Three years ago this past February, I spent three weeks in New Zealand with Daughter #1 and son-in-law #1. At the end of that journey, we visited Christchurch (A), the city near the bottom of the world, and the taking off point for many a visit to the Antarctic (viz. Shackleton, etc).
That the city is named for the Oxford college located across the street from my hubby's, Pembroke College, made it feel a bit like it was related to us (I know, it's a stretch but...).
While there, I spoke to the NZ Knowledge Management Network, thanks to Michael Sampson, the collaboration expert who lives there. After the talk, Michael drove Miranda, Jay, and I to his house outside the city for dinner with the Sampson family, numbering 9 at the time; now there are 11 (including the parents).
So no puzzle whom I thought about when the 7.0 (or 7.1, both reported) earthquake struck yesterday fewer than 20 miles from the city center. Michael's done three posts so far, beginning with one just a few hours after. They're all fine (yay). Here are a few paragraphs:
It's almost 16 hours since the earthquake hit near Christchurch. We had a lot of cleaning up to do - broken glasses, fallen bookcases, bedroom furniture on the ground, a huge mess in the garage, and more. Two garage cupboards collapsed, and so Timothy (8) set to work and put one back together. He worked for at least 2 hours with the drill, and has built it much stronger than it was. There weren't enough screws to finish the second one, but that was started too.
My office computers sustained minor damaged. I haven't been able to turn the iMac on yet, but it almost hit the floor. It was half on my desk, face down, and half off. On the lab desk, the 30" monitor fell off the desk backwards and landed on a pile of books. Again, I haven't been able to test anything yet. My brand new Lenovo W510 got scratched - even before I turned it on.
My friend, the fine artist Neelon Crawford, snapped this photo at 3AM on December 9 outside his home in Wyoming. Posted here with his permission. His caption, "Come on, global warming..."
Anywhere near Lander, Wyoming? Lucky you. Neelon Crawford's extraordinary photography is on display at Lander Art Center March 30–May 15, 2009, with the opening reception and talk by the artist on April 3 from 6-8 p.m. I could do a very long bio about Neelon since we went to high school and college together and have maintained a strong friendship. About ten years ago, I went to visit Neelon and his wife, Susan Hill, another college friend, then in Baltimore, where he'd converted a former branch library into his studio and home. I was so inspired by the space that he'd created--with its paintings, films, sketches, monitors, drawing boards, pegboards, tools, and even snake skins waiting for a later project--that I kept a large photo of it over my desk.
Morning Moon, Neelon Crawford, 2007
Among his other expeditions, Neelon has wintered over in Antarctica five times, photographed steam engines in China, Buddhas throughout Asia, and, well, here's the brief bio from his website, Polar Fine Arts, where you can also see some of Ralston Crawford's, (his father--the painter, lithographer, and photographer) work.
Hawker Sea Fury, Neelon Crawford, 1984
Neelon Crawford (b. 1946) has produced a series of diverse bodies of work
since his graduation from the Antioch College art department in 1969. As
a son of Ralston Crawford, Neelon was exposed to the
combination of travel and picture-making from childhood. His work has
taken him to all 7 continents. His large format photography,
photogravure etchings, and oil paintings include portfolios titled:
Icons of Spirit, Vintage Machines, Reconnaissance, Antarctica, Tools of
Vision, and Wyoming. His work has been acquired by major institutions,
corporations, and collectors. In addition, since the death of his father
in 1978, Neelon has been involved with
managing the affairs of the Ralston Crawford Estate. He currently lives
in Wyoming with his wife Susan Hill.
Sitting here in the 42nd parallel North, snow a foot high on the picnic table outside my window, and lows of 7F tonight (that would be -13C), my mind turns to summer. Turns to summer with a little help, that is, from my friend Doug Lea, whose writing about his many gardens has fascinated me for years (viz. "onions and
beans are like dragons in a medieval drama"). Writing beautifully about gardening is as difficult as the gardening genre Doug discusses here. I like this piece so much that I'm tempted to tug phrase after phrase up here, into the intro, but better, I think, to let you discover his lovely turns and his wisdom about gardening yourself. (Someone get this man a book contract.) Last week he posted this great bit of garden-think to his Facebook page; I asked to re-post here. Thus, for all who dig the earth and love mud pies...
Doug with the artist (and his wife) Julie Savage Lea
Intensive Gardening: A Way of Knowledge By Douglass Lea
For three decades I’ve followed the intensive way of growing
vegetables. It’s a hard calling, best taken up by those with an excess
of time, friends, and vigor – or by those, like me, with an itch to
escape the modern swirl of abstractions and symbols, to connect effort
and result more directly, to find a grounding for self in the ground
itself.
Loosely defined, intensive gardening describes a set of interwoven
techniques that maximize the yield from a limited area and maintain the
long-term usefulness of the soil. Needless to say, it relies heavily on
organic materials.
What does one do? Begin by digging – and then digging and digging again
– until reaching a depth of 36 inches or more. Try, however, to keep
removed strata intact, for one completes the “double-digging” process
by putting loosened soil back where it came from, each layer in proper
order. By raising garden beds a foot or more above surrounding paths,
double-digging creates a fluffy texture that warms quickly in spring,
keeps a steady temperature throughout summer, drains well with little
erosion, retains moisture for dry months, and breathes easily.
Having survived a grueling test, one then mixes the top layers of newly
aerated soil with compost, manure, bonemeal, and potash. The catechism
here is unequivocal: industrial amendments undermine soil viability,
weaken the integrity of plant structure, and invite pests and plagues
to make a wasteland. Sir Albert Howard, founder of modern organic
farming, said it bluntly: “Artificial manures lead to artificial foods,
which lead to artificial people.”
Next, one inseminates the raised beds with the seeds or seedlings of
diverse vegetables, herbs, and flowers, combining the varieties that
flourish as companions and separating those that attack one another.
Basil likes tomatoes, and the two should forever be joined together, in
sickness as in health, on the plate as in the belly. But onions and
beans are like dragons in a medieval drama, condemned to an eternity of
ceaseless battle. Never plant them together.
Companion planting is complex enough, but it is overlaid by the equally
strong and precise demands of succession planting, closecropping, and
intermixing. Now the fun begins.
In succession planting, one works with an eye focused on the cycle of
maturity for each variety, looking to fit the basic requirements and
patterns of each into a larger whole. Will the corn planted today grow
fast enough to shade the late peas and prolong their season of
usefulness? How many weeks before the borage explodes?
In closecropping, one transplants seedlings into closely spaced
geometric patterns – chiefly triangles and hexagons – to create, once
plants have matured and leaves touched, a microclimate that moderates
the vicissitudes of the macroclimate. Skillful closecropping eventually
generates a living mulch that protects the soil and its microorganisms
and discourages the growth of noxious weeds.
In intermixing, as the word implies, one intermingles varieties as much
as possible – given the imperatives of succession planting and
closecropping – in an effort to approach the mysteriously productive
randomness of nature and avoid the infestations that descend wherever
vast stretches of a single crop are cultivated year after year. Assign
perfidious monocropping to the putative efficiencies of industrial
agriculture, not to the mysteries of intensive gardening.
Having outlined the norms that govern intensive gardening, I think it’s
time to grapple with the deviations. And they are legion.
In the final analysis, I’ve learned, the garden only partly belongs to
me. Other creatures, both animal and vegetable, seem to have equally
strong claims to my domain. And they have been waiting patiently for
someone just like me – bursting with ego and determination – to appear
and bring forth a newly disturbed patch of ground.
In short, my garden harbors a powerful array of biological and
geophysical imperatives that insist on manifesting their own destinies.
They resist the geometric overlays of human design; their chaotic
patterns and turbulent cycles defy the logic of human control. My
garden seems to have a mind of its own.
After three decades, for example, it is quite clear to me that the
primeval forest of the Piedmont wants to repossess my little plot.
Every spring it lets loose a million helicoptering maple seeds in a
relentless effort to impregnate my fluffy beds. Every year I dutifully
pull out the rooted progeny of the spring offensive.
The mere passage of time has also changed my garden, almost beyond
recognition. Having situated my garden in a low, flat, pristine area,
where sun, water, and fertility were plentiful, I fully expected an
endless supply of perfect tomatoes, peppers, onions, salad greens, and
other components of a healthy diet.
Not so. Gradually, I became aware of the extraordinary vigor of my
neighbors’ maples, the shade from which eventually transformed my
painstakingly double-dug, richly composted cornucopia into a shady,
soggy habitat for moss and slugs. Tomatoes, eggplants, and peppers
struggled.
I fought back. I decided to gather wine corks from oenophiles living
within a five-mile radius – first, to deploy them as a heat-absorbing
mulch to extend the effective length of the day for my sun-loving
solanaceae and, second, to suppress the weeds attracted to the
disturbed soil. It worked, although I had to wait a few years to be
sure that the additional woody matter was not stimulating the expansion
of slug populations. It didn’t, apparently because residual wines and
tannins in the oak corks are noxious to slugs.
Coping has become my mantra, for change and surprise are the only
permanent features of my garden. To make a garden is to manage in the
middle. A garden is a living, physical manifestation of the dry
principles of compromise. It mediates between nature and culture. Every
garden has its own special conditions, its own unique combination of
vectors. Climate, weather, soil, water, light, and ecological factors
limit the ambitions of human design. One must learn to “design with
nature,” the title of a seminal treatise on the harmonizing of human
occupation with natural processes.
For me, intensive gardening has become a way of knowledge, a portal leading toward larger understandings of the world.
Oliver Morton, author of Mapping Mars and Eating the Sun and features editor for the journal Nature, has a brilliant piece about our extraordinary little orb, where it fits in the history of the universe, and how to draw a line between the durability of life here and global warming. Very few authors are capable of this kind of range, this manner of huge thinking, and this unusual insight. Read his NY Times op-ed, "Not-so-lonely planet," and you'll feel much better about everything.
