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.

Sticker Shock on a Mountaintop

Sitting here on my computer, surfing the internet for a jogging stroller while fighting off the global warming induced arctic chill with a gas burning furnace and a hot mug of Costa Rica’s finest bean, it’s pretty difficult to know where I really stand on the subject of energy. Certainly, the current direction leads no place I want to go, but when it comes down to putting my money where my mouth is, what other options am I given? Do I live without the stroller, the internet, the coffee? The only thing I really need is the heat. When it comes down to it, the rest I guess are luxuries.

Most of us would agree that we don’t support mountaintop coal mining practices but few of us could point out the place where the power we consume comes from, let alone source the myriad raw materials that go into each of the products we consume. Proponents claim consumers drive the free market, but this is only partially true; it is those with capital who control capitalism. Subsidies like Appalachia coal shovels alter the shape of the commodity market, obliterating the landscape and destroying natural processes. No part of the system has been left to function unmolested, unregulated. Individuals do not build the houses in which they live; industry does. They are constructed with singular function in mind; that of an efficiency for profit, not shelter. Farmers do not grow food for people; they produce crops for corporations. Consumers have little say in what products appear at market. They simply make their choice from among what is offered, often with price as the only determinate factor, and always without a clear understanding of what truly was their cost.

I have seen of late a number of exposes bent on revealing the actual cost, measured not in dollars but in death, of our having anything we want anytime we want it. Red Gold, The Cove, Food Inc, iLoveMountains.org; they all relate a similar story. Our way of living is killing every other on Earth. After a month of immersion, I am overwhelmed. Faced with this much reality, I want nothing more than to stick my head in the sand, order that stroller for Lil Steve from Wal-Mart, and sip my coffee.

Few if any of us are in a position to step out of line completely. There are very few places left in the world where one can go and practice a purely subsistence based existence, and even fewer of us who are capable. To live in these times is to be a part of this epoch of human history. Whether I want to be or not, I am part of the global community that is the dolphin slaughter in Taiji, that is genetically engineered crops in Iowa, and that is mountaintop coal mining in West Virginia.

What I gathered from all this, after calming my nerves with a cup of airlifted Costa Rican pura vida, is that we are, deliberately as well as inadvertently, asleep at the wheel. How can the practice of selling dolphin meat or producing electricity from coal dust be stopped when I don’t know where the products I consume come from or what it costs to get them here? How can I properly vote with my wallet under such circumstances? Simply put, I can’t, even if I wanted to.

For a year now, Washington has been abuzz with the term transparency. What a godsend that concept would be, if only it were applied universally. Who would buy a new jogging stroller for their Lil Steve if it had “Five mountains, seventeen thousand penguins, and countless generations of brook trout were destroyed in the making of this product” written on the side of the box? A few of us, yes. But not as many as before.

Personally, I don’t want to support mining operations that remove mountaintops in West Virginia or ruins the Bristol Bay salmon run. But I do want that jogging stroller for Little Steve, and I don’t think that those two desires are necessarily at odds. If subsidies were removed from commodities and actual environmental costs of production were assumed by consumers, I believe the free market system would force that capital be moved into cleaner, more efficient processes. The price on that jogging stroller might, and most certainly would, go up, probably a lot. But if that is the actual cost of keeping around a salmon run or mountaintop, things that are of infinitely greater consequence than Lil Steve having a new stroller, I would be happy to pay it. At the very least, I would know that what I got was what I paid for.

The Adventures of Little Steve, Vol. 3

Winter has arrived in the Bitterroot. As if this wasn't obvious enough from the solidly frozen water in the dogs' dish or the icy glaze on every window pane, my good friend Jake Pintok called from the comfort of his desk in the Bitterroot National Forest Supervisor's Office to inform me that it was eleven below zero down in Sula last night. Personally, though the moon rising over the mountains was an amazing sight and bluebird skies are always appreciated, I could go for a little less cold and a little more snow. Brandi is of the opinion there is white stuff enough to test our new dog sled up at Lost Trail this weekend, but looking out from my writing nook at the rock hard skiff currently struggling to simply cover the grass in the yard, I am inclined to believe that the runners will probably be riding on pine litter instead.

The real disappointment in finding winter has arrived in Montana, for both Jacob and I, is the knowledge that neither of us put any meat in the freezer. Jake doesn't have much excuse, as he had smaller elk in his sights on several occasions and passed them up for a shot at a big bull, but then again he has the luxury of still having plenty of meat in his freezer from the bull he took two years ago, since he has yet to crack the nut of getting Lisa and the boys to eat venison. Brandi and I, on the other hand, live off the stuff, and though not completely decimated, the stock of steak and ground chuck stored in our freezer from the young bull I took last season is fast dwindling.

Hunting big game is hard, and it certainly isn't for everyone. It takes leg work and the ability to coldly and calculatedly take the life of one of God's beautiful creations. Even when it works out, it isn't necessarily as cost effective as buying half a beef from one of the kids in the local 4-H chapter. It is however, for most of us who engage in the practice, a connection to our farthest past, a link to the natural world and our place in it, and an endeavor that takes an infinitely greater responsibility for itself than ordering a quarter pounder at the McDonald's drive-thru.

So I'm sorry Little Steve. Your dad failed you in his oldest duty, that of putting meat on the family table. Will I save those final few packages of elk in hopes of ensuring that you grow up eating the stuff? Yes. But I have to say I'm more than a little disappointed with the way this season's hunt went, especially what with having wasted several opportunities. I'll tell you more about that later, when you'll better understand.

Stories of hunting success aside, things have been going rather well for Little Steve. At the very least Doc Laraway says he is progressing at a normal rate. He seems to get the hiccups quite often, and he occasionally sees fit to batter his mama's insides looking for a way out of the cozy cocoon she provides for him. Sitting here feeling my toes go numb, this rushing desire to get out and face life only serves to demonstrate to me the naivety of youth. If he knew how cold it was here in the house, I don't think he would be in such a big hurry to escape her warm confines.