for a final work session before we open, which we are hoping will be next Sunday, in conjunction with the start of National Community Gardening Week. The very last person at the garden, by the way, was Rod. And I have to tell you, I don't think I have ever seen a person more happy than that man was for the entire five hours. If that's what a lifetime of gardening does for you, count me in.

It's Not About the Lawn

I've been putting off telling you about it, the lawn. How hard it has been this summer. How much I have been hating it, the mowing. Not just how physically difficult it is (was I stronger last summer, or is it just way beyond time to sharpen those blades?)

Yet I head out there every week and say the same mantra to myself as I grip my hands around the handles and bear down with my shoulder muscles, a 45-degree angle push to get things going, the sweat on my brow apparent instantly.

It's not about the lawn.

It's not about the lawn.

It's not about the lawn.

I tell myself to just be there, in the moment, the grass clippings flying all over my feet and legs and clothes and hair and, if I'm not careful, in my eyes. I tell myself to let it wash over me, whatever is meant to happen and, as always, to trust the journey.

Last year, this meant many serendipitous conversations with passersby and neighbors. This year, not so much. They're on to me, I suppose, and run for the hills when they see me coming with that mower. And so, most of the time, I'm out there alone. My younger daughter will sometimes join me, like the week I questioned my sanity as I pushed, pushed, pushed until I finally realized she was walking in my path, singing, "It's all about love, love, love" over and over again and I kicked off my flip flops and traced a heart in the grass with my bare heel and thought, "Well, yes, okay, that works."


And, other times, I get to thinking that if it takes three years to convert a pesticide-laden farm to organic, then it takes three years for a lawn as well, and next year will be my third. And not only will the lawn be completely organic then, but also petroleum-free. No gas (or electric) equipment will have graced it for three years. And that keeps me going, another heart-pounding row.

But most times, I just get to thinking. Just thinking. Thinking about everything going on in my life, the City of Dunwoody Sustainability Commission stuff, the community garden, my articles, the books I'm trying to sell, my family, how much I'd like to plant an orchard right where that tough-to-mow part of the lawn is.

And I think of what Tim said that time, that everything is hard, the question is "Is it worthwhile?" You remember Tim and Liz. They sold their big on-the-golf-course home and bought a large, scrappy piece of land on which they built a house and started a grass-fed-meat farm less than two years ago, with absolutely no farming experience at all. Well, here they are now:



And all I'm trying to do is mow the lawn?! Push on, Pattie.

Time is passing. I'll be over the crest of the hill on this lawn thing for this year soon. It's like the other day when my younger daughter and I rode our bikes to her school to test a new route there and we turned a corner and were faced with an enormous hill.

"Let's just go as far as we can," I said to her, and ahead we went. We kept pushing and pushing and suddenly we stopped, looked back and saw we had almost done the entire hill.

"It wasn't as bad as it looked in the beginning," my daughter said, and she was right.

The lawn thing, however, is worse than it looked in the beginning, back in April when the lowest setting for the wheels didn't even reach the grass. Now, I have them on the highest setting and sometimes the wheels just dig deeper and deeper, with no forward movement, until I've created a bit of a ditch. I'm not sure it's sustainable, year in, year out, this push reel mowing. My right knee makes weird noises that it didn't make a year ago. My heart thumps so hard I have to just stand there and breathe in, breathe out. I drink at least four Klean Kanteen's worth of water. And it doesn't even look all that great when I'm done.

I push. I breathe. I think, getting lost deep in my thoughts in that way you can only when you're doing something completely monotonous, an experience of which convenience gadgets and outsourcing our lives has robbed us.

Today is the last day of summer vacation here in Atlanta, if you can even believe it, even though it is still 95 degrees out and August, for goodness sake. I think of how I never even told you about my summer reading. About the beautifully-written, poetic Epitaph for a Peach, and Dirt: The Ecstatic Skin of the Earth, which had chapters titled Crevice Invasion, On Gopher Humps, and The Pharmacy of Molds. I haven't even gone into detail about Michael Perry, who wrote Coop: A Year of Poultry, Pigs and Parenting and also a gem of a book titled Population: 485 and who is now my favorite contemporary writer. Perry is smart, funny, and thoughtful, with a masterful grasp of language and a seemingly limitless wellspring of emotion and experience.








I progress slowly but steadily from the side lawn to the front to the other side, saving the back for another day.

And I think of how my children move on tomorrow, a grade older, new environments for both of them. I realize I never shared with you the poem I wrote, on the salty-water-speckled inside back cover of Coop down at the beach right about when this mowing started this year. I sat on the sand and my older daughter went out, deeper and deeper into the waves, farther and farther away from me, perfectly fine in reality (the way children-no-longer-children are ready to leave their parents) but every horror movie running through my overactive imagination:

Letting Go

The foam-tipped torrent
Tossed her heels over head
And dragged her bruised and battered
Along the ocean's bed.

An undertow
Swallowed her
And carried her
Where, I do not know.

In an instant
The sharks, those monsters of the depth
Made her gasp for breath
And left me standing helpless on the shore.

Or at least
It appeared that way to me
From where I stood
Wanting, praying for the day to turn out good.

Used to be I used to love the beach
Never deeming its dangers a deterrent
But never more
Since I became a parent!

And so I let go. I push on. I move on. Tomorrow starts a new phase in our lives. And perhaps, before long, I will turn the corner, once again, on the lawn as well. It will get easier. I will do a handspring again this year when the mowing season is over, if my knee lets me. And I will decide, once more, if it was simply hard. Or worthwhile.

The Hands We Have Touched that Have Touched Us Back

So a woman named Kathryn Wasserman Davis got an idea about how to celebrate her 100th birthday in 2007. She decided to give away a million dollars to 100 projects for peace. But that's not all. These projects had to originate from college students. The projects deemed the most do-able each received $10,000. The Davis Projects for Peace program was so successful that Mrs. Davis continued it in 2008 and again in 2009.

Enter David Baron. Or, wait, let me back up. Enter Roy Baron. Roy is David's dad, and a local friend of mine. He is the garden director of Garden Isaiah at Temple Emmanue-El. He is a retired Centers for Disease Control epidemiologist and a committed advocate of social justice, specifically through making healthy food available to the hungry. 100% of the food grown at Garden Isaiah is donated to those in need.

So I've been hanging out with Roy from time to time, and you want to make his face light up, you just ask about David.

David is a 20-year-old college student in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Last summer, David taught bio-intensive agriculture to Tanzanian farmers in order to increase production and promote resource conservation. This summer, he interned with Growing Power's Chicago office to further develop his understanding of urban agriculture and food access. And right now, David is using the Davis Projects for Peace grant he was awarded (along with two other grants) for creating HOPE Gardens, a transitional employment program in an urban farm and community garden that aims to reestablish local homeless people as independent, productive citizens and as contenders in the future job market.

I stood with Roy and David and several others recently in the little field where the sidewalk ends that will soon become our community garden. And we talked about mulch and plot size and the best methods for increasing the amount of food to donate and about what brought us there, that day, in the intermittent rain, among people who were strangers just moments or months before.

I looked at Fred Conrad, a man who grew up dirt poor in Appalachia and now serves as the Atlanta Community Food Bank liaison to 150 community gardens in the Atlanta area.

"I feel like my whole life prepared me for this job," Fred told me.

I looked at Rebecca, who lived in a homeless shelter after her parents divorced, and then a decrepid trailer park where her bike was stolen her first night there.

"And now look at me, in a nice house, starting a community garden."

I looked at the whip-smart 13-year-old and a mellow 17-year-old who are going to help build compost piles, and a baby who has no idea he is about to grow up in this spot, among these people.

I looked back at Roy and David, a father and son who, by the way, never gardened when David was growing up and now share a passion so strong, a root so deep, that they almost flow as one when they are together. Look at those hands in that picture. Look at those hands. Does your grown child rest his or her hand like that so comfortably on your shoulder? Does your father wrap his hand so proudly around your waist?

The website for HOPE Gardens will be up soon (I'll let you know when). In the meantime, here is some info about it from David's proposal:

Sitting on a 14 acre tract of land, including young growth and old growth pine forest and a pond, the HOPE Gardens area will be leased for $1 per year from the Town of Chapel Hill. The land sits off of Homestead Road in Chapel Hill. Designated for the future Chapel Hill-Carrboro greenway, the land is nestled between existing and developing residential neighborhoods. HOPE Gardens will preserve green space and biodiversity in the area, expected to be nearly urban in 5-10 years, and the Gardens will beautify the proposed greenway. Across the street from the women and children’s homeless shelter, a block down the road from the proposed location of the new men’s homeless shelter, and a quarter mile from a free bus line, the land and project are positioned for success and sustainability.

HOPE Gardens will break ground in summer of 2009. Phase one includes a .19 acre fenced plot that will house vegetable, herb, and flower gardens as well as fruit bushes and vines. In addition, about one fourth of this area will be devoted to individual plots specifically for community members. Other phase one developments include a cut flower meadow over the septic field and a distributed fruit and nut tree orchard, likely containing 45 trees.

I am awestruck, yet again, at how the world's energy works to focus resources and knowledge and possibility. I'm thankful that a 102-year-old woman invested in the future through people like David Baron. And I'm humbled to be standing in that little field with such an amazing group of people, our first seed yet to be planted in the ground yet the number of hands we have touched and that have touched us back growing in surprising directions with each passing day.