Thanks, Mother Nature!

My family and I spent part of last night in the downstairs coat closet. Nothing fancy. Just hanging out acting casual, listening the weather radio and wondering if the reported nearby funnel clouds would touch down and fling us to kingdom come.

Hurricanehead was thoroughly untroubled by the proceedings--he spent much of the time asleep and drooling, although he did once wake up, look around, laugh out loud and fall back to sleep. Rocketboy, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck. Is it wrong to wish you could offer your 9-year-old a cigarette? There was a lot of moaning over the alleged tornado. To distract him, Hombre read aloud from The Lightning Thief until the danger passed.

So the first item on my post-storm, counting-my-blessings list is an unflappable spouse. Thanks, Hombre. Second, no storm damage. Next is my kids' resilience. By this morning the whole sitting-in-the-closet episode was forgotten, replaced by a day of listening to Greek myths, doing tae kwon do, and building solar-powered houses out of boxes and tuna cans with their friends, who are, along with their parents, the fourth gratitude item. Never underestimate the power of good neighbors.

Fifth, mirza ghasemi from the neighborhood Persian restaurant. If you'd told me even a month ago that I'd be grateful for anything containing eggplant, I would have snorted. Today I want to buy a quart tub of the stuff and eat it with a big spoon. I think it might be better than ice cream.

Finally, blogs and posts that have caught my eye lately:

• Lenore Skenazy's FreeRangeKids is a great primer for getting past fear so your kids can have a real childhood.
• Red, White & Grew is P. Price's Victory Garden blog. You want history, tips, encouragement and resources? She's got 'em.
• And from earlier this month, jo(e)'s post on stereotypes and superheroes:

"I've decided to start a campaign for a new kind of superhero. I'd like to see superheros of all sizes and shapes. Superheros with grey hair. Superheros who make their kids' lunch on their way to battle. Superheros who recite poetry instead of cliches. Superheros who wear sensible hiking boots or sneakers. Superheros who stop to talk to the villains and see what's bothering them before throwing knives.

And the one part of the costume worth saving, it seems to me, is the cape."

Who are your superheroes, and if you were to wear a cape, what would it look like?

Gas too high? Try National Bike Month

I'm a bicycle coward. I mean to ride. I have a helmet and a kid trailer. I used to sometimes ride to yoga class and the pool. But my bike has been garaged for months, awaiting the replacement of a frayed brake cable. If the brakes work, I won't have an excuse for not riding other than chickenheartedness, but even that excuse won't cut it anymore.

Gas, Hombre tells me, went up 35 cents a gallon in Austin in the past month. A full tank for my minivan now costs more than our average monthly electric bill. My fear of becoming roadkill is wrestling with my innate frugality, and fear is losing.

Also, it's National Bike Month, and more people are riding to save money as gas prices rise. I've even seen people riding at night, their little bike lights flashing as they pedal down the avenue or, in one case, a freeway access road. Surely there's at least some safety in growing numbers. Right?

I've broken it down, and there are three main safety issues between me and frequent riding.

• One, I don't know how to maintain my bike, like the brake cable that left me without reliable stopping power--and not in the gun-nut sense of the phrase.
• Two, I have madly lacking safe-riding skills. I used to ride everywhere as a kid, fearlessly and often foolishly, but I'm sure the angels that kept me alive then won't put up with that crap now.
  
• Three, where the hell am I going to ride? The toll road? I live in a suburb where if you can even find a bike lane, the damned thing will peter out just when you need it most--at a busy intersection or a freeway underpass.

I can't extend the bike lanes at will, although that would make a useful superpower, but I can remedy the first two issues. Cheaply, of course. My tools are Austin's Yellow Bike Project and, of course, the internet.

Right now my family is in the middle of a multi-week bike-maintenance and repair course sponsored by YBP. Every Saturday morning, Hombre or I spend two hours with the kids and other families learning how bikes work and getting our hands dirty at their East Austin warehouse. During the first class, I learned how to change a tire and patch a flat. Last week, Hombre and Co. learned to fix brakes, which means I'm that much closer to being back on the road. Total course cost: $40.

I can't say enough good things about Yellow Bike. They teach, they offer kids and adults the chance to earn a bike through volunteer hours, and they release "yellow bikes" into the community that can be used by anyone. There are similar groups across the US, maybe even where you live (scroll down).

Once my bike is roadworthy, what about user error? I've been reading the safety links at Austin Cycling Association, especially Michael Bluejay's tips on How Not to Get Hit by Cars. Even if you plan to drive everywhere and never ride a bike, you should still read Bluejay's list, because it will make you less of a hazard to cyclists. I haven't turned right without looking over my shoulder since I read it.

Of course, reading is one thing, doing another. ACA also offers basic Road I rider-ed classes from time to time and I may take one, once I have a working bike. You can look for courses in your area here.

Even after I get the bike and the brain working together, it's not going to solve all my gasoline-related woes. Austin is largely unbikeable, although it's trying to change. I still won't be able to safely bike to the grocery store, and the boys' fine-art and martial-arts classes will be out of bicycle reach as well.

But I'll be able to load dogs and bunnies into the trailer for trips to the vet, take the kids to the park, zip to the bakery, and cruise to the nearby shopping center when I need underwear, Star Wars figures and barbacoa. I'll be able to haul plants home from the neighborhood nursery. One day, I might get brave enough to cross under the freeway and visit the bookstore. You never know. I have a feeling that the higher gas prices go, the more motivated I'll be.

Do you ride? If so, what should novices know? If you don't ride, what would help you get started?

All roads lead from Indianola

I promised that I would write about Indianola back in January after my trip to Cuero. As I thought and read about it, it got harder to know what to write. The more I learn about Indianola, the more I ruminate on the forces of nature, how we define a sense of place and how little say we ultimately have in the matter.

Indianola is gone now, destroyed and sunk beneath the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. All that's left are postcards and immigration records and what little history was saved. But in its day, Indianola was the "Queen City of the West," a Texas port second only to that other famous city, Galveston.

The town was founded in 1846 and it was there that the Army landed shipments of camels as part of a trial-run to use the animals for desert transport. During the Civil War, Union troops took over the city twice. Indianola was the port of entry for German immigrants to other Texas towns you may have heard of: Fredericksburg and New Braunfels. Some of the first Lithuanian immigrants to the United States came through its port. Indianola was the gateway to West Texas and points beyond, both for settlers and the military.

historical marker on the road to Yorktown, Texas

Indianola was a busy place with a peak population of about 5,000. It was also easy prey for hurricanes despite what the locals thought:

"Small hurricanes or tropical storms they had experienced prior to 1875 convinced them they had seen the worst nature could deliver. That belief was changed by the hurricane of September 1875."

Sadly, that seems to be a recurring theme with coastal settlements. With hundreds dead and the town nearly leveled, Indianola rebuilt. Eleven years later, another hurricane took Indianola down for the last time:

"As the 1886 Indianola hurricane raged, this house collapsed in the wind and tidal surge. Mrs. Sheppard (her first name seems to be lost in the various histories of the house) died when her house came apart as did a friend’s two sons and two out-of-town visitors.

Henry Sheppard, Mrs. Sheppard’s 16-year-old son, floated away from the house clutching a piece of lumber. Seeing someone else in the water, he grabbed the person and later discovered it was his sister, Jennie."

The Bates-Sheppard house was gathered up, moved to Cuero and rebuilt. Survivors salvaged and moved what buildings they could and resettled in other communities. Indianola was abandoned by 1887. The Queen City of the West had lasted just 41 years.


I stayed across the street from the Bates-Sheppard house during my January visit. The ghost of Indianola seemed to be everywhere in Cuero: the Lutheran church founded by Indianolans, other Indianola buildings standing here and there. Indianola's demise also added to Galveston's fortune. As the main port city, Galveston thrived until it was nearly drowned fourteen years later by the hurricane of 1900.

St. Mark's Lutheran church in Cuero, founded by former Indianolans

Galveston is now a tourist town, cruise port and teaching center--UT has a medical school there--but after that hurricane and the loss of more than 6,000 Galveston residents, Houston became the major port city of Texas. Hurricanes Katrina and Rita reminded us recently that nature could take out Houston, too. Just look at New Orleans.

Some members of my church are planning a work trip to New Orleans later this month to help with the cleanup and rebuilding. It's been almost three years now since the storm moved through. There's still a lot to do.

I have very mixed feelings about the rebuilding efforts. On the one hand, I'm still horrified at the way New Orleans was left to rot, its poor residents to scatter. On the other hand, I have serious doubts that the city can ever be made safe enough to justify rebuilding. I know Holland, for instance, has awesome flood- and storm-control projects to protect its lowlands and some people have suggested that the same things could be done here. But we're not Holland. We don't have our national act together enough to do what they've done; we can't even keep our highway bridges up in the air.

So what do we do in New Orleans or anywhere that nature destroys our work? Do we bail at the first sign of trouble? Or do we keep on keeping on until nature settles the question for us and then leave with whatever memories and keepsakes we can manage?

It seems we keep on, in part because there's always a slim chance that there won't be another hurricane or eruption or earthquake or whatever--at least not in our lifetime--and in part because people attach to places they way they attach to each other: in deep and complicated ways.

Human nature is to try to make it work. Sometimes we get a reprieve. Galveston is still standing more than a century after its worst storm. Sometimes, though, we have to accept a loss and move on. Even though the place is gone, we carry what we can and try to remember, just as we would with an ancestor: This house stood in Indianola once. Let me tell you how we came to be here instead of there. It's part of our story.

Imponderables of the day

Rocketboy, coming downstairs from a room-cleaning frenzy:

"How did this bag get full of pure mold?"

Hurricanehead, out of the blue as we ran errands:

"How many innocent people have died?"

Mercifully, the first and second questions were completely unrelated. I'm still not sure how to answer either one.

Starting fresh with compost

my latest visitor

People have started confessing their compost failures to me. Not sure why. I'm no genius of rot and I like to think I don't proselytize. Maybe my grubby jeans confer the appearance of moral authority.

I'm surprised by how many people quit composting after one bad experience. That's no way to get anything done. If you don't want to compost I won't judge, but if you want to start or try again, here's my unsolicited composting advice. All you need is some dead stuff and a willingness to forgive yourself as you learn.

What to Expect When You're Composting

Begin with realistic expectations. A compost pile is a bunch of rotting dead things: grass clippings, salad greens, whatever. It's going to look funky sometimes and if things go badly it may stink for a while, but the same can be said of any of us. Be at least as forgiving of your compost pile as you are of your loved ones.

The second inescapable issue is that animals seek food and shelter, and your compost pile will offer both. Don't expect a pest-free experience. Remind yourself, as garden blogger George Weigel observes, that the critters are out there anyway. The difference with a compost pile is that you're more likely to see them because you'll be out there every day dumping in scraps. Over the years I've found everything in my bins from spiders and pill bugs to the occasional rat, snake and squirrel. So far they haven't injured or killed me.

The third issue is that compost rots down pretty small and can take a while to do so. It's unlikely that you'll make enough homegrown compost to take care of your whole garden or lawn. But it's a start.

The Perfect Spot to Rot

What you need varies depending on your climate, available space and pest issues, but the basics are a pile of dead stuff, fresh air, and enough water to keep the pile damp. If you live in a rainy area, keep the pile from getting soaked. In dry country, water it. As for a bin, start with something inexpensive and readily available. If it doesn't work you can move on to more expensive containers. You can even skip the container and pile stuff on the ground or bury it. You'll have to experiment. I did.

True Confessions: Stench and Critters

My first bin was a plastic trash can with holes drilled in the sides and lid. At the time I lived by a hayfield and didn't want field rats in the pile. There everything sat, cooped up in a hot, dark container until one summer day when Hombre and I decided to spread it on our sorry backyard soil.

The first sign of error was the coffee-brown liquid that poured from the can when we tipped it over. Suddenly our little plot smelled like the worst zoo in the world on the hottest day of the year. The solid matter that slid out next wasn't crumbly but slimy, and it smelled worse than the foul water. I spent about an hour hosing everything down, hoping to dissipate the stench, but the yard stank like a dirty barn until well into the next day. We kept the windows closed and stayed indoors to avoid any richly deserved stinkeye from our neighbors.

Lesson learned: Inadequate ventilation makes nasty compost. Even though we weren't watering the pile, the residual water in fruits and veggies pooled in the can and couldn't evaporate because of the lid and because I hadn't made enough air holes. Eventually I gave up on the trash-can method.

When I moved to half an acre near a creek, I went uptown and bought a plastic bin with lots of vents and a hinged lid. This would be ideal: no oozing zoo smell and no rats. I was right except for the rats. My plumber once told me that rats can chew through hard plastic, and after a few weeks I saw exactly what he meant. Rats, presumably from the creek, tore their way in by enlarging the vents with their teeth. Sheltered from the elements by the lid, one mama rat birthed a litter inside.

Lesson learned: An enclosed bin makes a nice den for nesting animals. I still have that bin, although it's not my favorite, and the rats (and flies) have moved on since I started keeping the lid and sliding vents open. I have to water the pile more often, but I can live with that.

If you live in a place with lots of rats (the middle of a city, say) or keep your bin very near your house, you might try a metal bin with lots of small vents and a good lid. Rats, it seems, can chew through metal, but a heavy-gauge bin might slow them down.

My best compost holder is a rusty old wire rabbit crate. Junk goes in the little door, and I flip the bin from one side to the other every few days to ensure even air circulation and expose the bugs under the bin to the scavenging beaks of my two chickens. Finished compost falls out through the mesh and I shovel it onto my garden beds. Easy. Yes, I water the bin every day or two and yes, squirrels steal the odd apple core. Better that than stealing my ripe strawberries.

Compost Care and Feeding

Here's what I put in my bins: rabbit, chicken and parakeet droppings; feathers; shredded newspaper; coffee grounds and filters; leftover coffee, tea and fruit juice; nutshells; cut hair and molted fur; crud vacuumed from our natural-fiber rugs; cotton dryer lint; banana peels and any food without meat, dairy or grease in it.

Some people toss in fish heads and other animal parts. It seems to work well, but I won't do it here because of our large and aggressive turkey-vulture population. I also leave out eggshells because my hens get in the bins and I don't them want eating their own moldy shells. I avoid white paper, dog waste, and anything synthetic.

I don't turn the pile in my plastic bin because it's too much work, but you'll have fewer spiders and snakes if you stir things up from time to time. I do let my chickens pick through and eat little critters. Some people never turn their compost and get perfectly good results. Do what works for you.

That's it. Stuff, air, water and whatever pest protection you need, along with the willingness to keep trying. If you have any compost tips or advice, please share. And if you get the urge to confess something, please make it racier than slimy compost.

cross-posted at Growers & Grocers

Caption this chicken

In belated honor of Mayday and other springtime-fertility holidays, I offer this short series of photos taken at the boys' art school. Caption at will, readers.

Five thousand words

Plus five more to describe my garden this week:

Cosmos

Passionflower

Texas betony

Winecup

Clematis

As always, clicking the images enlarges them. I highly recommend you try it on the passionflower blossom.