The People in My Recipe Box

     The other day I was rifling through my recipe box, looking for a particular recipe and, as I fingered through cards of various ages and wear, I was reminded I'm never alone in the kitchen. The room is crowded with the memories and spirits of friends and family - many of them gone now - through recipes, dishes and utensils they've left behind.
(Note to younger readers: recipe boxes, either metal or wood [mine is wood, a gift from a family member] are antiquated items found in the kitchens of older women. In bygone years it was customary to exchange favorite recipes on 3X5 cards, often hand-written, occasionally typed. They were especially helpful to daughters and sons off to college or their own lives. Magazines and soup can labels even had recipes printed in cut-&-paste size to fit on such cards and in such boxes.)
     I rarely, if ever, use some of the hand-written recipes anymore. Many have ingredients that don't fit with our diet preferences today. Still, it seems a sacrilege to throw them away.
     Some are from my grandmother and her friends, from an era when few women worked outside the home but were amazingly industrious and creative, forming organizations that made their communities stronger (had libraries and sidewalks built, organized regular garbage pick-up service, created scholarships, educated themselves through guest lecturers and hosted political candidate forums). In news articles from that era a woman was  identified as Mrs. "John Doe" - always by her husband's full name, never even her own first name. It's painful to read such news items tucked away in drawers and scrapbooks. Even in church or community cookbooks they were listed that way, unless, of course, they were unmarried.
     It was the same with my mother-in-law and her friends, gifted in so many talents but always introduced with their husbands' names, not their own. They were a little younger than my grandmother, but more religious and followed the church's dictum that "man is the head of the household just as God is the head of mankind."
     Today, thankfully, women are identified by their own names in the newspaper. The reader doesn't know if they're married unless the subject comes up in the article and is pertinent to the topic. When I was in high school, girls would sometimes write their names as Mrs. (fill in current boyfriend's name). Today, if you identified me only by my husband's name, I'd correct you. It's not that I don't respect him or value his considerable talents, but we are very different people and my social and community commitments are ones I choose and in which I represent myself and my own opinions. He sometimes jokes he should introduce himself as "Mr. Chris Peterson" since more people know me than him. But, Chris is a male name as well, so it wouldn't have much punch. In fact, often when strangers hear or read my name they assume I'm male. But, that's a discussion for another time.
     Back to the kitchen. I can open any drawer or cupboard and find something given to me by a family member or friend. In recent years, many were items left behind when older friends downsized dramatically and moved away. Usually they were favorite items they couldn't face putting in a garage sale and wanted someone they knew would appreciate it to keep and use it. What will happen to those items when I do the same? The aura of memories won't imbue them for others. They'll just be ordinary utensils or dishes. I often wonder about the stories behind such items in thrift shops or at garage and estate sales.
     Thus, most of us have unused things we just can't part with. Not yet, anyway. Plain as they are, maybe even worn or ratty, the mere sight of them holds the face, voice and often powerful memories of the person who gave it to us. They hold stories that still warm us, make us feel connected or remind us of lessons learned about what matters most in life. They're tangible evidence that we have known true friendship and interesting people. And, oh the stories... Someday I'll share some of the ones left to me. Perhaps you'll share yours too.
     In the meantime, I wonder what will make our younger friends and family members remember the special people in their lives if recipes and photos are stored on computers or phones - technologies that change rapidly and can "crash," obliterating everything (as happened to this very blog, this very week). How quickly we're losing the imprint of a loved-one's handwriting - and all the memories the unique shape of a letter can hold.
     For now, some of mine are safe, in a box, on my kitchen counter, just waiting to be opened.
 Postscript: I've received some lovely e-mails from friends about special recipes in their boxes, especially from parents. Please feel free to share yours here too!

Rooting for Take Root

     The 2015 Winter edition of Take RootMagazine is on magazine stands! If you've not seen this colorful quarterly that focuses on food, farms and beverages in the Willamette Valley, please check it out:  If it proves irresistible, please consider subscribing or picking up a copy at your favorite news stand. It's also available at the Corvallis Public Library. Publisher Debbie Duhn works hard on a very thin shoestring budget to make it a lovely, informative “keeper” (as in too good to recycle or toss). They're meant to be kept (or passed on to friends) as a guide for current and future adventures in the Willamette Valley. She's also just brought out her second comprehensive Guide to Oregon Wines and Vineyards. You'll find it on the website too, plus back issues of Take Root.

      I've always known that the monetary compensation for writers rarely matches their passion, skills and time investments but working closely with Debbie, I've learned it can be even tougher for people in her chair. I'm grateful she's so devoted. Let's support her tireless efforts in finding the people and stories we all want to hear (read), about our “neighborhood” and the creative people who inhabit it.

Shameless promotion

      In this issue of Take Root you'll find my piece on Vitality Farms. I live in the foothills of the Coast Range and one of their farms is just “down the hill” on the broad flats where fields, pastures and oak woods are stitched into a richly-textured quilt along “seams” created by crooked streams and roads. Every time I pass the farm on my way into town I'm on the lookout for birds. You're almost always guaranteed a sighting of something amazing – like the bald eagle perched on a fence post right by the road last week. There are lots of hawks too, of all sizes and colors. They're all adept at nabbing pesky rodents – a real bonus – but can also be very unhelpful around livestock sometimes, especially during lambing season. It's Nature's way. Naturally, having six big mobile hen houses is an attraction too...

      When I dropped by Vitality's office the other day, Karen Wells (a.k.a.“Mother Hen”) made a comment that reminded me that we consumers aren't always the “locavores” we think we are. She said some of their customers get a bit upset when egg production goes down in winter. One the one hand, we want free-range, pasture-raised animals and their products (eggs), but don't think about the fact that in being outdoors, they get COLD in winter, just like we do. Hence, egg and milk production drop. (Well, duh!) We can get white-shelled, pale-yolked eggs year-round in any grocery store, but country “girls” are doing their best to keep warm when we're snug by the fire, sippin' eggnog. Production will increase as the days lengthen and weather warms. There will be plenty of eggs come Easter.

      Vitality's hens are definitely free-range. Their mobile hen houses are moved (slowly, so no one gets caught sleeping!) every few days to fresh pasture. When farm owner Jason Bradford took me on a walking tour through several acres last November the “girls” surrounded us like we were rock stars, drowning out his words on my tape recorder. But, when they saw we had no food (or weren't going to sing?), they got back to lunch.

Top chef

Among other interesting reads in this issue of Take Root is a piece on Albany's restaurant gem, Sybaris, and its owners/chef. Chef Matt Bennett really was “top chef” at Ten River Food Web's first Chefs' Show-Off. (Hmmm...there are embarrassing drool marks on my copy of the magazine on those pages.) Check out his monthly, seasonal/local menu at their website.

Note: At the annual Celebrate Corvallis on January 16, 2015, Vitality Farms was awarded the Good Steward of the Planet Award. Also, one of Chef Matt Bennett's favorite charities, the ABC House, was honored as Community Non-profit of the Year.

Logging On...

This profile first appeared in The First Alternative Co-op Thymes in January, 1998.

Horse-logger Harry Lehman enjoys both low- and high-tech pursuits

      Harry Lehman has a foot in two worlds that are centuries apart.

The pre-dawn darkness in his nearly-100-year-old house is pierced by electric lights as he rises, dresses, stokes the wood-burning furnace, and fixes breakfast for himself and Mick, his border collie. As the winter sun creeps towards the horizon, Lehman pulls on his boots, hat and jacket, then he and Mick head out to feed his five Belgian draft horses. While the horses digest a hearty breakfast of hay and grain, Lehman finishes his chores. Then he loads his working team, Pat and Mandy, into the truck and off they go to practice the centuries-old craft of horse-logging.

      When they return at the end of the day, Lehman unloads the horses, waters and feeds them, then heads indoors. He pulls off the caulk leather boots that carried him through a day of manipulating raw horsepower and steps over to the computer to boot-up on the Internet. There, he chats with other horse-loggers about the techniques, equipment and horses of their shared passion.

      It's not the only time the centuries converge. Sometimes Lehman and his team deftly drag thinned logs through a stand of trees where machinery wouldn't fit, yarding them in an open spot where a CAT can pick them up. Even a helicopter could. “I've never had 'helos' swing my logs,” Lehman said in his low, soft voice, “but that would be appropriate technology.”

      Lehman looks the sort who works with horses. His dark, thick-as-a new-broom mustache acts as the gate-keeper of few, well-chosen words. The word gate widens, however, when he introduces his Belgians and talks about working with them in the woods. Though the work isn't always as steady as he'd like, he's never regretted choosing horse-logging as a profession. The only way it could be better would be if he owned 1,500 acres of timber, or was born Amish. He's visited Amish communities numerous times and respects their view of how humans fit in the natural world.

Choosing the challenge

      Lehman was helping build logging roads in Oregon in 1972 when he first heard about horse-logging. “I'd grown up with horses and really like loggin',” he said, “so I thought it would be fun. At that time, small wood was just starting to get harvested around here. Horse-logging naturally lends itself to a small-time harvest.”

So, he borrowed money from a bank and bought his first draft horse. That winter, he apprenticed to the man who'd owned the horse earlier. Then came two years of on-the-job training with two other horse loggers.       Lehman knew he'd never get wealthy in financial terms, but he was drawn to the “funky” horse-logging lifestyle. “They all seemed pretty happy and really enjoyed that camaraderie with their horses,” he said. “It suits me pretty well.”

Board-feet ballet

      Physically, horse-logging can be hard, though it also keeps a person more fit than the sedentary professions of his contemporaries. “Workin' in the woods does weird things to you. Here's the line,” Lehman said holding a hand in front of him, pointing to one side of it. “On this side of the line you feel like a healthy, fit animal. And on this side of it you feel like a broken-down hulk. It's a very thin line and it varies from day to day.” It's also dangerous. “It's just a given, even though you like to move around like a ballerina, you're runnin' around with two tons of horses and logs in forest and mud. Chainsaws are dangerous.”

Leaving scars

      While horse-logging may take a toll on humans, it takes less of one on the land. “It's a good way to log small timber and not damage the surrounding stand (of trees),” Lehman said, “or disturb the soil too much. Compared to conventional machine-logging it has a real low impact. No one is ever upset they've logged that way.” Soil compaction is a major consideration. “People forget that there's as much tree below the soil as above it. It takes about a year for the ground to recover from horse-logging.” It can take much longer to recover from heavy machinery.

      Lehman doesn't claim that all horse-loggers are good. Some do jobs he'd never accept. He's rejected jobs because of steep terrain or because he didn't agree with the owner's management plan. He takes pride in looking back on a job when it's finished. “It's my canvas; I'm the one who sticks my name on it. If someone wanted to cream (clear-cut) their forest and wanted me to do it, I probably wouldn't. I haven't done it yet. Because down the road, when someone asks, they'll say, 'Well, Harry Lehman creamed that place.' They'll never ask what the guy wanted; they're gonna' ask who did it.”

      Lehman spends considerable time educating small woodlot owners on how to get the most from their trees. “It's surprising,” he said. “People inherit or buy some piece of ground and they don't know anything about it. There's a lot of free information out there and I advise anybody, if they have any ground, to get educated. Contact the Extension Service's forester or the Small Woodlands Association; go to the library. Lehman's preferred management method is to open a stand up by leaving enough space between trees that the trunks get enough sunlight for growth, yet the tree tops (canopy) are touching and full enough to nourish the trees.

A synchronized team

      But Lehman couldn't do it without his equine partners. Pat and Mandy are his current working team, though Dan, Mandy's son, is in training. Two more offspring will join the team within the next two years. While a pair is impressive, it's a stunning combination of power and grace when three draft horses, about 16 or 17 hands high (a hand is about 4 inches) and weighing 1,700 to 2,200 pounds each, work side by side. They, too, seem happiest in the forest. “They love it,” Lehman beamed. “They bow their heads when you put their collars on.”

      “You can't start loggin' 'em 'til they're about 5 years old,” he said. “Their bones are still soft. You can train 'em and do farm work and pull wagons, but I don't believe in workin' 'em hard 'til they're five.” Like people, some are born to be work horses, others aren't. Or, something in their genetic make-up or from colthood affects their trainability. “If they're gonna do it, they'll step right into it, especially if you have a trained horse to hook 'em up with.” It takes years of daily routine and providing food and care to establish a strong relationship with a horse. “You can be the provider, but being the partner, that's when you're in that high spot. Then it's neat, it's really neat.”

      Straight timber-falling, which Lehman often does a day or so ahead without the horses, has pretty low overhead. “A pick-up, Thermos, and a couple of chainsaws,” he said. With horses, it's different. Besides the hay, grain, pasture, barn, larger truck, etc., there are complicated harnesses, and years of training and care. The horses must be shod regularly, for example and the harnesses, which can weigh 70 pounds, oiled twice a year. Lehman is justifiably proud of his Amish-made harnesses, which he trots out for special “dress-up” occasions. “Every guy should get at least one set of new harnesses in his life,” he said.

Does horse-logging have a future?

      “In Oregon,” Lehman said, “it'll probably continue to be real small-scale, the kind of thing you'll read about and people will say, 'Oh, isn't that great.' It's labor-intensive and America is moving away from labor-intensive practices. And, a lot has to do with the economy and the price of timber.

The day will come when Lehman finds himself booting up at the computer more than at the back door. Then he can combine the technology with his interest in writing to tell the world about the craft he's learned over a quarter century, and the four- and two-legged characters who've made it such a rich life.

Update: Harry was right about the future of horse-logging. It still exists, but not to the extent it should (in my humble opinion). Most of the forests around us have been clear-cut, or severely cut, with noisy heavy machinery in the last decade, which is heart-breaking (Oh, but the views now!). Harry and his horses logged for us a couple of times – an amazing ballet of man and beautiful animals. I've also written about a local woman who works with draft horses on farms and small woodlots: Lise Hubbe. An amazing and highly-respected woman.

Tyee Wine Cellars, A Brief History

     A version of this was originally published in the First Alternative Thymes in December, 1997. See update at the end.

      As a young bride in the early 1970s, Margy Buchanan tested her first recipe calling for wine: marinating budget cuts of steak in Burgundy. “It tasted awful,” she said. The granddaughter of a charter member of the Oregon Woman's Christian Temperance Union, she'd not so much as whiffed alcohol growing up. However, a cup of hot spiced wine at a party proved pleasant and before long Gallo Hearty Burgundy appeared on the table when spaghetti was served.

      The Buchanans' wine palate was awakening.

      The idea of making their own wine was conceived during a trip Dave and Margy Buchanan took to California's Napa Valley in the early '70's. It wasn't just the wine they were attracted to, but the whole aesthetic of the grape-growing and wine-making lifestyle. It involved beauty, skill, agriculture, challenge, study, art, adventure, science, people – all the elements of a good life. As it happened, they were seeking new crops for the Buchanan family farm they had recently bought from Dave's mother. Margy had given up teaching to work the farm and raise their two children while Dave worked as a fish biologist, first for Oregon State University, then for Oregon Department of Fish & Wildlife.

      Oregon had yet to become known as world-class wine country, so the Buchanans had no idea if their secret dream to start a winery was laudable or laughable.

Planting a legend

      The Buchanans planted their first 1/4 acre of vines in 1974 and made their first wine from those grapes in 1979. “No matter how many books you read about making wine, it's always nice to talk to an expert,” Dave said. Fortunately, one has just joined OSU as research oenologist and wine-making instructor. Barney Watson is also the OSU Extension Specialist for the entire Oregon wine industry. Through hours of conversation, a friendship was born. “Our 1979 wine wasn't all that great, Dave said, “but our 1980 wine, a Pinot Noir, was really good, and Barney sensed that our area had some potential. Grapes require more than soil. They depend on the location and micro-climate.”

      Turns out, Dave's great grandfather chose a perfect grape-growing spot when he bought the farm from its homesteaders in 1885. Today, six acres of grapes grow on a hillside with good drainage and protection from frequent frosts. “Air drainage is important too;” Margy said, “we get more breeze than even Inavale school, a mile away. This year was a good example of how important that is. We could have lost all our grapes to bunch rot.”

      “Good air drainage and canopy management are what make our grapes the best,” Dave added, describing the hand-pruning they and a cadre of friends do several times a year. They also “drop clusters” (cut clusters of grapes off shortly before harvest) to intensify flavor and aid air circulation. It's like thinning apples. “Rather than producing six tons of grapes to the acre, like our land would probably like to do, we produce about 2 1/2 tons.”

Pinot Partners

      The friendship with Barney Watson soon led to a business relationship. Tyee wine cellars is actually a partnership of Dave, Margy, Barney and his wife, Nola Mosier. Barney makes the wine, Nola handles the business aspects, Margy does the marketing, and Dave manages the vineyard. About two-thirds of the grapes that go into Tyee wines come from other Willamette valley vineyards, such as Temperance Hill north of Salem, Helmick Hill north of Corvallis, Wren Vineyards near Kings Valley, and Croft Vineyards near Dallas.

      The Tyee partners planted their first commercial grapes in 1981 and made their first wine in 1985, the same year the Buchanan farm became a Century Farm.

What's in a Name

     Tyee is a Native American trading word that encompasses the concepts of great, best, chief, and biggest. “It always gives you focus,” Margy said. It was used so much in Margy's family that her uncle, an avid fisherman from Albany, had license plates that read TYEE. “In British Columbia, when you catch a Chinook salmon over 25 pounds they call it a Tyee.”

      Northwest Indian culture is reflected on Tyee bottle labels, as well, in artwork by James Jordan, who is part Crow Indian and a native of Oregon. Most images represent a different Northwest Indian legend, except the Canada goose.

Saving Soil and Streams

      Perhaps it's because he's a fourth generation Oregonian, or because he's a fisheries biologist, Dave is passionate about protecting Willamette Valley soils, be it farmland from urban development or topsoil from being washed into streams and rivers. “We tend to forget how valuable our soil is in the hustle and bustle of our everyday lives, but we need to protect it,” he said. “We all need the food it produces. Even so-called marginal farmland is valuable because that's what grapes can be grown on, and it produces nice trees, too. If the soil is good and stays intact, then the streams will stay intact, too, because the streams carry off the soil or excess pesticides the soil has to deal with.”

      Beaver Creek runs through the Buchanan farm and is one reason the vineyard at Tyee was recently certified Salmon Safe by the Pacific Rivers Council (PRC). While there are no salmon in Beaver Creek, there are cutthroat trout, a close relative. “They're just as sensitive as salmon,” Dave said. “Both require good water quality and cool temperatures, so it's like an indicator species.” Like many vineyards, Tyee's grapes are on a hillside from which soil would run off into Beaver Creek, were it not for the grass they planted between their rows of grapes. Traditionally, grapes are grown on bare, rocky soil, but the PRC recommends alternative methods to minimize pesticide use and reduce soil erosion. “We planted low-growing hard fescue because it chokes out blackberries and poison oak but doesn't get so tall it competes with the grapes. When it rains hard, sediment won't run into the creek.”

      The PRC certification, which allows Tyee to use the Salmon-Safe logo on their wines, also recognizes the riparian zone that generations of Buchanans have nurtured. During their stewardship, 130 of the 460 acres composing the farm have been left as natural wetlands and woodlands, attracting a rich variety of birds and wildlife. Winery visitors in summer are invited to hike the 1 1/2-mile trail the Buchanans have created to enjoy the area and its inhabitants.

Big World, Small Winery

      Tyee Wine Cellars draws visitors from all over the world, according to the guest book. “When the door opens to our tasting room, it's like opening a door unto the world,” Margy said. “You don't know who you'll be talking to, where they come from, what their philosophy is. No one who comes into the tasting room is in a hurry. We can get into long, involved conversations and the next people who come in add to it. It's like a pot of stew.”

      The Tyee partners plan to keep the winery small and family-centered where everything is done by hand, from growing the grapes to attaching labels to the bottles. Their distributors are all small-scale also, taking their wine into small shops and fine restaurants nationwide.

      Dave and Margy's daughter, Merilee, in the honors college at the University of Oregon, is writing her thesis on what she plans to do with the family farm someday. “Each generation has done something different and what's good for the time,” Margy said, describing a variety of crops and animals who grew there until she and Dave planted grapes and a 30-acre filbert orchard. The diversity has kept it in fine shape, ready for the next generation. The sense of community is palpable, stretching from the time Kalapooia Indians camped there, to the neighbors who gathered to replace the barn lost in a fire when Dave was 10 years old, to the visitors today. It's a community that includes teetotalers from children and wildlife to adults who simply don't care for alcohol.

      I suspect even Margy's grandmother would be proud of Tyee Wine Cellars and its place in our community.

Update: Merilee Buchanan Benson is now Tyee's Winemaker and Vineyard Manager (and a mother, herself), and doing a prize-winning job! Dave and Margy still live and work at the heart of this ever-thriving special place for people and wildlife. See what's happening now at: www.tyeewine.com.

A Day in the Life of a Garbage Collector

      Back in the 1990s I wrote columns for in our local food co-op's newsletter, The First Alternative Thymes, and the Corvallis Gazette-Times, on waste reduction and recycling. It was an appropriate topic for the co-op because it was the original site for recycling in Corvallis.

To better understand waste and recycling on our community, I asked our then waste services company, Corvallis Disposal, if I could accompany the crew on a trash pick-up day. They said yes. Later, I followed the curbside recycling crew for a day. Both were eye-opening (and exhausting!) experiences.

      This is an edited version what I wrote after the trash-hauling day in the January, 1991 issue of the FA Thymes. Keep in mind, this was when the fellows physically moved every trash can to tip it into the compactor. Today, they rarely have to leave the truck cabs since their trucks'“arms” reach out to pick up uniform curbside containers and dump them into the truck. One person usually does a route solo nowadays.

A Day in the Life of a Trash-hauler

      To some, they're invisible, even when just a few feet away. To others, they're a bother, a nuisance. Some resent their presence, others pity them.

      Who are they? Our garbage collectors.

      Of course, not everyone holds a negative view of garbage collectors. A few customers come out to visit, sometimes offering a snack, or a cold drink in the summertime. Others help by making their trash easily accessible and keeping their containers clean and in good condition.

Garbage collectors are justifiably proud of the job they do. It's a physically demanding job that not everyone can handle. Like those in other outdoor trades these men (and currently they are all men) enjoy the physical challenge, the exercise and, most of all, working outdoors, except in extreme weather, of course. Some are involved in sports or other physically-demanding activities after work, so their jobs are ideal for staying in shape. There's little insomnia in this crowd.

Those who hold a negative view of garbage haulers would be enlightened by spending a day with them, as I did recently.

      It was a mercifully dry day in early December that Charlie, Joe and Gregg let me tag along to watch, ask questions, and help tip a few cans. Even though I did but a minute fraction of what they did, I was exhausted at the end of the day. Just climbing quickly in and out of that high truck cab dozens of times is great exercise.

Beating Rush Hour

      The day began well before sunrise in the lunchroom of Corvallis Disposal Company (CDC), where everyone clocks in and route bosses get their route sheets: names and addresses of all stops, new or discontinued service, etc. A different route each day makes variety another “plus” on this job.

      Our route that day had over 1,000 stops – one of the busier ones, they said. It was a “Cushman route,” meaning two Cushman three-wheelers work with the large compactor truck, which has a 20-yard capacity (compacted) and weighs 46,000 pounds when full. Joe and Gregg, each with four years at CDC, buzzed their Cushmans through the neighborhoods like worker bees (the drone of the engines most fitting), zipping into driveways, emptying cans into the backs of their vehicles, then backing up to the compactor (their “hive”) to empty all they've collected. During the two or three minutes it takes to unload, they report—shouting over the din of the equipment—to the route boss, Charlie, who notes extra cans or “lock-ups” on the route sheet, and calls them in so the office personnel can respond to complaints or questions from customers. While the two Cushmans whiz ahead, Charlie moves the truck from stop to stop, collecting garbage from the houses nearby in a wheeled 90-gallon container that hooks to the back of the truck and is lifted automatically for emptying. He admits he's not in quite the top shape he was in before that nifty piece of equipment came along.

      People are leaving for work now; parents back out of driveways with carloads of neighborhood school kids. Joe, Gregg and Charlie keep out of their way, waving to those who greet them.

Since trash day is also curbside recycling day, bright red boxes dot the curbs, as well. While some trash cans are curbside too, others are hidden behind fences or hedges. The haulers know exactly where to look. They also know where the dogs are waiting to warn them away. It's a weekly game, with the dog sometimes getting loose and winning. Charlie tells of pulling dogs off a child on one route, and being bitten several times. He thinks the high pitch of the Cushmans is especially annoying to animals. Stories of other hazards crop up during the day, like the paint thinner that splashed in his face, forcing him to spend three hours in the emergency room. Charlie's been with CDC for 13 years and was a logger in Alaska before coming here. He can't imagine not working outdoors.

      Some trash cans are easy to handle. Others are heavy, smelly and “grungy” with tenacious blobs clinging to their insides like grey, overcooked oatmeal. A few are close to their own trip to the landfill. Some metal ones sport sharp edges that jut menacingly, set to rip clothing and skin. Quite a bit of trash is neatly collected into plastic bags which, I confess to abhorring until that day. It was after scrambling for the umpteen-thousandth foam packing peanut that my resolve began to dissolve, but it was the third time that moist kitty-litter blew into my face that I frankly reviewed my position on trash bags.

Full Bellies

      By 10 am. the truck is packed (literally, with hydraulic blades), so Joe and Gregg head for lunch, while Charlie and I head for the landfill. But first, he stops to redeem a coupon for a free drink at a convenience stores, compliments of the manager, who lives on today's route. We dig into our brown-bag lunches. At Coffin Butte landfill, we breeze past the gate with a wave and the truck strains uphill towards the top of Cell I. Charlie backs to the very edge of the steep precipice, jumps out of the cab, makes adjustments and moves some levers. The back of the truck yawns noisily open to disgorge the result of a morning's worth of collecting: a stew of broken furniture, cake boxes, books, plastic toys, bottles, clothing, a dead duck, egg cartons, shoes, and yard trimmings. A few items stick to the top of the truck, among them a pair of navy tights that billow in the smelly breeze like a trapeze artist who has lost her footing and clings to the wire with one toe. Another lever is moved, shaking the trapeze artist and remaining debris into the pit below where they'll soon be compacted by even bigger, noisier machinery. We tip-toe through the dust-covered mud and climb back into the truck to head back to town, scattering the fat birds picking through the treasures. The rolling, emerald-green fields and wooded hills in front of us are in sharp contrast to the enormous pit of garbage behind us.

      The “afternoon” (it's only 10:45 a.m., but everyone's had lunch and is back on the job) brings new neighborhoods, more garbage. Traffic is a lot heavier now, slowing the men as they wait for people to pass. Gregg opens a can and pauses, motioning me to come look. It's full of paperback books, all in excellent condition. Why...? He shakes his head and says it was the same last week. A while later Joe tells me there aren't as many “goodies,” which he defines as still perfectly good, usable items, as there used to be. “Must be a sign of the times,” he reasons. Still, I've been struck by the number of items that could easily be recycled, especially since everyone on this route has free curbside recycling pick-up. “A lot of people just can't be bothered,” Charlie says. I'm reminded of a friend who told me about her neighbor who refused to recycle because she thinks the box makes her yard look “messy.” She's just the person to spend a day like this.

      I asked what the busiest time of year is, and was surprised the answer isn't December, because of the holidays. “Summer,” they all say. “Everyone's cleaning houses, yards, and garages; people move.”

Not Done Yet

      It's about 2 p.m. when the last can and Cushman are tipped into the compactor. Charlie calls the office to see if anyone has called to report missed pick-ups. There are two, one from the previous day clear out on Kiger Island. Joe and Gregg are dispatched while Charlie and I head to Coffin Butte, then back to the office. The day's not over yet, though. Vehicles must be cleaned out, filled with gas, and reports must be filed as to conditions, mileage, etc. Charlie faces another hour or so of paperwork.

      As I leave, I wonder why those who sell us many of the things that end up in our trash—and those who convince us we need them—are so highly rewarded for it, financially and socially, while those who remove the waste are scorned. Something's askew.

      Perhaps one small justice is that our garbage haulers are in far better physical conditions than most of us are. And they can “read” a lot about us, the economy and society in general just by what we throw away.

About

     Over 30 years of published writing has involved countless interesting people, ideas and interviews. Not all of them find homes on newspaper or magazine pages. This blog will allow me to share some of them with you. Sometimes it will be hot local issues, other times it will be snippets of stories, interviews, adventures or memories.

      I recently retired from almost seven years of writing a newspaper column every other week (my second) and look forward to spending that energy here on a broader spectrum of topics. This part of the country—Oregon's beautiful Willamette Valley—has a wealth of interesting people, places and happenings to explore.

      Besides writing columns and articles, I recently spent a year going through 40+ years of newsletters for the First Alternative Co-op Thymes to index the articles. Times (and the Thymes) have changed but it's striking to watch not just the Co-op's evolution, but that of a community through stories about people, events, organizations and businesses.

      Among the hundreds of articles I contributed to the Thymes were a few gems that stuck with me. I've posted three of them here. I feel a little old realizing how these distinct businesses have evolved (or not). Change happens.

      Most of my writing has revolved around farms, farmers, small businesses, food and people we don't see who bring it to us, and those who don't have enough of it. These will continue to be primary topics, but there are others I'll explore too.

      We've lived in the Willamette Valley for 35 years now, over half our lives. It's definitely home. My goal as a young woman was to travel as much as possible (and did), but I'm very content to have settled here and discover the heart of a place, season after season. This place – and its people – have taught me so much. My ears and notebook are always at the ready for the next interesting discovery.

      I grew up in a small farming community in northeastern Colorado, went to college in Mexico City and Colorado, joined the Peace Corps upon graduating and got my “graduate degree” over the next four years in Latin America. Later, my husband and I moved to Oregon and embarked on what we call our “Mother Earth News phase.” Among the idealistic homesteaders in the 1970s, we moved to the country, designed and built (much of it ourselves) our own passive solar home, making livings and a life. Many who sought the same dream have long since moved back to town. Though that temptation has occasionally teased us (me, anyway), we plan to stay as long as we can physically handle growing and processing food for ourselves, keeping the woodshed filled (our only source of heat besides the sun), managing several acres of woods, and the long hilly walks on logging roads all around us that have been our primary health plan.

      This neighborhood alone has been a rich source of interesting people, stories and lessons, some of which will be shared here too.

      Thanks for dropping by. Please visit again.