A man is slowly renovating a small white house with peeling paint. I track the changes as I walk past in the mornings and the evenings. I trick myself into thinking I know The Guy a little from the outside: he is green (a no pulp mill sticker on the car); he cooks (veggies in the rocks, a lemon tree in the corner); he once Did Things Outdoors(kayaks stacked on the side fence, gathering spider webs). I construct a life for him from the bits and pieces that lie around his yard. What an odd and presumptuous thing to do, but I am a curtain-twitcher, a peerer over fences and through the cracks in curtains; I take an interest in the bits of life that are unwittingly available to me; I will grow into a very gossipy old woman.
This morning, I walked past the house half an hour later than usual, after a slow start from a bad night's sleep. The Guy stood at the kitchen window, washing a mug, with no shirt on. I saw his soft white belly. His things are ciphers, something to play with as I walk to the bus but the vulnerability of his flesh and his domesticity shot a shock of intimacy into my solar plexus. In a glimpse of the mundane I recognised The Guy as a person, and I saw that of course, of course, I did not know him at all.
How odd. I will remember that moment when I am 45, when I am 60, when I am 80 - I am sure of it. I will remember it for no good reason, and for some very good reason I will never put words to.
How odd, how odd, how odd.
Showing posts with label community. Show all posts
Showing posts with label community. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Friday, September 7, 2007
Being frugal in a time of abundance
Quite some time ago, the lovely Kez nominated me for a Frugal Subversive Award. I haven't really mentioned it due to one thing (illness) and another (previously mentioned project taking up loads of time and energy) but mainly because I've been pondering the meaning of 'frugal' and whether or not it applies to me. And I'm still not sure.
My much loved Roget's Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases puts 'frugal' in with economy, thrift, prudence, care, husbandry, good housewifery, savingness, keep within compass. The word suggests a respect of limits rather than a penny pinching love of money. Current Australian debt levels suggest there's not a lot of frugal in our lives, even when high house prices are accounted for. And the idea that we limit our choices out of respect for future generations or other species or people still seems embarassingly worthy to many. I think when people are frugal, they are swimming against the current.
It's an interesting phenomenon, this frugal cool I see on many of the blog sites I visit. I like it, I like reading about all the things people do in their home, and why they do them. But I've never really considered myself frugal. Heaven knows, almost all of the money I earned in my 20s went on booze and my back. More recently, Al and I have had to be careful with money: a mortgage, then a bigger mortgage, then a child, then a drop to one income, then another child, then structural problems with the house, have meant we've always been teetering on the brink of more money going out than coming in. We were very careful with money, and really worried, but I never stopped thinking, "I'll be okay". And sure enough, the happy intersection of a pay rise, a tax cut (but I'm still not voting for you, John), and paying off HECS and my supplement loan has meant our finances have turned a corner. We're very, very lucky.
I do lots of things that look like frugality: My clothes - and those of the Al and the girls - are mostly from op shops, as are my furniture and kitchen stuff. I grow our vegetables and we save a lot of money this way. We walk. But these are choices that reflect a whole set of preferences unrelated to saving money or respecting limits: I like bargains, I like gardening, I like to walk. Mostly, the things I do are the things I want to do. There are other reasons: I care about our health and the environment, and I come from a frugal home, but really, I find the things I do fun.
I am frugal but I am not poor.
A couple of days ago, while waiting for the bus, I looked into the window of a sophisticated clothing store and saw a really lovely shirt. I thought, "I'll go get that tomorrow afternoon". And I did. It cost a lot, it looks great on me. Buying it has been a treat - I'm not one to buy expensive clothes - but it won't break the bank, it won't even break the budget. Yesterday, I bought an imported home style magazine, it cost a lot of money. This is not something I often do - I usually borrow mags from the library - but it's pleasant to sit on the couch at the end of the week and mindlessly stare at beautiful things.
I am frugal and I am not poor.
One of my favourite books is called Nickel and Dimed, by Barbara Ehrenreich. In it, she works a series of working class jobs (waitress, cleaner, Walmart assistant) and tries to live on the wages she earns. What stayed with me is this: the financially sensible decisions, the things that save money, actually require an already existing set of resources, notably time, money and health. Leasing a house with a kitchen is a cheaper option than living in a hotel and eating take away, but it's an option that requires money for a deposit and time to find a place.
It's easy being frugal when it doesn't really count. I think of my vegetable garden: the seeds don't cost much compared to those bags of lettuce in the store, it's true, but if I added the constant inputs of organic material, the driving to get the free manure, and my time (if I charged out at my going rate), my home grown greensare actually pretty expensive. In my job I sit at a desk all day, thinking thoughts, bossing people around and writing. Coming home and getting into the garden is a nice change; things might be very different if I was standing on my feet at a check out, or lugging heavy loads. Wearing second hand clothes is easy enough when I know I can afford the flash ones; it was much harder to do so when I had no choice, when those clothes reflected my financial status rather than a lazy rainy Saturday morning trawling the opshops for bargains. In our society, if you are poor you are a loser or lazy, and it's hard to advertise that.
I am frugal because I am not poor.
******
After I strolled away from the sophisticated clothing store, I walked past the headlines outside the newsagent. The women's magazines were gleefully speculating on Owen Wilson, that Hollywood guy who may have tried to kill himself; imagine your pain as the entertainment of others (with exclusive pics!). The local newspaper reported on a woman who in desparation had left her autistic teenage son with health authorities and just walked out, unable to cope and getting no assistance; imagine such despair. At work I spoke to a mother whose child goes to Lucy's erstwhile child care centre. She's a refugee from Sudan, and she wants to bring her family over, the government is not so keen on the idea; imagine, imagine, imagine. By 7.25 am I felt very sad.
I think it's a world of abundance, sure, but there's a parsimony, an illiberality, a niggardliness, a stinginess, a shabbiness and a miserliness in our society when it comes to an active love and concern for others. We are, according to Roget's, stopping one hole in a sieve.
My much loved Roget's Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases puts 'frugal' in with economy, thrift, prudence, care, husbandry, good housewifery, savingness, keep within compass. The word suggests a respect of limits rather than a penny pinching love of money. Current Australian debt levels suggest there's not a lot of frugal in our lives, even when high house prices are accounted for. And the idea that we limit our choices out of respect for future generations or other species or people still seems embarassingly worthy to many. I think when people are frugal, they are swimming against the current.
It's an interesting phenomenon, this frugal cool I see on many of the blog sites I visit. I like it, I like reading about all the things people do in their home, and why they do them. But I've never really considered myself frugal. Heaven knows, almost all of the money I earned in my 20s went on booze and my back. More recently, Al and I have had to be careful with money: a mortgage, then a bigger mortgage, then a child, then a drop to one income, then another child, then structural problems with the house, have meant we've always been teetering on the brink of more money going out than coming in. We were very careful with money, and really worried, but I never stopped thinking, "I'll be okay". And sure enough, the happy intersection of a pay rise, a tax cut (but I'm still not voting for you, John), and paying off HECS and my supplement loan has meant our finances have turned a corner. We're very, very lucky.
I do lots of things that look like frugality: My clothes - and those of the Al and the girls - are mostly from op shops, as are my furniture and kitchen stuff. I grow our vegetables and we save a lot of money this way. We walk. But these are choices that reflect a whole set of preferences unrelated to saving money or respecting limits: I like bargains, I like gardening, I like to walk. Mostly, the things I do are the things I want to do. There are other reasons: I care about our health and the environment, and I come from a frugal home, but really, I find the things I do fun.
I am frugal but I am not poor.
A couple of days ago, while waiting for the bus, I looked into the window of a sophisticated clothing store and saw a really lovely shirt. I thought, "I'll go get that tomorrow afternoon". And I did. It cost a lot, it looks great on me. Buying it has been a treat - I'm not one to buy expensive clothes - but it won't break the bank, it won't even break the budget. Yesterday, I bought an imported home style magazine, it cost a lot of money. This is not something I often do - I usually borrow mags from the library - but it's pleasant to sit on the couch at the end of the week and mindlessly stare at beautiful things.
I am frugal and I am not poor.
One of my favourite books is called Nickel and Dimed, by Barbara Ehrenreich. In it, she works a series of working class jobs (waitress, cleaner, Walmart assistant) and tries to live on the wages she earns. What stayed with me is this: the financially sensible decisions, the things that save money, actually require an already existing set of resources, notably time, money and health. Leasing a house with a kitchen is a cheaper option than living in a hotel and eating take away, but it's an option that requires money for a deposit and time to find a place.
It's easy being frugal when it doesn't really count. I think of my vegetable garden: the seeds don't cost much compared to those bags of lettuce in the store, it's true, but if I added the constant inputs of organic material, the driving to get the free manure, and my time (if I charged out at my going rate), my home grown greensare actually pretty expensive. In my job I sit at a desk all day, thinking thoughts, bossing people around and writing. Coming home and getting into the garden is a nice change; things might be very different if I was standing on my feet at a check out, or lugging heavy loads. Wearing second hand clothes is easy enough when I know I can afford the flash ones; it was much harder to do so when I had no choice, when those clothes reflected my financial status rather than a lazy rainy Saturday morning trawling the opshops for bargains. In our society, if you are poor you are a loser or lazy, and it's hard to advertise that.
I am frugal because I am not poor.
******
After I strolled away from the sophisticated clothing store, I walked past the headlines outside the newsagent. The women's magazines were gleefully speculating on Owen Wilson, that Hollywood guy who may have tried to kill himself; imagine your pain as the entertainment of others (with exclusive pics!). The local newspaper reported on a woman who in desparation had left her autistic teenage son with health authorities and just walked out, unable to cope and getting no assistance; imagine such despair. At work I spoke to a mother whose child goes to Lucy's erstwhile child care centre. She's a refugee from Sudan, and she wants to bring her family over, the government is not so keen on the idea; imagine, imagine, imagine. By 7.25 am I felt very sad.
I think it's a world of abundance, sure, but there's a parsimony, an illiberality, a niggardliness, a stinginess, a shabbiness and a miserliness in our society when it comes to an active love and concern for others. We are, according to Roget's, stopping one hole in a sieve.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Traces
We live on the edge of a landslip zone. This is not nearly as dreadful as it sounds, it's really rather nice. Two minutes walk up the road (ten minutes if kids are in tow) lies 'the area', a space at the top of a hill with trees and birds, a view of the valley and many intriguing possibilites for kids and their parents. This is my escape, a place of quiet in which I stroll or stomp, depending on mood(iness). This is Lucy's playground, where she runs with her imagination alight, seeing koalas, staying in motels, being a monkey, getting shot by spiders - a lot of adventures are had in this small piece of suburban wilderness.
I had always assumed no houses had ever been built here, that engineering knowhow had predicted troubled and council planning had marked the area off as unsafe. But chatting to a neighbour, I heard that there were in fact once houses. The details are sketchy, something about a resovoir, a landslip and the ruination of plumbing. The plumbing - what a mundane source of disaster. I think about those people and wonder if the event was sudden, an explosion up through the sinks and toilets, a sudden rush out onto the street. Or perhaps they faced a slow realisation as the pipes blocked and blocked again, until finally it just wasn't worthwhile fixing the systems. Was the neighbourhood evacuated all at once? Did they cry or joke as they packed up their cars? Was there a small, still space inside, growing cold as they walked away from a home they had loved and a garden they had tended? Lives and landscape have changed dramatically up the road, and I only found out through a chance meeting with a chatty home owner who lives nearby.
When we collect kindling or pick flowers, when we throw sticks to the dog, we're standing in someone's old front yard. There's not a hint of the houses - no foundations, no stubbornly standing chimney stack - but gardens have left faint traces: the blackberries we pick in the summer, the pears and peaches and plums, this flowering quince,
these jonquils,
the yellow red hot pokers just up the way,
the old and remarkable oak.
It's the plants, not the structures, that remain to bear quiet witness to the joys and hurts, the plans and disappointments, that were part of this space not so very long ago. I would very much like the people who lived here to know that I love it very much, and am mindful that my peace of mind and my calm arises out of their loss. Thank you.
Of course, I also hear the council keeps testing in the hope the land stabilises so they can sell it off to be developed. I grit my teeth and roll my eyes at this news. What's so very wrong with space that is shambolic and green? The value of this hectare or so lies not in its potential for sub-division but in its offer of slowness and stillness and memory.
I had always assumed no houses had ever been built here, that engineering knowhow had predicted troubled and council planning had marked the area off as unsafe. But chatting to a neighbour, I heard that there were in fact once houses. The details are sketchy, something about a resovoir, a landslip and the ruination of plumbing. The plumbing - what a mundane source of disaster. I think about those people and wonder if the event was sudden, an explosion up through the sinks and toilets, a sudden rush out onto the street. Or perhaps they faced a slow realisation as the pipes blocked and blocked again, until finally it just wasn't worthwhile fixing the systems. Was the neighbourhood evacuated all at once? Did they cry or joke as they packed up their cars? Was there a small, still space inside, growing cold as they walked away from a home they had loved and a garden they had tended? Lives and landscape have changed dramatically up the road, and I only found out through a chance meeting with a chatty home owner who lives nearby.
When we collect kindling or pick flowers, when we throw sticks to the dog, we're standing in someone's old front yard. There's not a hint of the houses - no foundations, no stubbornly standing chimney stack - but gardens have left faint traces: the blackberries we pick in the summer, the pears and peaches and plums, this flowering quince,
these jonquils,
the yellow red hot pokers just up the way,
the old and remarkable oak.
It's the plants, not the structures, that remain to bear quiet witness to the joys and hurts, the plans and disappointments, that were part of this space not so very long ago. I would very much like the people who lived here to know that I love it very much, and am mindful that my peace of mind and my calm arises out of their loss. Thank you.
Of course, I also hear the council keeps testing in the hope the land stabilises so they can sell it off to be developed. I grit my teeth and roll my eyes at this news. What's so very wrong with space that is shambolic and green? The value of this hectare or so lies not in its potential for sub-division but in its offer of slowness and stillness and memory.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
The asparagus bed
Winter is a time of dreaming and planning for the glorious and productive summer that surely lies ahead. I browse the seed catalogues and make long lists of the two dozen tomato varieties I will pack into my backyard, the lettuces and beans that will make my family's meals- and our lives - a richer and more interesting experience. I measure the success of my summer garden in part by how well it matches the gardens of my mind.
Three winters ago I thought about planting an asparagus bed but three seasons seemed too long to wait for any real harvest. Two years ago I thought about planting an asparagus bed but three seasons seemed too long to wait for any real harvest. A year ago I thought about planting an asparagus bed but three seasons seemed too long to wait for any real harvest. And now I think I will plant an asparagus bed because this winter I could have had asparagus if I'd had the patience; three years is a long time to wait but it goes quickly, and the sooner it begins the sooner that wait is over.
When I was growing up, asparagus only existed in cans. My father's vegetable garden was productive but prosaic - all broad beans and silverbeet (both of which we children refused to eat). Growing asparagus seems rather exotic and very sophisticated, and like most vegetables, it is most remarkable when it is run from the garden to the pot. But asparagus has another, more symbolic meaningn my life: it's a commitment to place. Apparently, the crowns will produce for around fifteen years if treated with respect and a little care - when a gardener plants those crowns into the richly fertilised soil (lots of kitchen scraps, compost and manure and maybe some seaweed for my lot) they are in it for the long haul.
My neighbour, Norma, from across the road has an asparagus bed. It's one section in her highly disciplined yard where everything is in its place and even the poppies stand to attention down the drive. That bed has been there a while, and Norma has lived in her house even longer. I'm not sure, but I think she might have been born there. Her uncle built the house and ours as well, and he planted the flowering gum on our verge. Norma tells us our house was built -and our gum planted - in the mid-thirties. She says it has always been cold in the winter, the man before us didn't take care of the garden and had too many dogs, and before him the owners planted some ill-conceived natives (which we've had the expense of removing). Norma is worried about the boys who live in the house beside us - they park their muddy utes on the road and generally cheapen the tone of the neighbourhood (which is not that high falutin' to begin with, truth be told). Norma swaps information with the old lady two doors down from us who has lovely roses and feeds our cat on the sly, and she grumbles with the older woman on the side street about the annoyingly aggressive dog on the corner. Norma takes an interest in what's going on because this little stretch is her community; her asparagus bed is one little symbol of her part in this place, and the role of this place in her life.
So planting my asparagus bed is saying something. It's saying "I will stay". The act also commits me to take care of my land, because a garden only lasts as long as its owners care for it. And I think that in making a commitment to a house and garden, I'm making a commitment to my neighbourhood and the larger community in my own small way.
We live in an area that is being tarted up. You can track the progress house by house, street by street. It may be posher to describe the new paint jobs as gentrification but I think that's not quite the right word. Gentrification happened when the middle classes renovated their own aged properties in run down areas ("sweat equity" - such a sticky and hopeful kind of a phrase) and stayed at least a while before realising great gains on their capital investment. There were big debates on the social and economic inequities that can arise in these situations but I guess maybe people cared a little more about their particular place. In the streets surrounding my house it's a slightly different process: a lick of paint, a no nonsense kitchen and bathroom reno, occasionally another residence built on a parcel of land that was once the large and productive backyard, and then a quick asphalting of the space surrounding and ta da: a 'town house alternative' and a nice little rental earner.
I fully appreciate the need to make money, and property is a classic way of doing this. But it makes me kind of sad as well, in all sorts of different ways. For the moment, I'll stick to garden-related disappointments. Asphalt is eminently sensible and very symbolic. It makes a space tidy and it makes a comment about the time and effort that space is worth. We are all so busy, busy, busy. Our lives are lived outside of the home - there's little time for gardens and no time for the space and community around us. When I walk past a house with its new deep black covering, I feel that people are saying 'We don't really live here, we just stay now and then'. And heaven knows I'll never be one for block parties or chats over the back fence (example exchange:
Kris: I can't believe they sold next door. It's a young couple. What if they have a barking dog and all these builders who start work at 5 am?
Al: It could be really good. They could have little kids. Every new neighbour is a potential new friendship.
Kris: I was just thinking every new neighbour is a potential pain in the arse. That's where we're different, you and me.)
but I like the idea that we all care about and for the spaces we share, visually share if not legally, and want to protect the good and unique things about them. I feel 'low maintenance' says "I'm ugly and I don't care that you think so too".
These new garden-less homes also make me think of the status of renting in our society. Renting is insecure, with people inhabiting places only until the landlord decides it's time to make a killing on the place. Denying a garden denies the possibility that people want to stay put and invest in a place, it denies that people can be trusted to care for a place, it suggests that kids and pets are not welcome, or at least have no claim to a stimulating place of their own. I think in effect it rejects the notion that landlord and tenant could have a shared interest in caring not just for the structure but for the community in which it is located. In the end it reinforces the notion that renters are just passing through on their way to the more worthy tenure of home ownership, even as that endpoint slips out of the reach for so many people, or comes at a frighteningly high financial and emotional cost.
These are things I am saddened by. And that is why I'm planting an asparagus bed.
Three winters ago I thought about planting an asparagus bed but three seasons seemed too long to wait for any real harvest. Two years ago I thought about planting an asparagus bed but three seasons seemed too long to wait for any real harvest. A year ago I thought about planting an asparagus bed but three seasons seemed too long to wait for any real harvest. And now I think I will plant an asparagus bed because this winter I could have had asparagus if I'd had the patience; three years is a long time to wait but it goes quickly, and the sooner it begins the sooner that wait is over.
When I was growing up, asparagus only existed in cans. My father's vegetable garden was productive but prosaic - all broad beans and silverbeet (both of which we children refused to eat). Growing asparagus seems rather exotic and very sophisticated, and like most vegetables, it is most remarkable when it is run from the garden to the pot. But asparagus has another, more symbolic meaningn my life: it's a commitment to place. Apparently, the crowns will produce for around fifteen years if treated with respect and a little care - when a gardener plants those crowns into the richly fertilised soil (lots of kitchen scraps, compost and manure and maybe some seaweed for my lot) they are in it for the long haul.
My neighbour, Norma, from across the road has an asparagus bed. It's one section in her highly disciplined yard where everything is in its place and even the poppies stand to attention down the drive. That bed has been there a while, and Norma has lived in her house even longer. I'm not sure, but I think she might have been born there. Her uncle built the house and ours as well, and he planted the flowering gum on our verge. Norma tells us our house was built -and our gum planted - in the mid-thirties. She says it has always been cold in the winter, the man before us didn't take care of the garden and had too many dogs, and before him the owners planted some ill-conceived natives (which we've had the expense of removing). Norma is worried about the boys who live in the house beside us - they park their muddy utes on the road and generally cheapen the tone of the neighbourhood (which is not that high falutin' to begin with, truth be told). Norma swaps information with the old lady two doors down from us who has lovely roses and feeds our cat on the sly, and she grumbles with the older woman on the side street about the annoyingly aggressive dog on the corner. Norma takes an interest in what's going on because this little stretch is her community; her asparagus bed is one little symbol of her part in this place, and the role of this place in her life.
So planting my asparagus bed is saying something. It's saying "I will stay". The act also commits me to take care of my land, because a garden only lasts as long as its owners care for it. And I think that in making a commitment to a house and garden, I'm making a commitment to my neighbourhood and the larger community in my own small way.
We live in an area that is being tarted up. You can track the progress house by house, street by street. It may be posher to describe the new paint jobs as gentrification but I think that's not quite the right word. Gentrification happened when the middle classes renovated their own aged properties in run down areas ("sweat equity" - such a sticky and hopeful kind of a phrase) and stayed at least a while before realising great gains on their capital investment. There were big debates on the social and economic inequities that can arise in these situations but I guess maybe people cared a little more about their particular place. In the streets surrounding my house it's a slightly different process: a lick of paint, a no nonsense kitchen and bathroom reno, occasionally another residence built on a parcel of land that was once the large and productive backyard, and then a quick asphalting of the space surrounding and ta da: a 'town house alternative' and a nice little rental earner.
I fully appreciate the need to make money, and property is a classic way of doing this. But it makes me kind of sad as well, in all sorts of different ways. For the moment, I'll stick to garden-related disappointments. Asphalt is eminently sensible and very symbolic. It makes a space tidy and it makes a comment about the time and effort that space is worth. We are all so busy, busy, busy. Our lives are lived outside of the home - there's little time for gardens and no time for the space and community around us. When I walk past a house with its new deep black covering, I feel that people are saying 'We don't really live here, we just stay now and then'. And heaven knows I'll never be one for block parties or chats over the back fence (example exchange:
Kris: I can't believe they sold next door. It's a young couple. What if they have a barking dog and all these builders who start work at 5 am?
Al: It could be really good. They could have little kids. Every new neighbour is a potential new friendship.
Kris: I was just thinking every new neighbour is a potential pain in the arse. That's where we're different, you and me.)
but I like the idea that we all care about and for the spaces we share, visually share if not legally, and want to protect the good and unique things about them. I feel 'low maintenance' says "I'm ugly and I don't care that you think so too".
These new garden-less homes also make me think of the status of renting in our society. Renting is insecure, with people inhabiting places only until the landlord decides it's time to make a killing on the place. Denying a garden denies the possibility that people want to stay put and invest in a place, it denies that people can be trusted to care for a place, it suggests that kids and pets are not welcome, or at least have no claim to a stimulating place of their own. I think in effect it rejects the notion that landlord and tenant could have a shared interest in caring not just for the structure but for the community in which it is located. In the end it reinforces the notion that renters are just passing through on their way to the more worthy tenure of home ownership, even as that endpoint slips out of the reach for so many people, or comes at a frighteningly high financial and emotional cost.
These are things I am saddened by. And that is why I'm planting an asparagus bed.
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