©Joe Medieros
STANISLAUS CONNECTIONS
Working For Peace, Justice, and A Sustainable Environment
April 2004
Living Lightly
By
LILLIAN VALLEE
7.
The Quickening, The Alamo
When the golden currant is
ablaze and the scarlet lanterns of the fuchsia-flowered gooseberry light up its
prickly canes, it gets hard to sit down and write; an infinite number of small
worlds unfold and unfurl, open their eyes for the first time, coo and beckon.
Every cell in the body yearns to be outside, among the leafing elderberries and
buckeyes, among the nuzzling bees and squabbling birds.
This is how it begins: the
vernal quickening, the restlessness that marks the reverse of fall migration and
sends geese and cranes out of the Central Valley ponds and back onto the thawing
tundra and northern marshlands. Black willows on rye-covered oxbows flare green;
a pack of coyotes cuts a young elk from the herd and chases his panicked frame
over a swale; and hawks and kites engage in aerial courtships so bold and
reckless they take your breath away. These are the emblems of the season:
courtship and pursuit, death and regeneration, spirals of dazzling movement.
Three
weeks ago at the Merced National Wildlife Refuge, over thirty volunteers showed
up to remove outgrown or no longer necessary tubex tree shelters; these protect
cuttings or saplings from voles, beavers, and other creatures anxious to strip a
little bark from young trees. It was one of those glorious March days after a
long rain: tens of thousands of Ross’s and Snow Geese, and thousands of
Sandhill Cranes put on a show against radiant billows in a sky the color of a
robin’s egg. Among the fifteen volunteers from Modesto Junior College were
Dora and Constanzo Manriquez. Dora is a returning student who wants to model
continuing education for her children. She was familiar with some of the plants
and asked about others. “You know, when we worked in the fields, we didn’t
have time to look around,” she said.
Constanzo, Dora’s
husband, had come to help out on one hour’s sleep. As we slit tubexes with box
cutters, evicted mice and paper wasps who had colonized the tubes, admired the
occasional terrestrial garter snake, or inhaled the pungent scent of mugwort and
juncus in the understory, Constanzo talked about how the young cottonwood grove
we were working in reminded him of his childhood in Texas; as a boy, he had
spent days roaming the countryside with his siblings. Sometimes they took along
a few potatoes to roast in the ashes of an open fire. And whatever they killed,
they ate.
“Who do I thank for
this?” he asked me. He meant all of it: the beauty of the day, the efforts of
the people he was working with, and of those who had struggled to hang on to a
bit of wildness in a place close to home. In the last eight years volunteers at
the Merced and San Luis refuges have planted over a half million cuttings of
mainly cottonwood and willow, but also oak saplings and various shrubs and
grasses. Fast growers, Fremont’s cottonwoods (Populus
Fremontii) can grow to be one hundred
feet tall, and some of the cottonwoods planted at the Merced refuge in 1996
already measure twenty to thirty feet.
Constanzo’s talk of Texas
reminded me that the word for cottonwood in Spanish is alamo, the tree “mentioned more often than any other vegetation in
the literature of early exploration in the open Far West,” writes Donald
Peattie in his surprisingly lyrical book, A
Natural History of Western Trees. And long before they were planted and
pollarded in Mexican plazas, los alamos,
or “sweet cottonwoods,” lined the water courses and were a welcome sight to
travelers making their way through an arid land. Though they were always greeted
with pleasure, “The reference to ‘sweet’ Cottonwood is not an adjective of
endearment,” explains Peattie, “but a recognition that these trees had an
inner bark palatable to [the traveler’s] mounts.” The stripped inner bark
had also served as clothing for native women and the charred wood as a source of
dye for tattoos.
…in
earliest spring the catkins ripen on the naked wood, and the bees collecting
pollen may make an uproar among the male flowers. When these fall, they litter
for a brief while the pools, the cattle trough, and the streets of the western
towns where they are so much planted. But the female catkins, of course, remain
on the trees till the necklace-like strings of pods burst open and the seeds on
their fluffy down float away. Then once again the litter is deep—a sort of
snow that flies through the air in spring all around the ranches, the rivers,
the towns catching in the window screens, drifting in the corners of the
corrals, and giving a sort of wild autumnal air to the days are really
lengthening and growing steadily warmer.
In
the meantime the leaves have come out, and for a while they shine a brilliant,
pale, cleanly green that gradually darkens and becomes glittering. Then, if not
stripped away by the tussock moth, they spread their great pools of shade.
Later that afternoon, while
planting oaks at San Luis, we noticed the weeded spaces between wild roses were
littered with the cottonwood catkins. This is the time to stop and smell the
catkins—willow, cottonwood, box elder, oak — and to examine their fanciful
dress (box elder takes first place with a catkin that looks like a tiny palm
tree in a pink hula skirt). Spring catkins, the flowers of trees, are as
whimsical in expression as oak galls in the autumn.
All day, in air drowsy with
the scent of ripening catkins, I thought about Constanzo’s deeply moving
question: Who do I thank for this? For the gift of a word I could associate not
with conflict and a murdered garrison but with double rows of trees, young men
and women strolling in the plazas, and tired parents trying to set an example
for their children. For the gift of wild catkins, sweet bark, and great pools of
shade. This spring, remember los alamos.
Sources:
Donald Culross Peattie, A Natural History
of Western Trees, and Diane Iverson, My
Favorite Tree: Terrific Trees of North America
"Earth Day
is the first completely international and universal holiday that the world has
ever known. Every other holiday was tied to one place, or some political or
special event. This Day is tied to Earth itself, and to the place of Earth in
the whole solar system. At this moment, when I climb the steps and ring the
Peace Bell, it will be the Equinox in every part of the world, and we can all
celebrate it at once on behalf of every part of the world."
— Margaret Mead, www.earthsite.org/
By MYRTLE OSNER
It's hard to say whether recycling has become institutionalized and accepted or whether lots of us have forgotten its importance.
Talking with Bev McCullough, manager of Modesto's Recycling Programs, I noted that a number of new programs have started in the last few years, but I am unsure how widely they are being used.
For the new and not so new resident, how do you find out about the recycling program? Anyone who signs up for the first time for garbage service gets a call by the staff asking if they want a packet about recycling; if they say yes, a packet is mailed. (About half say yes.) It contains leaflets detailing all the programs, including those for automotive care (oil, tires, antifreeze, and batteries) as well as the program for green waste and cans, bottles and plastic.
To find out how to dispose of CRT (cathode ray tubes, TV, computer monitors, etc.) you must call your garbage company; they will provide you with a card entitling you to two pickups a year. ONLY RESIDENTS IN MODESTO CITY LIMITS ARE ELIGIBLE.
Even cell phones can be re-used. Senior Citizens 60 and over who live in Stanislaus county can pick up an "In Touch Cell Phone" from Area Agency on Aging by calling 1-800-510-2020. They can be used only for emergencies to call 911 for help.
The statistics show that we are meeting the goals of California's basic recycling law, familiarly known as AB 939, which mandated cities to reduce their waste by 50% by 2000. To do this, some components of our garbage must be sorted by the householder and by businesses. The biggest portion of solid waste (14%) is "green waste": grass clippings, prunings, leaves, and the newest addition, food compost (meat, bones, and paper are OK).
Many cities provide a third can to their customers, one for garbage, one for green waste, and a third for all recyclables. In most of them, the cans are picked up on an alternate weekly schedule, thus cutting down on trip numbers. In Modesto, the decision was made to ask households to separate their recyclables into cans, paper, and plastic, and package them in blue bags. Blue bags are available at City Hall and all Modesto neighborhood police offices including Vintage Faire Mall and some grocery stores. These bags go in the garbage can. Reasons for this: separate trips for different cans are costly for everyone, but especially costly to the streets, for garbage trucks are mighty heavy and tear up streets which may be in poor shape already. And, more trips equal worse air quality.
The garbage haulers then pull out the blue bags and sell the contents, depending on the market for these items. This partially offsets the cost of the process in time and wages. It's up to the householder to do the packaging right.
Why don't we have recycling in apartment complexes? Because there simply isn't room for any more garbage cans and the trucks to empty them. Unless the space is designed when the apartment is built it won't be provided. New builders, are you listening?
If your business generates a lot of paper, you must request a bin if you want it recycled, and there is a charge. Likewise, homes that want more bins have to pay for them. No free lunch! If you take out the paper and recycle it, however, your actual garbage will be greatly reduced, so you might end with fewer garbage toters.
What about big stuff, such as discarded furniture and appliances? The city will pick them up from the curb only if you call and make an appointment. Pickup limited only to city residents.
If you want to do your own composting, attend a class on backyard composting taught at MJC by Martin Hildebrant. Register at 575-6063. You may want to buy a composting "machine" to put your greenery in ($30, offered at a discount when the class is completed). Composting can be done satisfactorily without any "machine."
The latest "recycling" is that of building materials, at the Habitat for Humanity headquarters, 423 Fourth St., Modesto. It's open to the public. Grand Opening was on March 18; building materials, furniture and appliances will help build homes and hope for the future for those who otherwise could never own a home of their own.
ACTION: Attend Earth Day in the Park, April 17 and 18, and learn more about how we can help heal our world. In Modesto, call Solid Waste Management, 577-5494. Check out what your city is doing or call your garbage company.
The automobile has not merely taken over the street, it has dissolved the living tissue of the city. Its appetite for space is absolutely insatiable; moving and parked, it devours urban land, leaving the buildings as mere islands of habitable space in a sea of dangerous and ugly traffic.”
— James Marston FitchBy DON MCMILLAN
In just over three weeks I expect to celebrate a milestone of seven
years' emancipation from car ownership. These years' have given me scarce reason
to regret my decision to trade my four wheeled mobility cage for cash except
that transaction didn't prevent the car from continuing to suck the earth and
liberate energy, greenhouse gases, and entropy while owning some other human
fool.
My unhappy relationship with the one car I was fool enough to let pick my
pocket began about 17 years back. You might recall the fracas at the time in the
Persian Gulf with our tax dollars busy suppressing Iranian gunboats who
threatened our democratic right to chug from driveway to parking lot and back
again and to run over any culture, theory, or theology that urged us to admit
the full cost. Awareness that my demand for gasoline, in part, perpetuated this
conflict gave me misgivings about succumbing to automobile culture. Neither did
I like my vehicle's contributions to the blighted air that often left me
nauseous on cycling excursions to Huntington Beach or through Onyx Pass to Big
Bear Lake. Despite my cycling with confidence for leisure and commuting, being
without an automobile was unthinkable at my transition from college to work.
Driving their own cars was what my peers did. It was what my parents and their
contemporaries and their parents did.
I hung on to a thin thread of integrity through my decade's compromise by
constantly looking for ways to replace trips by car with ones on foot, bicycle,
bus or rail. For what little I drove, my cost per mile soared on chronic battery
maintenance. Still, it wasn't until I cultivated an acquaintance with someone
who was thriving after his own divorce from cars that I found the courage to
finalize my own separation.
Life since has been neither easy nor dull. It has been purposeful and
fulfilling. I am being true to the child within, the child who was scared to get
out of the car and help my parents salvage oranges from a grove that had just
been massacred to make way for subsidized parking. I am being true to the
pragmatic idealist who doesn't believe we or our children deserve to breathe the
poisons our prevailing transportation system levies, taxing us literally through
the nose. Through daily rounds of commuting and errands almost exclusively on
muscle power I labor in solidarity with the grain fields and orchards that fuel
me; not on behalf of my fossil-spun
four wheels are you going to pave them over.
The money I save by pedaling to work makes my commute itself into a
positive economic enterprise, like a second income without the taxes. Comparing
the consequences of my driving the commute, what I achieve is like drilling for
oil, disrupting wildlife and indigenous cultures at the site, spilling some
along the supply route, refining, buying and selling and pumping the gasoline,
then burning it in a toxic plume. I carry out all the functions overseen by
wealthy and well connected oil executives. But I take it one teeny step further.
After I've done all the dirty work required for the automotive commute, I scrub
the air, reformulate gasoline from that relieved air, merge it back to crude oil
and, cleaning up the tanker spills along the coast, shove the oil back in the
ground where future generations can make their own choices about taking it or
leaving it. After all that and a free aerobic workout to boot, I arrive, roll
down my sleeves and go to work.
My seven years since firing the oil executives from my commute have
generated their share of the story of my culture's petroleum drunk. Lately, my
fellow Californians, staunchly insisting that driving was costing them too much,
fired the governor in the midst of his term and replaced him with a candidate
who promised cheaper driving. I cast my ballot for the candidate who appeared
most likely to beat the car tax-inator. True to his campaign word, the governor
terminated some profits of my own transportation business. He has yet to lure me
to making car payments and merely hardens my resolve. I still believe in the
goods (think of almond blossoms and growth rings) earth's cycling delivers. If
the stars are out cycling tonight, I'll join 'em in spite of a lesser luminary's
smoke and cigar glow from the governor's mansion.
And when it comes to the history comprehended by my seven years' open
heresy in a nation whose most common rites are automotive, I can hardly ignore
the day the nefarious 19 demonstrated how fatal can be everyday playthings of a
petroleum culture. Was the
hate that drove them partly aggravated by the imperfection of my own struggle
for liberation from the fossil fueled tyranny? At any rate, the thousands they
doomed to die with them show the vanity so far of my daily voting for democracy
not oil slicks, for living as though not all consequences of our fossil fueled
chemical dependency are reckoned in the price at the pump. I am determined not
to let them die in vain. I may be voting for a future deemed by those who
dominate my world's political speech to be unelectable. Their judgment does not
excuse me from voting any more than smog absolves me from breathing. My life has
purpose pressing for a long overdue regime change. I don't control the result.
But no failure can strip the effort of significance. Viva
la bicicleta! Here's to seven more years defying the regime!
By CAROLINE MITTON
Monsanto's case against Percy Smeiser has been heard by the Canadian Supreme Court. He is the Canadian farmer who saved his seed, but since it'd been contaminated with GM pollen blown over from his neighbor's farm, Monsanto charged him with violating their patent. Farmers using Monsanto’s seeds are not supposed to save them for the next year's planting.
Smeiser's lawyer pointed out that the patent covered only the gene modification for resistance to the herbicide Roundup. Since Smeiser hadn't used Roundup on his crops, he hadn't used their gene modification. The ruling on the case hasn't yet been made public.
The Union of Concerned Scientists has published a report on the extent of contamination of food crops by genetically-modified pollen. Reports of illnesses and other problems with the crops continue to surface.
Countries in Asia, Africa, Europe and most of Latin America have agreed to tighter rules governing trade in gene-modified seeds. Named The UN Cartagena Biosafety Protocols, they require detailed information on GM crops being imported, and specify that the companies that produce the GM foods are liable for any damages they cause. Subcommittees will meet to adopt procedures for carrying out these activities. The U.S. did not sign the protocol and is not pleased that it is going into effect. The administration is trying to go around it with bilateral agreements that do not include the labeling and liability requirements.
And, the U.S. is going ahead with their World Trade Organization (WTO) suit against Europe for refusing to import GM foods. The case will be heard by a panel of three who will take evidence from both sides in secret, with no official involvement from the public. The panel is expected to come to a conclusion at the end of 2004. An appeal is then likely to take place before the final verdict is reached some time next year. If Europe loses, it will either face severe financial penalties or be forced to allow more GM foods onto the market, even though their public does not want them.
Great Britain is about to allow GM maize to be grown in specified locations, over objections from all sides, Parliament as well as the public.
The easiest way to follow this
unfolding story is at the daily log at www.organicconsumers.org/log.html
By ANNE SCHELLMAN
The formerly named Hughson Arboretum, on the corner of Whitmore and Euclid Avenues, has been renamed the Hughson Botanical Gardens. Its board of directors has named Dave Stockdale as project coordinator and chosen the Seattle-based Portico Group to develop a new garden plan.
Brian Sinclair, president of the board, explains that the name change was based upon the differentiation between an arboretum, a collection of woody plants like shrubs and trees, and a botanical garden, a collection of theme and display gardens using woody and herbaceous plants.
The Garden’s mission statement reads; "The Hughson Botanical Garden, a regional horticultural and educational institution, shall foster stewardship and promote an appreciation of native landscapes, the creation of sustainable urban landscapes, and the preservation of heritage landscapes."
The Portico Group, designer of The Conservatory of Flowers in San Francisco's Golden Gate Park, has been charged with designing the gardens around three themes: native plants from various habitats, heritage plants introduced more than 50 years ago with a focus on those between the 1920's and 1950's, and well-adapted plants that can be grown responsibly in urban environments, including Mediterranean gardens, parking lot gardens, wildlife habitats and xeriscapes.
Stockdale, new to our area, has taken on the garden stewardship as a unique chance to build the garden "from the ground up," as a place where the public can view valuable and thought provoking gardens that will be both educational and aesthetically pleasing. He has had experience as a county extension agent and a horticultural therapist, as well as a botanical garden director.
ACTION: Stockdale welcomes support from individuals of neighboring towns, believing community interest will greatly add to the richness of the project. To learn more about the gardens, touring the facility or helping during workdays, leave a voice mail message for Dave at (209) 883-1114.
By EUGENE L. CONROTTO
When my book, Miwok Means People,
was published, several people asked the quintessential question: "What
lessons for our contemporary society can we get from studying the life ways of
the Miwok?" "After all, it's not like we want to live in bark
slab-sided huts with dirt floors."
Nor, I usually added, do we want to hand-kill our food close-up so we can
witness the death spasms of our next meal. We don't want to eat grasshoppers. We
don't want to spend our entire lives within walking distance of our birthplace,
without books, music, or Starbucks.
I remind these questioners that when the Sierra foothill Miwok were
living in slab-sided huts with dirt floors, so too were the Gold Rush miners.
The difference is that the Miwok had been there for 4000 years with no history
of famine in their ancient legends, while the white miners were starving to
death. In fact there are numerous accounts of the Miwok saving miners' lives by
showing them the way to survive in the Sierra foothills, and even more accounts
of miners killing Indians when the Indian got between the white man and what he
had come across a continent to acquire.
What can we 21st Century Americans learn from the pre-white-invasion
Miwok? Take housing. In our current society, some people live in castles, their
tax attorneys live in even more lavish castles, while down the street there are
fellow citizens who call a borrowed shopping cart "home." In the Miwok
nena or patrilineal unit,
all families had a home. If a house were destroyed by fire or other
calamity, the displaced family was welcomed to take up temporary residence in
the ceremonial house until a new home was built by the community. Much more
humane and efficient than our homeless shelters or the snail's pace of the
praiseworthy Habitat for Humanity.
Today, seldom do half the eligible voters participate in decision-making.
In Miwok society issues were resolved by consensus of the entire nena.
Time imposed no pressure on the minority. We can learn from the Miwok a sounder
definition of the word "democracy."
In our society the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. The Miwok,
too, had "rich" people, chiefs who had hunters who harvested deer. The
rich in our society usually give a certain percentage of their wealth to
charity. The rest of the accumulated wealth usually goes to buy personal
"things"; sumptuous homes (plural), jewelry, powered autos, travel,
contributions to politicians. The Miwok chief used his wealth, venison, to feed
the community and its guests during ceremonial events, and for the needy
whenever necessary.
Miwok pharmacology was sophisticated, extensive, and provided free by
nature. (Digitalis is still used today.) Consider the white man's remedy for
toothache courtesy of General Vallejo who took his from the 1838 book Botica
General de los Remedios Experimentadas. Toothache was cured by the sufferer
carrying "in the mouth the eye-tooth of a man, or that of a black
dog." The Gold Rush era white man's cure for erysipelas
[streptococcal skin infection] was to "sprinkle the face with the fresh
blood of a black hen, and tie to the neck a twig of broom." The Miwok
lesson: put reliance on natural remedies and pay attention to cost.
More murders are committed monthly in the U.S. than there were Miwok
living in the Sierra at the time of the white invasion. Certainly not saints,
they have been described as "peaceable but very suspicious of their
neighbors and capable of harboring deep and long-lasting animosity toward
them." Because of the static condition of their lives, the Miwok formalized
even the way he had to deal with adversity. Their preference for the
under-expressed meant their injuries, troubles, jealousies, hurt feelings and
grudges tended to be "eaten in" and not easily forgotten. The social
mechanism developed to minimize violence was the Pota, a ritual not for little hates. The murderer of a distant
kinsman, the war leader who speaks unkind words, a man suspected of stealing a
deer carcass are worthy targets of revenge. The host invites a great many people
to the Pota, including, most
particularly, the person for whom he carries a special hate, although not even
that person knows he is the "guest of honor." Rude dummies of tule
images representing the foe and his kinsmen are placed in front of the
assemblage which spends the night hurling songs of malevolence and hatred at the
effigies. Later, by a month or a year or several years, the pota-giver
makes sure his enemy learns that he and his kinsmen had participated in
self-revilement. Not a pretty situation, but far healthier for the cohesion of
the community than bloody violence.
In Miwok society there was universal agreement regarding creed. No
"religious wars." No dehumanizing of competing religions as there were
no none. No bloody crusades to gain control over "holy ground." No
priestly caste. No threat of eternal damnation. The entire Miwok community
participated in the exercise of a religion which was not a primordial
undemanding credo, but a highly developed, complex system. The Miwok's Kuksuyu
religion featured the direct impersonation of spirits by masquerade and disguise
using heavy body paint and distinctive feather costumes. Kuksu is the most
elaborate ritual in number of officials, degrees, kinds of spirits and
introduced associated dances. Perhaps the Miwok approach would lead contemporary
society to a greater spirit of ecumenicalism and tolerance.
When it comes to conservation, there is no contest between the Miwok and
the white man. Creating a world is beyond man's capacity both to do and to
understand. The Miwok attempted neither. Instead, they lived in the earth as
they found it. To their everlasting credit, they left it as they found it after
4000 years of occupancy. Yosemite at the time of Christ and long before, and at
the time of the final extermination of Miwok society by white miners, was the
same spectacular Eden. It took four months for the white gold-seeker, with his
powerful hydraulic water cannons, to forever scar the foothills.
By
ALLISON BOUCHER
Grayson
River Ranch Preserve
Trees planted at the
Grayson River Ranch Preserve in winter of 2001 are now large and well
established—the oak trees are twelve feet tall and the cottonwood and willow
trees are as much as 30 feet tall and wide. Birds are moving in and, this
winter, we noted noisy flocks of LBBs (Little Brown Birds).
Last spring a new section
was planted with cottonwood and willow trees which grew well during the summer,
and we expect to see a successful restoration in this area, too. Irrigation ends
this fall on the entire project, so the trees have one more summer of support.
Approximately 7,000 trees including oak, cottonwood, black willow, yellow
willow, red willow, and arroyo willow, Oregon ash, box elder, and Sycamore have
been planted.
To provide a variety of
habitat types, approximately 30 acres were planted in the fall of 2002 with
creeping wild rye, meadow barley, blue rye, and gum weed as an experiment using
native grasses. This summer we will mow to reduce invasive weed seed
development. We are anxious to see how well a native grass meadow will
establish.
The monitoring program of
birds, mammals, plants and fish will continue for another four years and help
document our success and spread the knowledge we have learned to other
restoration work in the San Joaquin River watershed.
Advocacy
Activity
The Friends continue to be
active in Tuolumne River policy decisions by participating in a heavy
schedule of agency
meetings. These exchanges allow us to help steer the policies of agencies
including the irrigation districts, California Department of Fish and Game, and
U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Our influence has made significant impacts on
dam operations and other river management decisions.
Much of our efforts to
enhance Tuolumne River conditions are devoted to forums such as these. While not
glamorous work, the results are as significant as the visible restoration
projects.
Important gains for trout
have also been made during the last several months.
Scheduled
Tours
We have three tours
organized for photography, so plan on a leisurely day with plenty of time to
take photos, sketch, paint, bird watch, or take a nap along the river on April
17, July 11, and November 6.
If you have questions about
our restoration work, the tours, or would like a tour on a different date,
please call Allison or Dave Boucher, (209) 477-9033. We want to meet you and
discuss the exciting projects we can accomplish with your support.
ACTION:
Help Needed. Your contributions are
important. Many of our expenses are not covered by the grants we acquire for
specific restoration projects. Our advocacy work with agencies requires office
and travel expenses. In addition, some grants require matching funds. Help us
make that match possible.
