Lift Up Your Hearts!

Observant readers may have noted a new category of post, which I’ve labelled “Conservationist Living.”  When considering a title for this particular type of post, my first thought was “Green Living,” but that’s too trendy and not really what I mean.

I was born and raised a conservationist.  I’m not sure what people might mean by that label today, but in my family it meant someone who loved the world of nature, cared for it, and used it prudently and wisely.  Conservationists loved hiking, mountain climbing, camping, and picnics.  They never threw litter on the ground and didn’t waste water.  They knew the rules of the wilderness: how to build a safe fire, pitch a tent on dry ground, keep food out of the reach of bears, dig a latrine that would not pollute the water supply, and leave.  At a conservationist’s home one was likely to find a lovingly-tended garden, with bright flowers and the best-tasting vegetables in the world—and a compost pile.

The conservationist label was broad and inclusive.  If I dared curse hunters—because the coming of hunting season meant we couldn’t hike during some of the most beautiful weather of the year, and anyway how could they kill those darling deer—I was quickly reminded that the hunters and fishermen were some of the most ardent protectors of nature because they had a personal interest in the survival and health of wilderness areas, and anyway the deer they killed provided their dinners, just as cattle were killed to supply my Saturday-night hamburgers.  When I grumbled that the rest of the state was controlled by voters in New York City whose concerns were far different from ours, I was informed that it was the votes of those city dwellers against the interests of Upstate developers that had protected our beloved Adirondack Mountains.  Conservationism had a common-sense, “we’re all in this together” feeling about it.

Not so the environmentalism that superseded it.  Environmentalism’s strident tone and us-against-them attitude was possibly the impetus needed to accomplish quickly what conservationism was achieving slowly—perhaps too slowly.  But it also opened the door to backlash, to the polarization that had some people celebrating the recent Earth Hour by turning off their lights and other electrical devices, and others marking the occasion by consuming as much power as possible.  While conservationism easily crossed the Liberal/Conservative divide, environmentalism widened the gap to a chasm.

Hence my wish to return to what I see as a friendlier, more inclusive and constructive label.  We are all in this together.  What I post in this category will include conservationist suggestions gleaned from elsewhere as well as our own very modest attempts to live and promote that common-sense conservationism of my childhood.  There will be no preaching—at least none intended as such—because we all can’t do everything, certainly not in all stages of our lives.  But we can all do something, and encourage each other along the way.

I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything I will not refuse to do the something that I can do. — Edward Everett Hale

Today at the grocery store I bought sugar.  This is not a confession; I refuse to feel guilty for the purchase.  After all, displayed prominently on the package was this warm-and-fuzzy logo:

I wonder, though:  What am I going to do with my five-pound bag of H₂₂O₁₁?

Keep Meadows, Not Lawns.  That's the title of a Front Porch Republic post (more on the FPR later), the sole content of which is this 16-minute video:

I have nothing against lawns, per se.  We had a large yard when I was growing up, and its lawn was the perfect surface for our volleyball, croquet, and touch football games, for whiffle-ball hitting contests, picnics, tumbling runs, tag, and running through the sprinkler on a hot summer afternoon.  We didn't baby our lawn, though:  aside from mowing in the summer and clearing of leaves in the autumn it received minimal attention, but it grew tough and we grew up thinking dandelions were a positive addition to the landscape.  That said, we do need to rethink our use of the land, and the resources it costs to keep the now-common sterile, pristine, perfect lawn. Let's not overlook the fact that meadows don't require mowing, except for use as baseball fields—and for that even a teenage boy might crank up the lawnmower without being asked.

Despite the title, however, the video is less about lawns than about bees, what's happening to them, and why this is a serious problem.  It's well worth the investment of 1% of your day to watch.

Declining by Degrees:  Higher Education at Risk premiered on PBS in 2005; I watched it for the first time this week, intrigued by this Netflix summary.

Debunking commonly held notions about the rite of passage known as the college experience, this PBS documentary follows 30 students and their teachers along the path of higher education, from admission to graduation, and exposes the disappointment, disorientation and deflation many students feel—in both public and private schools. This revealing study also addresses the quality and readiness of America's future work force.

"Disappointment, disorientation, and deflation" fairly describes how I felt watching the show.  Here's what I learned:

• A college degree is absolutely necessary for anyone to get into and stay in the American middle class.
• Administrators, and consequently professors, are under great pressure to retain students; it is very difficult to fail.
• Grade inflation is rampant; only an extraordinarily terrible performance will get you a C.
• Many classes are huge, and often taught by graduate students or part-time faculty.
• Professors are rewarded for research and publication, not teaching.
• Whether because they need their time for research or for working several part-time positions, professors resort to true/false and multiple-choice exams, and assign few papers, essays, or anything else that requires much time to grade.
• Students have discovered that they can "sleepwalk" through college, doing just enough to get by, and still receive the degree that is the reason their parents sent them to college.
• Hence they have plenty of time for the real reason they're in college:  to party.  To get drunk, to get high, to indulge in as many fleshly temptations as possible.  "I don't want to be 40 or 50 years old," one student proclaimed, "and saying, 'I wish I had partied then, because I can't now.'"
• Other students are holding down full time jobs while attempting to attend school full time.  Like the partiers, they are ruining their health while gaining little from their classes.
• There is an unspoken agreement between professors and students, each to help the other "get by":  You don't expect much of me, and I won't expect much of you.
• Students whose lives have been bounded by home and high school quickly become lost in a world of little oversight, no restrictions, no rules, great freedom, and low expectations.
• Professors are demoralized by students who come to college without the needed skills and habits, who can't think, don't work, don't pay attention, don't respond, don't show up, don't care.
• Employers, who control the jobs for which most students are purchasing their degrees, are increasingly complaining to the colleges that the graduates come to them ill-prepared and under-educated.
• The cost of a college education has risen out of sight, and most students—or their parents—come out of the ordeal with a massive debt load.
• This is the sad situation with respect to our state schools.  The small minority of fortunate students who can afford $40,000/year attend private schools where classes are small and interesting, professors care about and work individually with their students, and their fellow-students are bright and devoted to intellectual pursuits.  [I do hope no one was drinking a hot beverage while reading that last point; I'm only reporting what I learned from the show.]
• When Roosevelt signed the G.I. Bill providing educational benefits to WWII servicemen, the United States entered into a social contract to provide all its citizens with a college education.
• Beginning in the 1980's, we have reneged on that contract by not providing enough state and federal scholarship money.
• Merit-based scholarships are bad, because they "help those whom God has already helped."

In summary:

• College is where high school graduates go to ruin their physical, mental, and spiritual health, waste their time and their talents, and emerge four years later unfit for employment, let alone a responsible, mature place in society.
• Therefore we should make this experience available to everyone at no cost.

I could confirm several of the points made by Declining by Degrees, and refute others, but I'll content myself with standing in awe of its logic. 

I grew up on orange juice reconstituted from frozen concentrate, but I have since forgiven my parents.  It was convenient and inexpensive, and oranges did not grow on our New York State trees.  It tasted fine to me, because I didn't know any better.  Why I was so ignorant I'm not certain, since every two years we visited relatives in Florida—and this was in the days before a cooling cycle in the weather teamed with developers to destroy most of Central Florida's citrus groves.  Perhaps orange juice from concentrate simply tasted better to me because that's what I was accustomed to, much as many children who grow up with Aunt Jemima often prefer the imitation to real maple syrup.  Or maybe I simply didn't care enough, but ate what was set before me without giving it much thought.

With maturity came discrimination.  When "not-from-concentrate" orange juice appeared in the grocery stores I winced at the price, but never looked back, as it made the frozen concentrate taste like so much flavored sugar water.  (Later, when I read John McPhee's marvelous Oranges, I learned that flavored sugar water is a fairly accurate description of the product.)  It would be another 20 years before I discovered orange juice that was orders of magnitude better than the best not-from-concentrate available in the grocery stores.

My ignorance was annihilated when a friend married into a citrus grove and juice-producing facility.  There I learned that "orange juice" is not a single product with a single flavor, but varies from month to month as different varieties of orange reach their peak season.  There I discovered more varieties of orange and other citrus fruit than I could imagine, and tasted the delights of many.  Who knew kumquats are best eaten whole: rind, seeds, and all?

Real orange juice has not one but many incomparable flavors.  And real orange juice is not pasteurized.  Our friends were certified by the State of Florida to sell juice just as it came from the fruit, making the hour-plus trip to their grove worth the drive.  Alas, the forces of development overcame that grove, and I have yet to find a substitute.

No substitute grove, that is.  There are a couple of stores in the area where I can usually find unpasteurized orange and grapefruit juice, and our recent visit to the Winter Park Farmer's Market yielded delightful, unpasteurized tangerine juice.  Lately, however, I've been closing the circle, putting our citrus juicer to full use and making our juice directly from the fruit.  There is not as much variety of citrus in our grocery stores as I would like, but there is some—and I can make blends.  Valencia and red grapefruit, tangelo with a hint of lemon, navel and tangerine....  Sure, it's more work, especially since I can't bear to thrown the rinds out but bury them under our backyard grapefruit tree.  But 100% worthwhile!

Now if only making my own cider were so easy.  The same lessons I learned at our friend's grove I re-learned on a visit to a New Hampshire apple orchard:  apples come in many wonderful varieties that you will never see in the grocery store, and unpasteurized cider is incomparably better than the treated kind.  Growing up in New York meant that what I lacked in good orange juice I made up for in flavorful cider.  Unfortunately, even New Yorkers have a hard time finding good cider these days—and cider is a lot harder to make than orange juice.

We must take our victories where we can find them, however, and good citrus juice is within your reach even if you live far from the groves.  Invest in a citrus juicer and teach yourself and your children that orange juice does not grow in cardboard cartons!

We're not much of a pet family.  We had a cat for a few years, but he didn't get along with the new baby.  He was old and accustomed to having all our attention; he did not like the intruder.  (A few years later she returned the favor by becoming allergic to cats.)  He left for greener pastures, i.e. other family members who returned him to his spoiled, prince of the family position.  As the kids grew older they acquired a few pets—two hamsters and a cockatiel.  We enjoyed them all, and even paid for surgery on a hamster that could have been replaced for $2.50, but I never did understand people who treat their pets like children.  I'm not saying that's wrong, just that it doesn't appear to be part of my makeup.  What's more, we tend to travel a lot, which is a lot easier to do if you don't have pets to worry about.

So...those who know us may be surprised to discover that we have recently acquired some new pets.  Many new pets:  about 2000 red wiggler worms.  They live on our back porch in their own recycled-battery-casing worm condominium.  I've been admiring these garbage-converting little guys for four years, and finally took the plunge with a visit to the Our Vital Earth worm farm in Apopka. There I met Bernie and Carl Moro, both in their 70s and more spry and active than many of us in our 50s.  They started their worm venture as a retirement project after discovering how well home vermicomposting works in Australia. You can see a news story about Bernie and Carl here.

As with all new pets, it's going to take a while to get things running smoothly, but when they've all settled in nicely they should begin to turn our kitchen scraps, dryer lint, vacuum cleaner dust (minus the occasional button and pin), and paper into fantastic fertilizer for our garden.  Animal products are out, except for egg shells, because they attract rodents, and also tend to smell up an otherwise—supposedly—odorless system.  A little milk on leftover breakfast cereal is fine, I'm told, and these amazing worms can even turn small doses of battery acid into harmless fertilizer.  But I think I'll skip the cheese, even if the Swiss do compost theirs, rather than face the prospect of rat visitors to our porch.  The occasional mole is quite enough.

This isn't a money-saving proposition, since we have fixed-fee garbage collection, and it will be a long time before our $234 investment can be returned in fertilizer savings.  But it certainly feels better to be doing something useful with our waste rather than adding to the landfill, and I'll be happy to have worm castings and worm "tea" with which to pamper our fledgling garden.  Family and friends who wish to venture into vermicomposting may be able to get away with a lower initial cost; we bought the whole package, both to get the best start we could and to support the business.  We can certainly lend out the instructional video, and if you procrastinate long enough we should have enough worms to give some away.

Here are a couple of videos about the vermicomposting system.

Update 23 May 2009  If you watched the videos, you saw the hemp "moisture mat" that covers the worms and their food.  Our unit did not come with one of those; suggestions were to use damp newspaper or an old towel or t-shirt.  We don't get the paper, so rather than raid our neighbor's recycle bin, I went the old t-shirt route.  When bagpipe music starts emanating from our well-educated worm bin, I'll let you know.

Once again I'm piggy-backing on something Jon posted in Google Reader, but I haven't figured out how to comment on any of the "shared items" in Google Reader yet, and of course I have an opinion that I want to express!  I'm not going to take time to quote the article, called Understanding Generation Y, since my point is more about the principle than the content, but clicking the link will take you to the pdf itself.  It is somewhat interesting, but not, I think, particularly revealing.

When our church invested in a Korg electronic keyboard, everyone was amazed at the quality of the instruments sounds, and how much they sounded like the real instruments—everyone, that is, except those who were most familiar with those instruments.  The pianists hated the piano sound, but thought the flute was great.  The flute players thought the flute sound anemic, but the harp beautiful.  The more you knew about a particular instrument, the less you were satisified with the attempt to distill its sound into something electronic.

So here, I suspect.  I read the supposed characteristics of the Baby Boomer generation and found it only partially true in general and certainly not true of us, yet caught myself accepting the truth of the depictions of other generations. Finding characteristics of myself and those I know in all of the generational descriptions, I'm not convinced these stereotypes are any more accurate or helpful than the horoscopes on the placemats in certain Chinese restaurants. Like the placemats, they can be fun—but dangerous to put much faith in when making real life decisions.

This showed up in my Google Reader feed, from Jon.  I'm not certain, actually, that this was the video he intended, as I had to guess the url because the link didn't work—but whether or not, this is worth posting so you can see it.  Those Welsh shepherds and their dogs are amazing.

This time I had my camera ready.  Click on an image to see the whole, larger picture.

Up, up and away...

Separation—you can see the boosters falling away from the shuttle if you click on the the picture to enlarge it. 

Close-up of shuttle (left dot) and two separated boosters (right dots).

Afterglow.   The picture doesn't do justice to the colors.

Lord of the Rings fans may remember Shire Year 1420, when "the fruit was so plentiful that young hobbits very nearly bathed in strawberries and cream...."  That's what life has been like at our house for the past few weeks.  It's strawberry season in Florida, and we've been treating ourselves to strawberries on our cereal, strawberry shortcake, strawberry-yoghurt pie, and—fresh rhubarb is also available now—strawberry-rhubarb crisp.  Life is delicious good.

As I try to steer a course between providing too much information and too little, let me attempt to explain what I plan to institute as a general policy with regard to links in my posts.  I provide links to other sites for various purposes:  to give credit where it is due, to provide resources for further exploration of a subject, and/or because I think I can't do justice to the source with a few excerpts.  At the request of several of my readers, what I will try to do is provide enough information within my own post to make it informative and perhaps interesting, providing links for the above-mentioned purposes but not expecting the majority of my readers to follow them.  When I do think a link is particuarly important, I'll make that clear.

I've been thinking about the subject recently, as the amount of information that comes my way continues to expand exponentially.  I like to think of myself as an aggregator for my friends and family, passing on important ideas, worrisome trends, and interesting stories that others might not find; I know that I am grateful to people who provide that service for me.  But I also know that merely being sent a link is no longer particularly helpful.  If I don't know something about the subject, and what's more important, what the sender himself thinks about the link he has sent, I find I'm less and less likely to check it out.  Too much information, too little time.  Since many of my readers have less time than I do, I'll try to provide better service here.

I've written often enough about threats to the fundamental right of parents to educate their own children:  the dreadful situation for homeschoolers in Germany, my concerns for Switzerland, and the unwarranted judicial intrusion in family life and education touched closer to home, in California.  California ultimately upheld the legitimacy of home education, but it appears North Carolina is the next battleground.

As with the Terri Schiavo case, it is family problems that allowed the court's nose into this tent.  It illustrates a serious problem with our "no fault" attitude towards divorce:  despite the husband's admitted, ongoing, adulterous affair, his desire to send his children to public school has been allowed to trump his wife's desire to continue homeschooling.  What is truly worrisome, as it touches homeschooling is the judge's power and attitude, as well as whatever precedent his decision may set.

(Quotations are from two separate articles, here and here.)

[Venessa] Mills was forced to defend her right to homeschool during divorce proceedings brought on by her husband's unfaithfulness.....Even with abundant evidence showing the Mills children are well adjusted and well educated, Judge [Ned] Mangum ruled overwhelmingly against Mrs. Mills on every point. He stated the children would do better in public school despite the fact that they are currently at or beyond their grade level. Evidence showed two children tested several grades ahead.

When issuing his verdict Judge Mangum stated his decision was not ideologically or religiously motivated. However, he told Mrs. Mills public school will "challenge the ideas you've taught them."

The judge...explained his goal in ordering the children to register and attend a public school was to make sure they have a "more well-rounded education."

"I thought Ms. Mills had done a good job [in homeschooling]," he said. "It was great for them to have that access, and [I had] no problems with homeschooling. I said public schooling would be a good complement."

The judge said the husband has not been supportive of his wife's homeschooling, and "it accomplished its purposes. It now was appropriate to have them back in public school."

I can't help wondering what qualifies the judge to determine that the family's homeschooling had "accomplished its purposes."  What purposes? Purposes for whom? 

Mangum said he made the determination on his guiding principle, "What's in the best interest of the minor children," and conceded it was putting his judgment in place of the mother's.

[T]he judge also ordered a mental health evaluation for the mother – but not the father – as part of the divorce proceedings, in what [family friend and fellow homeschooler Robyn Williams] described as an attack on the "mother's conservative Christian beliefs." 

"This judge clearly took personal issue with Venessa's stance on education and faith, even though her children are doing great. If her right to homeschool can be taken away so easily, what will this mean for homeschoolers state wide, or even nationally?" Williams asked. 

What, indeed?  Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.

My great-great-great-grandfather, Nathan Smith, was born in County Tyrone, Ireland, in 1770.  His mother died when he was six or seven years old and he was sent to school in Dublin.  At the age of 23 he emigrated to the United States.  Here is part of his story, as told in excerpts from a manuscript written by his grandson, James Foster, around 1890.

He sailed from Movill Bay in the year 1793, and landed in Philadelphia after a voyage of thirteen weeks on the water.  The ship was commanded by a Captain Lovell.  Grandfather was prostrate with yellow fever at the time.  The ship was condemned and forbidden to enter the harbor.  The Captain swore he would land Smith...there or somewhere else worse.  Grandfather was taken to the hospital in a very feeble condition, so feeble that he did not expect to recover.  But a woman attending the sick cheered him up by telling him she was going to have him for her second husband!

Apparently he did not take her up on the offer.

After his recovery, he came to Lancaster County, Pa. where he taught school and boarded with a Dutchman.  Here he first learned to mow with a scythe and snath.  He then came to Fayette County where Connellsville, Pa. is now or near there, where there was a forge owned by a Quaker by the name of Langdale.  Grandfather asked permission to see his books and showed him some mistakes that he had made.  He then employed Grandfather to clerk for him.  He also taught school in the neighborhood.  The scholars would bar him out and make grandfather promise a treat before they would let him in.

On January 29, 1801, Nathan Smith married Margery Irwin.

Grandmother was born east of the mountains, we think in Lancaster County, Pa.  She was brought west of the mountains when five years old, packed in a wallet on a pack saddle.  Grandmother on one side and her sister on the other and a bottle of milk and a skillet with them.  Grandmother was a woman of sterling character, never afraid to back a friend or face a foe.

Grandfather was very mild in his disposition and polite in his deportment.  He delighted very much in reading.  In the latter part of his life the Bible was his great companion and Erskine’s Sermons was a favorite....[He] wrote a very nice plain hand, [and] sometimes in winter evenings would teach a writing school at his own house.  I heard Grandmother telling that on one of these evenings, in which they were writing, some drunken fellows came and attempted to break up their writing school and raised a fight.  She said she beat one of them over the back with the shovel-handle and drove the intruders away.

Grandfather purchased a farm in 1809 in South Huntingdon Township, Westmoreland County, Pa. where he resided till the year 1822 when he traded farms with his son Henry and move into East Huntingdon Township where he remained until his death.

While visiting Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania this past summer, I copied my Nathan Smith's entries from the tax rolls for the years 1811-1819.

• 1811:  100 acres, 2 horses, 1 cow; tax paid, $0.59
• 1812:  100 acres, 2 horses, 1 cow; tax paid, $0.60
• 1813:  100 acres, 2 horses, 1 cow; tax paid, $0.60
• 1814:  114 acres, 2 horses, 2 cows, 2 stills 100 gallons; tax paid, $0.84
• 1815:  114 acres, 2 horses, 2 cows, 2 stills 100 gallons; tax paid, $0.84
• 1816:  114 acres, 2 horses, 2 cows, 2 stills 100 gallons, something illegible; tax paid, $0.88
• 1817:  100 acres, 2 horses, 2 cows, stills 175 gallons; tax paid, $1.04
• 1818:  100 acres, 2 horses, 2 cows, stills 175 gallons; tax paid, $1.04
• 1819:  100 acres, 2 horses, 2 cows, stills 175 gallons; tax paid, $1.04

The dollar was worth something back then.  They were taxed on land and farm animals, and later stills, but not, I note, on their house.  When I think of stills I picture illegal moonshiners in the backwoods of Appalachia, but in the days of poor transportation, distilling grain into alcohol was considered a practical means of getting one's surplus to distant markets. This would have been a few years after the Whiskey Rebellion, but nonetheless gives that otherwise dry bit of Western Pennsylvania history new meaning to me.

Grandfather was a delicate man, while grandmother was a stout, hearty woman.  She could take a hand reaping along with the men.  They had six children.

"Delicate" clearly did not mean weak or unhealthy.

Grandfather packed salt on the mountains, I think from Carlisle, Pa.  He attended church at Tyrone Presbyterian Church in Fayette County, where he and his wife were members.  Grandfather...died March 25th, 1850 in his eightieth year.  Grandmother died May 18th, 1867 in her ninety-first year.  Both are buried at Tyrone Cemetery, Fayette Co., Pa.

        

I'm going to use my proverb until it catches on:  The wise man recognizes truth in the words of his enemies.  And the prudent man defends even his enemies from unjust accusations.  It's time to annoy some of my readers yet again.

Many years ago I listened, against my will, to part of a Rush Limbaugh radio show.  I was disgusted by the self-aggrandizing bombast, and even more by the sarcastic, mocking humor.  Since then I've read bits and pieces of many of his newsletters, however, and have to admit that amongst the bombast, mockery, and occasional misinformation, there is some important truth.  Oh, how hard it is not to let our selves get in the way of our message!  And how many people are blinded to the truth because of the way we present it!  However, that is another issue.

What troubles me is the heat Limbaugh has taken because he insists that he wants President Obama's policies to fail. How awful of him, how immoral, how intolerant, partisan, and mean!  How could anyone wish the president to fail in his efforts to bring prosperity and respect back to our nation?  Personally, I am too selfish to wish Obama to fail.  I don't have enough years ahead of me not to hope for a quick recovery. That doesn't change the fact that I can envision scenarios in which Limbaugh's attitude is not only proper, but heroic.

When I watch a three-year-old climbing a piece of playground equipment, I want him to succeed.  But if that same child were attempting to climb a trellis that reached from the ground to the top of a tall house, and I knew that much of the wood was rotten and likely to collapse under his weight, I would want him to fail, and fail quickly.  The sooner his efforts were stymied, the better:  let his injuries be a wounded dignity, or even a broken arm, rather than a broken neck or death!

You can say that Rush Limbaugh is an arrogant, sarcastic blow-hard, and I'll agree with you.  You can insist that he is wrong in believing that Obama's policies are disastrous, and I'll hope you are right.  But don't castigate him for not cheering on the president.  If you thought the Pied Piper were kidnapping your children, would you be right to hope for his success?