Watching the changes

In 1992 I was both newly married and newly moved to a little town in the California's Central Valley, the kind of place that time had seemingly forgotten -- where we knew the cops by name and where there was (at the time) little crime or even news, for that matter. (The week the Taco Bell at the shopping center opened, it was front page news for several days, I kid you not.) 

It was sitting in that sweet, safe little town, in the comfortable living room of our rented condo, that I watched my hometown of Los Angeles fall apart, live on television, during the riots that took place after the Rodney King verdict.

While the 1992 riots were violent and therefore more shocking, I found myself once again watching my home state on the evening news last week. Only this time the news was about PG&E shutting off power to a million customers in Northern and Central California during the inevitable and (nowadays) annual autumn wildfires. It felt oddly familiar -- watching from a distance something that was having a huge impact on parts of my home state, where I still have family and which I will always love. 

I have a running theory that when major grid blackouts start occurring any place, whether it's Aleppo, Syria or Calistoga, CA, it's a sign that something is going on, whether the blackout is deliberate or not. In California, you could argue over whether the "something going on" is 1) climate change or 2) a corrupt utility that hasn't done its part to maintain its aging equipment, but the truth be told, it's probably both of the above. But it doesn't bode well for the future of the Golden State. 

Our new state of Oregon is not without its own issues, to be certain. In our state, it's bridges everyone is concerned with. Oregon's bridges are old, they lack seismic updates, and no one can agree how to pay for the needed repairs. But at least you can structure your life so that you can avoid needing to use a bridge, at least here in Salem. We (deliberately) chose to live east of the Willamette River, so the I-5 corridor and most of Salem is on our side of the river, so if a bridge were to be out of order -- or gone -- our lives would not be severely impacted, unless we wanted to drive to the coast. 

But avoiding a week-long shutdown of your electricity? It's hard to avoid that. You can have generators, candles, fireplaces and every other off-grid convenience known to mankind, but a week-long power outage will put a strain even the most well-provisioned among us.

It scares me a little that this is only the beginning of the pain of living with a climate that is changing, combined with transportation and electrical infrastructures not equipped to handle those changes. 

The only question is, how much pain will we endure before facing the pain of paying to keep our old way of life in a new world? I have no answers, just questions, like everyone else.

But if the fires of autumn and the pre-emptive blackouts are any indication of what's to come, we're in for a wild ride.

About a Pine

Small damaged things...

So as I think I've written before, once our move to Oregon was a definite thing, I dug up the Scotch Pine I'd bought as a seedling from a friend's son (part of a Boy Scout Christmas fundraiser) a few years ago. 

Back when I received it, I tended to the pine in its tiny plastic pot until it was ready to go into the ground, and then I planted it in our backyard in Paso Robles. But after a year of typical brutal sun and wind, one side of the tree was completely scorched, to a point where I thought it might die. And since pines don't like alkaline water and our well water was high in alkalinity, even the manual watering I provided was just not to its taste. Literally. 

But I refused to give up on it. I have great sympathy - maybe too much -- for anything that is originally planted in the wrong place, because that is the story of my life. Born in the middle of the city, should have been in the country. I spent most of my childhood acutely aware that somehow, I'd been mailed to the wrong address, and yet I still stayed for 30 years or so before finally getting the guts to jailbreak myself out and into a small country town in Central California, which was better, but still not the four-seasons climate I always felt I belonged in.  

...become big and beautiful in the right places

So when I noticed the pine tree was failing, of course I decided to dig it up and put it into a temporary container and bring it along with us to the Pacific Northwest.

It is no easy task bringing plants along when you're moving 14 hours north. They take up a lot of space that could be used for other possessions and by nature, potted plants are not always stable when riding in the back of a car or truck.  But when Big Ag brought a bunch of things north a couple of months before we moved, I made him put the pine tree in the back seat of the truck and told him to find a shady spot for it someplace around the property we were going to be living on. Which, God bless him, he did. 

It sat here in Oregon for two months, with no water other than what the rain provided. But lo and behold, when I finally got up here, it looked better than it had during its entire time in Paso Robles. Lots of new needles, and the burned side (above) at least appeared to not be getting any worse. 

Sometimes the circumstances don't need to be perfect for us to leave and go to a new place; we just need to gather our courage, and go. As Goethe once said, "whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it."

And sometimes there is even more than one right place!

Since it's been growing each day since it's been here, today I transplanted the Scotch Pine into a new, larger container, which will hold it nicely until we find a home we like and can plant it on the property somewhere. The scorched needles have dropped, and slowly new growth is appearing all over the tree. So it is when you end up in the right place. Old wounds from being in the wrong place begin to heal, and you begin the process of growth again. 

But it's the beginning it that's the key to everything, I think. Dreams were not meant to stay dreams forever; that's not what we were given the dreams for. And that's true whether you're a little Christmas pine tree longing for the cloud forest or a human being longing for a new home.

Begin it.

There...and here.

There

Here

Moving to another state is a huge change, even if that state is right next to the one you were living in. I think each of our 50 states has a distinct culture and personality. You would definitely feel a different vibe living in, say, Nevada versus Utah (as an example) even though they are close, geographically. And Oregon is very different from California in a lot of ways. Big Ag remarked the other day that he felt like he'd moved to another country sometimes, and he's not too far off in that assessment. 

So right now, after we've been here all of three weeks, it still feels like we're on kind of a strange, long vacation, albeit one with all our material possessions coming along with us on the ride. While things are vaguely familiar (plenty of wineries, the beach nearby, etc.) not one of them is truly familiar to us -- yet. And with being in a rental place, there's a tendency to not settle in anyway, because we know we'll be moving again in a few months (God willing) to a permanent home, once we find it. 

But this is a great time to look back and examine why we left. You can't really embrace the present until you reconcile the past. I've met a lot of former Californians in the last three weeks -- you actually would not believe how many Oregonians come from my old home state -- and hearing them talk about the "old country" made me see we are not alone in our reasons for fleeing our former home.

First and foremost, we left because all the "livable" parts of the state (relatively temperate, lower crime, etc) had become too expensive for us, especially as we contemplate retirement. Sure, you can cut back on your expenses, but when you live in a "lifestyle destination" like the one Paso Robles became, you're then going to feel the pinch no matter how much you cut back. To drive this home, I got a hair cut last week. The same $60 cut-and-blow dry I used to get in Paso Robles, California set me back all of $39 here in Corvallis, Oregon. A $2,000 air conditioning system overhaul cost $900 here. And just for fun, we attended the "Cinco De Micro" microbrewery festival in Salem, the first weekend we arrived here. A VIP ticket cost us $25 each. In Paso, attending a similar event (The Firestone Walker "beerfest") would have set us back $200 for a VIP ticket, and $85 for a regular, no perks ticket. So whether you're grabbing breakfast, getting a quote on fixing something on your house, or attending a special event, if you decide to live in Paso Robles, you'd better be prepared to bring a fat wallet.

We also left because all those expenses mean only those with a certain level of income are moving into the area, and they are mostly Bay Area and Los Angeles refugees who bring their cities with them -- rude and aggressive driving being first and foremost on that list. As a former LA driver, I know it when I see it, believe me. When scenic Hwy 101 (built at a time when cars went an average of 50 miles per hour) becomes populated by crazy drivers who take it at 75 - 85 mph, weaving in and out of lanes and cutting people off, it's time to go. With age comes slower reflexes, and so it makes sense that defensive driving becomes more difficult with age. And don't even get me started on the fact that many of those "mad" drivers are my age or older, on who knows how many medications (or wine). Slower reflexes/crazy driving is not a good equation, in any case.

And there's also the ugly specter of climate change on the horizon. With longer droughts becoming more the norm, that brings challenges to the water table, along with increased fire risk. How much risk? How much challenge?  I have no idea. But we lived in an area surrounded by dry brush and dying oak trees, where the wineries are using more and more water every year. So we erred on the conservative side and decided to move our biggest nest egg -- our nest! -- someplace greener and with abundant water. Since geologic changes tend to take place over many lifetimes, the area may be fine for the foreseeable future. But we didn't wait around to gamble on that. 

So now there's nothing left to do but look back with some affection, some regrets, and move on into the future. Life is a lot like playing "21," with the trick being to add one more card, getting as close to perfection as you can, without going over the magic number. While I can't tell you for sure yet, right now it seems like we've managed to get really close to perfect here. A full year will tell us more, but we're hopeful we can finally "hold" and be happy with our hand. Having abundant water and greenery and economic health helps a whole lot, I can tell you that already.

Another California transplant -- this Giant Sequoia seems happy here at the Peavy Arboretum in Corvallis. 

Postcards from the edge

So here we are, our last full month here in California, and there's so much going on it makes the head spin.

As we are getting ready to move, we're enjoying some last amazing salad greens from the garden, the end of the crops we'll be growing here. It feels strange to not be planting anything right now. But I am conscious of the raised beds at our new place and how weedy they are probably getting since spring has also sprung in the Pacific Northwest!

Big Ag's job up there is also not as stable as we'd like, the company is going through a huge transition at this time, so there is some element of risk in pulling up stakes and moving. However, we've committed to leaving this area, so we'll deal with whatever comes from a vantage point closer to where we want to be spending the rest of our lives. Plus, renting a place has definite advantages over owning if you're not sure what's going on, so we'll be mobile in case something falls through and we need to relocate again (which hopefully will not happen, but which we need to be prepared for in case it does). But relocating twice in a year? With a bunch of chickens, other birds, a cat and a dog? Yup, makes the head spin.

Our eldest son just started a new full-time, career job (his first since graduating college) and simultaneously went through a break-up with his long-time girlfriend, so that's been difficult for everyone, since we were fairly sure she was going to be "the one" for him. Head continuing to spin, as I know his is as well. It's funny, but when you're young you don't think about the impact your breakups have on your family; parents get attached to their kids' significant others, and it's more difficult to say goodbye than you'd think (although we try not to put that on our kids; their lives are their own and I never want them to feel any pressure from us in regards to their relationships). 

It's funny, but most days I'm very content to sit in one place and read or putter around the house, getting it ready for showings, which is very unlike me, as I generally tend to enjoy being busy. But stress does that; you need extra time for sleep as well as just sitting in one place and absorbing change. So I'm granting myself that little privilege for now.

From a quiet and well-rested place, hope your spring is going well, too and your changes are all good ones!

The Year Without a Winter

Today I am canning some strawberry jam, because canning is one of my favorite things to do in winter and the first local strawberries are just hitting the market. But I'm also doing it early in the morning, because later today it's expected to be about 70 degrees. Gotta grab winter when you can find it, and this year winter has pretty much been restricted to the hours between midnight and 6 a.m. We've had scant rain, except for one colossal two-inch storm that buried a lot of fire-ravaged Montecito (about two hours south of us) in mud, after the Thomas Fire of December burned away all the underbrush holding the hills down there in place.

To say it's been a weird winter is the understatement of the year. But it seems like they've all been weird in recent memory. Do you know anyone, honestly, in any part of the country who would say the last five years have been about average, normal, etc.? I don't. The times, they are a changin'. And quickly.

If you remember from my earlier blog posts, we were dining al fresco for Thanksgiving, and wearing t-shirts at Christmas, which certainly was pleasant enough, yet weird. Nonetheless, I am mindful of the future. I keep looking at those puffy, waterproof winter coats on clearance at Land's End and wondering if I should buy one. Since we're moving to Oregon in a few months, I logically know I should, but sitting in the middle of a 75 degree day it's pretty hard to get my head around it, and so I keep browsing instead of buying.

I also am starting to try and decide what plants will come with me and what ones I will give to friends here in CA, where the weather will be kinder to them. I have several citrus trees in pots that will possibly stay here, or if we have a sunroom or greenhouse in our new digs I may try and bring them along.

But one little plant is definitely coming with us...this little Scotch Pine. I bought it when a coworker's son was having a Boy Scout fundraiser, and ever since I planted it, it's been suffering in the summer heat. One entire side (the one you can't see in this pic) is scorched brown, yet it has survived and has actually grown a little bit. Last weekend, Big Ag and I dug it up and potted it so we can take it to cooler, wetter Oregon, where I think it will grow more and be happier in general. Isn't that just what we all want out of life, when it comes down to it? Anyway, I just can't take off for cooler climes myself and leave it behind here to burn, when it would rather be where we are going. So it's about to move states, along with us.

I've been around thrift stores less that usual, mainly because I have no idea what to buy -- except flannel. Flannel seems to be the unofficial tartan of The Clan Of The PNW, so I'm keeping an eye out for that anytime I see it. But I also snagged this lovely tablecloth on a trip to Goodwill recently. When I got it home, however and examined the label on it, it said the size was Full/Double. Yes, I am currently using a sheet as a tablecloth. Oh well. It's gorgeous, and perfect for this no-winter, early spring we appear to be having, so why not. And if you should happen to fall asleep at the table, I guess it can do double duty.

Hope whatever season you're in, it's going well, too.

Heading North

Follow the water, baby.

My blog postings have been scant for the last several months because there was some big news I was unable to share publicly until it was official, and it's very hard to write about small news when there's a proverbial Big, Life Changing News Elephant taking up major square footage in the living room.

The big story is that in three to six months, we will be leaving California for Corvallis, Oregon, so Big Ag can take a new job where his main task will be planning and development in converting conventional farmland to organic acreage.

We've been working towards the goal of moving north for awhile now, and it was either odd or serendipitous that we somehow ended up in Corvallis, Oregon for the total eclipse of the sun last August 21. We've had plenty of friends and family move to that area, but had never visited. It was a totally unplanned detour on eclipse day (a good one!), and after we visited we couldn't understand how it had escaped getting on our radar before now. 

Did I also mention that my former mother-in-law lived in Corvallis for years and could never get me up there for a visit? Truly, God gnashes his teeth at the hints we don't take even when he spray paints them on our wall. Anyway, the hint was finally taken when, about a month after we'd returned from Corvallis in August, a head hunter contacted Big Ag about a position there. No coincidence, I believe. God can begin his teeth-restoration program now. We finally got the hint.

We've been talking about leaving California for awhile now, as we begin setting ourselves up for retirement. As in most places, the nicest, most temperate parts of California are also the least affordable. And as far as unaffordable goes, this is already one of the most unaffordable parts of the country to live in, so you do the math. You get squeezed from just about every angle.

The other thing is the climate here. Let's be honest, a lot of people come to this area and fall in love with the warm "seasonal triumvirate" -- our mediterranean/desert-like springs, summers, and autumns. They are combined with mild winters (so mild that out-of-control winter wildfires are still possible in December, apparently). 

People who hail from places like Pennsylvania and Wisconsin come here and see heaven in a lifetime of never having to shovel snow again or don a parka in daytime, drinking wine,and sitting on their patios in January. I will stand and confess it now: I am not one of those people. Probably from being a native and having too many 80-degree Christmases growing up in Los Angeles.

Do you sit inside and watch the fire at Christmas time? We do in California, too.

And, as you see above, there's a price to pay for all that hot weather. I believe this geographic region is the canary in the coal mine as far as climate change goes -- we are seeing the hot temperature extremes first. Last summer we had our first 115 degree day, which was bookended by 110 degree days for a few weeks solid.  So, to me, that canary is singing loud and strong at this juncture in time, trying to warn us, although others might disagree. Being in agriculture -- but not as large landowners with established vineyards and fields -- we are lucky in that we can respond to climate change by moving closer to where the rainy weather and water has retreated to. Corvallis receives about 46 inches of rain and four inches of snow a year, it's a definite four-season climate, and there are abundant rivers, streams and creeks. And where there is water, there is agriculture and viticulture, and therefore, to me, life.

Vineyard and winery near Corvallis, in Philomath, Oregon.

Crossing the Cascades by train last week.

And so hopefully now that the cat is out of the bag I can come back here and talk a little more about what's going on. We'll be looking to establish a home in Oregon with our chickens, our vegetable garden, still making soap and preserves and enjoying the home arts. Moving a homestead is not easy, but as so many pioneers have done before us, it is certainly possible (and unlike them, we have professional movers!).

So stick around as we hitch our wagons and head north.

I Love Me Day

Flowers blooming on the bluffs.

I Love Me Day is an occasional holiday when I treat myself to whatever it is I am in the mood for -- usually some time in nature.  Big Ag would probably argue that for me, every day is I Love Me Day, but that's not really true.  While I love the work I do around the property, and I love my job at the winery, it's not quite the same thing as spending a day doing exactly what I want.  

Today's agenda called for a hike along the coastal bluffs a.k.a. the western edge of the North American continent. The flowers are just starting to bloom and the sun was warm and welcoming. I decided to have lunch at the Smokehouse in Cayucos, which makes the BEST smoked abalone tacos ever.

Picture courtesy Trip Advisor

Best abalone tacos ever.

 After that, another hike a few miles north of where I started and then a quick trip to Soto's and Linn's in Cambria for some dinner ingredients, followed by a wonderful meal at home of lobster, shrimp, onions and cucumber salad with lime and cilantro.  And olallieberry pie for dessert. 

Grocery shopping time.

Another hike.

It's January in California, and I spent the day doing the perfect activities for this time of year. I even met a new friend!

New friend.

Last Night

It was a waxing moon, about half-full, so the moon was up but not overly bright.  I had gone to bed about 10 pm, loathing daylight savings time and the fact that I wasn't really tired yet.  About 15 minutes later, I noticed a couple of things:  First, the house seemed to creak in several places at once, although I felt nothing unusual.  Second, every bird in the countryside started singing.  It was the Dawn Chorus at night.  They were so loud, and it was so unusual, that I went and got Big Ag, who had been watching television in another part of the house, and brought him to the back door so he could hear it too.

This went on for an hour or two, and then, just like that, it stopped.  And the night was as quiet as it normally is.

This morning I awoke to see this:

http://www.latimes.com/local/lanow/la-me-ln-northern-california-earthquake-20140310,0,1233717.story#axzz2vZNmFWYq

Yes, the shaking apparently started at about 10:15 pm last night. Guess our neighborhood songbirds know more than you'd think.

Off-farm Day

In order to keep your sanity in rural life, I think everyone needs a few off-farm days a month.  Not too many, heaven knows this lifestyle requires we be on-site to water crops and tend to animals pretty regularly, but the occasional vacation, weekend trip, or just a day away is important.  You need to realize your farm is not the center of the universe, and mingle and mix with all sorts of different types of people.

That's because rural life can be isolating, and if the only voices you hear are the ones from television or the ones you read on the internet, and the only sights you see are the ones within a few miles of home, it seems like your perspective on life and other people will grow smaller as well.  Sure, living in the country brings you peace and quiet, but I'm convinced there are times you need to get out there and see how the rest of the world is doing.

Yesterday Big Ag and I did a road trip to the coast (about 20 minutes west of us, as the crow flies) and took a four mile hike along the headlands.

It certainly puts things into perspective, walking along the edge of the continent, along the ocean which was here before you showed up and will be here long after you're gone.  

The four-mile hike worked up an appetite, plus it was kind of chilly up on the headlands, so we stopped at our favorite beach hang-out and ate outdoors, in the warm sunshine.  If there is not a place in Heaven that looks kind of like this one, I am not sure I want to go lol.

And, as if my Gardenburger and fries were not enough to replace the calories we'd burned hiking, our next stop was for pie.

Mmmm.  Pie. Perspective restored. Back to farm life.

Tsunami seed

Our local coastline is currently being littered with debris which was carried across the Pacific ocean from the 2011 tsunami that devastated parts of Japan's coast.  The other day I was walking along the beach and, in an area where debris has been washing up, found a piece of fruit that looked like nothing I'd ever seen.

Loquat pit/seed

Always the adventurer, I put my tongue to it in order to help identify it by its taste, but at that point it had been in the water too long and it was too salty to tell.  But I did make a mental note of what the fruit looked like (it was in fairly good shape) and removed the pit and brought it home.  Later that evening I went on the internet, searching for exotic fruits, and found out what it was:  A Japanese Loquat.

Since it was found in the area of tsunami debris, I'm wondering if this Japanese Loquat actually made it all the way from Japan to the California coastline.  If it was packaged until recently, or was just lucky enough to hitch a ride in something which kept it shielded from the elements, I suppose it's certainly possible.  

So today I planted it in a pot with some good soil and we'll see what, if anything, comes up.  The salt water may have damaged the pit, but I figure it's worth a try.  After all, fruit trees have spread throughout many tropical island chains by fruit and seeds being carried via the ocean and washing up elsewhere.  

So in a few weeks, perhaps I'll have a living souvenir of an earth-changing event.  It won't make up in any way for the awful things that happened that day and the subsequent environmental disaster which followed, but it might be nice to think that new life follows death; that renewal comes from the rubble and debris of disaster.  Maybe a little Japanese Loquat seedling will be one way that new start can be observed, and appreciated.