Fraternal Order of the White Elephant

My brother Jeb has always impressed me with his penchant for saying no to things. Once, when we were kids, our pops took us to a hobby store in Spokane called White Elephant and directed Jeb to pick out “anything he wanted under twenty bucks” as his birthday gift. In about five minutes I had spent that money ten times over, but Jeb was basically overwhelmed by the concept and left the store with nothing more than a few tears to show for his trouble. At the time I thought my brother was a fool, but now I’m not so sure. Perhaps it is the wiser man who will go without rather than burden himself with something that he isn’t absolutely certain is exactly what he wanted.

Obviously, there is no going without when it comes to diapers. They are one of those things that fall into the category of necessity. But if human beings are anything then they are creatures of habit, so when his wife Sharie told us that Jeb liked Fuzzi Bunz reusable diapers the best, well, I was certain they must surely be the Cadillac of the diaper scene.

There was never any question in my mind that we would be using durable diapers, if for no other reason than I just couldn’t stomach the thought of that huge mound of crap I would be contributing to the landfill. Whether or not durable diapers are more ecologic than disposables is anyone’s guess; both exact a sizeable toll, especially when one considers the modern materials with which many durable diapers are constructed these days. Laundering alone consumes a significant amount of energy, not to mention water. Still, the idea of demanding the production of something for the explicit purpose of throwing it away really wasn’t a concept I could readily align myself with.

Flash forward a few months and those disposable diapers have begun looking like the last doughnut on the break room table. I know I shouldn’t, but boy do I want to. Especially when our son Keegan hasn’t had a movement in awhile and I know one is looming on the horizon. Its times like that when I most desire to just slap some Huggies on him, wait for the poopin’ face, and then pitch that thing out like yesterday’s newspaper. Trouble is, my conscience doesn’t seem to discard them quite as easily.

Not that we haven’t used disposables; we definitely have. There was a period where we used them at night to help us get a handle on a pretty bad case of diaper rash. On a recent whirlwind trip to Troy and Brandi’s parents’ home in Kennewick, we used them exclusively for about a week. After a taste of that, however, I couldn’t wait to get back to using cloth, no matter what kind of pain in the butt they might occasionally cause.

So far we have been, if not diligent, at least fortunate in our attempt at a three R approach to baby paraphernalia. Not only have we gotten mounds of gently used baby stuff from friends and Craigslist, but Brandi’s mom invested a huge amount of time and energy into making us a gigantic pile of cloth diapers. And while they aren’t as high-tech as some of the reusable diapers on the market, after some field testing and a little retrofitting, Cindy’s cloth diapers are still pretty darn slick.

If, when you think of cloth diapers, you imagine a cotton rectangle and a pair of clothes pins; forget it. They may get filled with the same thing, but that is where the similarity between modern diapers and those relics ends. Today’s diapers are all about convenience. True, it’s not as effortless as throwing them in the trash and forgetting them, but after seeing how well they work and how easy they are to use, you wouldn’t want to anyway.

Because this is America and durable diapers is a niche market serviced by numerous small producers rather than a couple big businesses, there are quite a few styles to choose from, each with their own set of strengths and weaknesses. Having had the “which diaper to use” conundrum solved for us by Brandi’s mom, we never had to decipher which of the myriad durables would work best for our purposes; we just used what we were given. But after Brandi related our initial cloth diaper woes (which have since been remedied … thanks Cindy) to our sister in law Sharie, an avid durable diaper proponent, a package containing several examples from the modern era promptly appeared on our doorstep. And just as I figured, the Fuzzi Bunz that Sharie had included were as technically advanced as a jet fighter. I couldn’t imagine Jeb appreciating them more lest they be made of recycled pop bottles and sporting a Patagonia label.

In the end, as with everything, it really comes down to personal choice. Is the use of cloth diapers likely to save the world? No. Does it make you a better person than someone who doesn’t? Not even close. But it may change the way in which you view yourself, your environment, and your relationship with it, which could lead to lifestyle changes that, through cumulative effect, may ultimately have a positive impact somewhere down the line. Perhaps you feel durability is a virtue worth embracing, that eschewing disposable society is worth a little inconvenience. Or maybe you figure cloth will still be there when the Pampers run out, so damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead. Either way, it’s for each to decide. What’s important, I believe, is that the matter is one well worth considering, and that there is a lot to be said for leaving the store empty handed.

The Greenest Lie on Earth

Though it may not have appealed to everyone, 350.org’s International Day of Climate Action garnered plenty of attention, making headlines on front pages of newspapers worldwide and resulting in over 19,000 images on Flickr. That’s quite an impression for such an innocuous number.

For those who don’t know, 350.org is an association of activists who believe 350 parts per million is the highest possible concentration of CO2 that can be present in the atmosphere without adversely affecting life as we know it here on Planet Earth. On Sunday, October 24th, the group held over 5200 events in 181 countries around the globe. Their goal was to heighten awareness about carbon dioxide emission and its possible contribution to greenhouse effect through visual demonstrations involving the number 350.

It seems that ever since the Age of Reason, everything has had to have a number. Though quite useful in terms of ratio, these specific magnitudes are insignificant, because assigning numbers never really changes anything. It wouldn’t matter if I said the speed of light was 299,792,458 meters per second or 7 billion; the qualifying consideration in the matter is that it’s a physical constant in relation to the rest of the universe, and no amount of quantifying is going to alter that fact. If people want to put the upper limit on CO2 at 350 parts per million; I say fine. It doesn’t make a difference whether it’s 350 or 750. The underlying assumption is that there is a physical limitation, a point beyond which any more carbon is simply too much.

Along with the iPhone, carbon is huge right now. Carbon cycle, carbon sequestration, carbon footprint, carbon sink, carbon offset; the terms conjure up concepts at once logical and quixotic. It’s like name dropping; just mentioning carbon instantly elevates a dialogue to a higher level, into a realm both influential and sublime.

I really don’t know how I feel about carbon, but I am quite certain about where I stand on carbon footprints, the evaluation of which is currently all the rage. That the practice is just a mechanism for the continuation of bad behavior is readily apparent from discussions regarding carbon credits and the proliferation of carbon exchanges. It’s a springboard for discrimination and elitism, a way of preserving an untenable lifestyle while maintaining an air of superiority at being “greener than thou”.

John Muir is quoted as having said, “Tug on anything at all and you'll find it connected to everything else in the universe.” A personal favorite of mine, this musing was in the forefront of my mind as I read an abstract of an article by David Owen on Treehugger.com that claimed New Yorkers Are the Most Eco-Friendly People in the US - Without Even Trying.

Though interesting as an introspection, this assertion contains as much rubbish as a New York city garbage barge. In examining their respective carbon footprints, it is plausible that careful manipulation of the calculation’s scope and structure could result in a smaller quantity being assigned to an individual New Yorker household than to an average two car garage commuting ranch dweller in rural or suburban America, but arrival at this product is completely dependent upon process. Measuring the personal energy bill of an individual living in a New York high rise with central heating or the number of gallons of gasoline consumed by a subway riding Manhattanite without considering the carbon footprint of this attendant infrastructure, to say nothing of global environmental ties, is mere subterfuge. It is pure artifice, aimed at substantiating a standard of living while turning a blind eye upon its true price.

Deforestation in Third World and emerging countries is driven by the market pressures of wealthier nations. Clean air and water in America comes at the cost of dirty air and water in China. Beef served in Manhattan steakhouses is grazed in Montana before being shipped cross country to market. The carbon footprint of an average New Yorker is not contained within the city margins. It is imprinted upon the entire globe.

All figures aside, simple facts remain. There is no cleaner way to exist than through a simple agrarian subsistence lifestyle. This is the mode of living advocated in the philosophies of naturalists such as Muir and Thoreau; a human existence based on the stewardship of locality, not the sprawling disassociation of the contemporary American landscape. If each were left to rely strictly on their own means, the State of Vermont would continue to sustain itself, albeit in a much different way, long after Manhattan lay in ruins.

New York is a flower; a beautiful, fragrant flourish created and maintained by the larger organism that supports it. Although extremely efficient, our cities depend completely upon other regions of our country, and the world, for their sustenance. They are as inseparable from the whole as fruit from the vine.

Until the developed world moves away from an economy based on comparative advantage and cheap energy and embraces a system comprised primarily of provincial production architecture founded in basic natural processes performed at a local scale, there will be no hope for a balance between humanity and its global environ. Unfortunately, there is no easier answer, no science and technology that will save us, and no amount of statistical analysis will suffice to change our physical state. We must take ownership of our ecologic inclusion, make claim to the earth that sustains us, and root ourselves in its soil. We cannot push our impact to the periphery and deny the existence of what we cannot see. To survive, we must sacrifice. There must be dirt beneath our fingernails and muck about our feet, and we must accept it as our own. Like any catharsis, there will be growing pains. But I, for one, believe the call to arms that is the environmental movement is really only an expression of our deeper longing for a simpler existence and that we, as a whole, prefer life as a butterfly.

A Glass Half Full

I often find myself talking as if the glass were half empty. It gets rather annoying. Despite my rampant cynicism, however, there exists much in the world about which I am truly optimistic. Patagonia is one of those things.

I clearly recall that first encounter with one of their catalogs. The year was 1996, and I had just returned from a three month circumnavigation of the United States, a dirtbag exploration of the continent that included an excursion to Puerto Penasco, Mexico, and several frigid nights spent backpacking a section of the Appalachian Trail in Georgia. Signs of spring may have begun to appear in the south, but winter still maintained a firm grip on Missoula, Montana. After retrieving my wayward pack, which had gone errant somewhere along the bus route between Cincinnati and Chicago, I slogged through the snow up Rattlesnake Canyon to the house where my brother Jeb lived.

Thumbing through a copy of the company’s spring offering in his bedroom, I was struck by two things. The first was an extraordinary photograph of a climber performing a pinch grip front lever beneath a trailhead sign. The second was Patagonia’s announcement that their entire line of cotton clothing would be going organic.

Patagonia inspires me. Whether through the extremely motivational images contained within their catalogs or by their honest admissions about the unavoidable environmental cost of doing business, Patagonia provides me with exactly what I feel is so lacking in this world: something to believe in. To me, Patagonia isn’t just a clothing company. It’s a role model.

Patagonia is a throwback. Their aim is to make stuff that works, not stuff that sells. I bought my first Patagonia garment, an expedition weight Capilene pullover, in 1997. Twelve years later, it’s still goes in my pack on every outing.

The company’s commitment to conservation is unparalleled, yet they are the first to admit that they’re still a business and that everything comes at a price. In a post on the company’s blog The Cleanest Line, a member of their fabric development team is frank about the environmental expense of producing wetsuits. “Don’t settle for marketing “greenwash!”” the article cautions. A link from the Patagonia website leads visitors to the Footprint Chronicles, a mini-site where consumers can trace the journey of specific products and learn firsthand the environmental and social impacts of each purchase. Few companies seek to endow their customers with this level of accountability or exhibit such transparency.

Back in 1996, when Patagonia made the switch, they were one of the first firms to field an entire line of cotton clothing manufactured from organic fabric. They were at the vanguard of a movement, the goal of which was to reshape an industry. Other companies such as Sector 9 and Mission Playground have since followed suit, offering products today that allow consumers further opportunity to foster change through their choice in apparel.

Still clothing is only part of the equation. Patagonia’s whole approach is different. A careers page on their website claims Patagonia is always looking for motivated people to join the company ranks, especially if they share the firm’s love for outdoors, commitment to quality, and desire to make a difference. A paragraph at the bottom of the page reaffirms Patagonia’s ethic. “We work very hard to minimize our impacts on the environment, and we strongly believe that one person's actions can make a difference in the health of our environment,” it states. “In keeping with these values, we'd appreciate some sensitivity to environmental concerns in the preparation of your résumé materials. Please be environmentally responsible in the presentation of your information.”

It is a holistic approach that, to me, is captivating. It gives me pause, forcing me to reevaluate my own approach, my own route, my own line. Patagonia, I feel, is the corporate model of the future; industry that understands it has an obligation to seek ecologic integration as well as profit. It may still be business, but it’s business unusual.

Three R's and a Microbus

Hanging out with my brother Dagan is always entertaining. He is a boisterous character, and not above expressing his opinion, loudly. I hadn’t seen him since last July, but it just so happened that, while Brandi and I were driving to the Tri-Cities for her sister Alece’s wedding, he was making a pilgrimage north with his daughter Arianna and their buddy Stephen. Seizing the opportunity, I contacted Dag and made arrangements to rendezvous with him when he passed through Kennewick, WA.

My brother is passionate about machines, but he is truly devoted to that simplest of automobiles, the air-cooled Volkswagen. As a show of faith, he was making the 1000 mile trek from Petaluma, California, to Montana in his ’59 Type 2 camper conversion. Dagan had rescued the Transporter from a barn in Oregon years before and had restored it to a usable condition. It ran reliably, but as anyone familiar with classic Volkswagens will be quick to tell you, there is a reason why every VW owner can perform an engine swap on the side of the road.

When I hadn’t heard from him by the appointed time, I gave Dagan a call. Apparently attempting to cross the Central Oregon desert during the hottest part of the day was taking its toll on the camper. For the moment they were huddled in the shade of an overpass, my brother said, waiting for the Volkswagen’s motor to cool down.

If a VW is one thing, it is idiosyncratic. Facing one hundred degree heat, Dagan’s camper was floundering. Ambient air temperature in the Columbia River Basin was so high that the engine could no longer cool itself. Detonation was the result; the risk, a blown motor. Dagan, air-cooled aficionado that he is, knew better than to push the limits of his machine, even if he had brought along another entire engine, just in case.

After a short rest, the VW finally made Kennewick, and I met them in the parking lot of a McDonald’s restaurant just off Highway 395. Dagan prattled on proudly about the Volkswagen for awhile before segueing into one of his familiar rants.

“What I can’t stand are the people who want to crush all the old cars and ship them to Japan to build hybrids.”

Though he might not appear so, my brother Dagan truly is an environmentalist. He may not buy into the latest trends in green consumer culture, but at least he understands there is a hierarchy to the three big R’s of environmental responsibility.

First, reduce consumption wherever possible. Second, reuse everything. Lastly, recycle whatever remains.

An obvious necessity, recycling will never be the answer. Certainly, recycling is a great method for keeping waste out of the landfill, but recycling a perfectly useful old car in order to manufacture a new one? As Dagan notes, this doesn't necessarily a green footprint make.

Considering each vehicle’s carbon footprint in its entirety, it is highly unlikely that crushing a Volkswagen to build a new Toyota Prius would have any less environmental impact than simply continuing to operate the VW itself. What it does do, however, is allow American consumer culture to persist unchecked, with a clean, green, conscious. Move over, V-Dub bus; a new flagship for the alternative lifestyle has arrived. Rather than buying into the hype, Dagan goes green by reusing existing parts to keep his old camper on the road.

As widespread and pervasive as humanity’s impact has become, there is no choice but to recycle, with even greater scope and diligence than ever before. Still, buying newly manufactured goods, even those made from recycled material, has to be relegated to the final option, after alternatives of reduction and reuse have already been explored and exhausted. Clearly, everything that can be must be recycled, and consumers should be rewarded for doing so. But a conservation effort focused on manufacture and consumption, even if it does revolve around recycled materials and green technology, is missing the point.

Reduce. Reuse. Then recycle.

Volkswagen owners are a tribal bunch. After spying Dagan’s camper in the parking lot, several members of the local VW club joined us with their own aging Type 2s. Their discussion was animated, as any conversation among enthusiasts tends to be, centered wholly on Volkswagens and their relationship with this emblematic automobile.

Following the impromptu gathering, I bid farewell to my brother and niece and drove back to Brandi’s parents’ place. The bridal party had assumed control of the house, so I occupied myself by helping her father John set a fence post and finalize some last minute wedding preparations.

The next day Alece and Brandon were married in a beautiful ceremony ministered by Brandi in a neighbor’s yard. A reception dinner followed at the McCoy’s home next door, complete with a diverse assortment of liquid refreshment and the associated mound of discarded cans and bottles.

The McCoy’s are ardent recyclers, and they had made every effort to maximize recycling at the reception. Separate receptacles had been placed beside each trash bin in hopes of capturing as many recyclables as possible. Good use was made of them at first, but as the revelry continued on into the night, more trash and fewer recyclables found its way into the recycling containers.

When I wandered out onto the patio the next morning, I found Brandi up to her elbows in a large black plastic bag. She was happily digging plastic bottles and aluminum cans out of the trash. Shooting her a dubious look, I set to work myself, collecting frosting smeared beer bottles from the garbage and tossing them into a pile.

Knowing we can’t do everything, we must do what we can.