Did the people who decided what to do with this land know that the old Gravenstein apple tree they destroyed had produced the best tasting apples of any tree in the neighborhood? That in one year I had made eight gallons of cider and four gallons of applesauce from it? Did they know that that tree had once shaded a beehive from which I harvested twelve gallons of honey in one year? Did they know that the overgrown hedge they removed had once sheltered clouded salamanders and a California quail? That a sharp-shinned hawk had once caught a sparrow here? Did they think about the beauty of lilac bushes ten feet tall covered in huge purple blooms before they chopped them down? Would they have been surprised to hear that I saw twenty-five species of wild birds and five species of wild mammals living in this small city lot?
Did they know that before they turned the side yard into a parking lot, kids used to swing nets through the tall grass here and exclaim excitedly about the bugs that they caught? For this was the birthplace of Nearby Nature, the non-profit environmental education group that I started ten years ago. I put up a yurt under the pear tree that used to be here, and that was our classroom. We held many board meetings and mailing parties in my living room. At a meeting under the apple tree, my friend and I once persuaded a donor to give $10,000 to our new group.
But more than that, this place was my home and I loved it dearly. The many trees and bushes around my little house and yard made it a special place, separate and apart from the surrounding bread factory, bank drive-up teller, six lanes of Franklin Boulevard, and the university dorms. I am glad to see the large trees have been spared from the destruction, even though that means they must have torn down the house rather than move it, since they could not have gotten it out from between these three trees without cutting one down. Since the bread factory that owned it never did any maintenance, the demise of the house was inevitable. As a renter, I did what I could, but when I found a mushroom sprouting up out of the bathroom floor, I realized this old house needed way more work than I could give it. Before they tore it down, I hope they salvaged some of the old growth wood and the antique glass doorknobs.
The imprint of the foundation still shows in the squared off roots of one of the trees that grew too close. The other two trees grew close as well, thus they still define the space that was my house, just 25 feet by 25 feet. How small it looks now that the house is gone, and yet it was enough. I lived a full, rich life in that small space between the trees. But a big part of that fullness and richness came from what was outside the house. Like hearing a great horned owl hooting in the tree over the house and raccoons running on the roof. Or sitting on my bed soaking up the sun coming in my south-facing window and delighting in the daisies, dandelions, and grape hyacinths blooming in the lawn next door. Or taking my dog out to the dead-end alley and hitting tennis balls for her to retrieve. Or visiting my neighbor Mike and marveling at the wonderful organic garden he created out of a lawn. Or picking buckets full of these awesome orange plums that grew on a couple scraggly trees in the alley. That lawn, the alley, Mike's house and garden, and the plum trees have all been lost now to another university parking lot and a huge graduate student housing complex.
One day when I lived there, a man came to my door and marveled at how the cottonwood tree had grown. He said he had lived in this house for 13 years and wanted to see if it was still here. I could tell that he too had loved this place. Since I moved out six and a half years ago, I too have found myself drawn back by some inexplicable urge. Each time I returned, I saw changes in the neighboring university land, but my old house and yard has remained essentially intact until this latest visit. I am surprised that it lasted as long as it did. I used to have fantasies about staging a protest to protect this place. My fellow environmental activists would have laughed at me. In the big scheme of things, saving this place was not a battle worth fighting. But I also know that my home gave me energy that I used to fight the bigger battles for ancient forests, wetlands, and roadless areas. No one can have the energy to fight those battles for long unless they find a home ground that nourishes them and renews their ties with nature on a daily basis. I started Nearby Nature to help others find that home ground, as I had, in city parks. But seeing my old home destroyed has made me realize that parks are not enough. Private lands matter too. Neighborhoods matter.
Every day, all over our country, countless little places like this are destroyed. Places that people love. Places where wild animals live. Places full of memories. For the most part, the people who do the destruction and the people who live or work there afterwards never know what came before, what was destroyed. So I write this to bear witness to this place I loved so that others will know what was lost here. Maybe someday we can have land-use laws that respect the land as a living community and value the knowledge and wisdom that come from living on a piece of land for a long time. As it is now, the land-use laws here served only to save a few trees. The pending land-use decision described on the sign is whether or not to put up a cell phone tower here. An important decision, yes, but no more important than the decisions already made which destroyed my former home, so dear to my heart, with no opportunity for my voice to be heard.
Sharon Blick is a sound sleeper, otherwise she might not have loved this former home (affectionately known as the Bun House, because it was too small to be a whole loaf) owned by and adjacent to the biggest bread factory in Oregon (you can't call it a bakery), where huge flour trucks would arrive in the middle of the night and hook up to a big vacuum, then the drivers would pound the sides with a big rubber mallet to get the last bit of flour to come out.
�2002 Talking Leaves
Summer 2002
Volume 12, Number 2
Ecopsychology, Self and Place
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