I’m about to get my first real job, meaning my first job post-college that isn’t a “stipended internship.” It’s exciting, because it means I’ll be able to pay off my school loans faster and save more money, and I’ve been able to make some financial commitments, like joining a CSA and a car share program, that I’ve been wanting to for awhile. Oh, and now I have some actual change left over for the occasional book or movie or weekend away (as opposed to spending money I really shouldn’t be spending).
I’m also thinking of getting a Roth IRA – one of those fancy bundles of stocks and other investments that helps you build money for retirement – with an ethical investment company. The starting monthly amount is really low and really doable, and I’m actually kind of excited about it.
Even though I’m like forty years away from retirement. At 65 at the absolute latest, I’d like the option of not working full time anymore. I hope to be one of the spry old ladies who’s always up to something and never really retires, but I want to have resources there just in case.
But I’ve been laughing at my self the last couple days, like how I used to laugh at MBA-headed kids in college who talked about investments. And there’s this voice in my head that’s saying “You make no money! You work for a nonprofit! Ethical investing makes no money! You’re 24! Retirement?!”
Basically, while starting to save for retirement at this age is very prudent, I feel a little like a loser for doing it. Not sure why.
And then there’s this deeper and more earnest voice that says: “Is the world going to look anything like it does now in 40 years?”
Like, is the United States going to exist? What is the collapse of the oil economy going to do to us all? Am I throwing my money away by putting it in an IRA?
Maybe I’ve seen too many sci-fi movies, but somehow this conscious step towards adulthood feels a lot more loaded than deciding to get serious about flossing. It assumes some kind of future that I’m not sure I believe in at all.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Overture for a new urban gardener
I grew up in the weedy suburbs, the child and grandchild of serious and savvy gardeners. Late in high school I got really interested in open pollinated vegetable varieties and sustainable agriculture, which lead to an interest in local food and working on a small organic farm one summer during college (lefty tendencies and an inclination to find radical alternatives helped this progression). Gardening continues to be both a potent metaphor and a loved practice for me. It explains a lot – A LOT – about how I understand my role in the world.
Teasing out abundance, and beautifying space, is also something I really enjoy. Suburban gardening worked pretty well for me, despite my disinclination to weed. But one of my first days on the farm, looking at the vast expanse of Field Three, I knew in my bones I could not be a farmer. I love farms, want them to exist, want them to be sustainable and viable, and want to visit, but even small ones are just too big for me and a hoe. I get overwhelmed.
I think I knew then that I was meant to be an urban gardener. But it would be over a year before I moved to the city, and post-college mobility and a general hesitance to put down roots, as well as a cat that nibbles on leafy greens, kept me from gardening for awhile.
But now the cat is leaving, and when I determined that I was staying in this apartment with a south facing front porch and yard, I decided it was time. Almost mid-June and well past the reasonable time to put plants in the ground, but time.
So I spent last week collecting plants from various venders in Reading Terminal Market. A flat of tomato plants and some basil came from the florist, and more tomatoes, a pepper plant, and herbs came from an Amish vendor. I ordered a seaweed-based organic fertilizer from Neptune’s Harvest, and bought flowerpots from the thrift store and Ikea. (Aside: on what planet does it make sense to make flowerpots with no drainage holes?)
But I needed dirt. A lot of dirt. A lot of good dirt.
The landlord maintains the front lawn, but there’s a bare patch by the porch that was clearly once a flowerbed that I had my eyes on. I suspected that it would be pretty hard backed and not very rich, and I needed dirt for potted plants too.
Now, you can get free compost soil, mulch and wood chips at the Fairmount Park Recycling Center. This is not a very well advertised service, and its only open on weekdays from 7:30 am – 3:00 pm, but it exists. Getting there would be inconvenient, and I considered trying to get a big bag of something from a box store, but most of that is chock full of Miracle Grow. And at Fairmount Park it’s free, and you can have as much as you want.
So on Friday I took the day off from work, got a hybrid car from Philly Car Share, and drove up there, congratulating myself the whole way. Hybrid car! Free recycled compost! Day off from work!
The recycling center was easy to find, just off the road through some trees, and the first thing I saw when I pulled in was a glistening pile of beautiful dark soil. People had clearly been working at one side of it, and several cars were backed up to the edge as people shoveled dirt into buckets, bags and trunks. I pulled in, parked, and signed in (which they yell at you to do if you forget.)
And then I noticed that the pile of soil was flecked through with trash. Lots of trash, sparkling like feldspar or mica.
I read somewhere that the compost comes from leaf collection in the city, so it makes sense that food wrappers and ever-present plastic bags get sucked or raked up along with the leaves. When I got closer everything looked pretty well shredded, so they must process it all before letting it bake and break down. Smart city, I thought. Even smarter for making me “sign in” on a release-of-liability form.
Not to be deterred, I got out my shovel and container, and tried to work around the trash.
It was hard to stop shoveling – I wanted to take lots. Is it weird to get that excited about dirt? Maybe, but I think its weird that good soil feels so scarce in the city. The only thing that stopped me was the thought of having to lug it back to the car, and then out of the car once I got home. I vowed to come back with helpers.
Digging in the bed later on, I found that it was looser and sandier than I expected. I also dug up some old bulbs, evidence that it for sure have been a flowerbed. I found a battery, various bits of plastic and paper, a rusty old nail, and the skull of a small animal, probably a mouse or a vole. All around me the city kept going, cars and trolleys and people on their way to work. I wouldn’t call it peaceful or relaxing, and it felt both as good and different than any other kinds of gardening I’ve done.
Living in the city has made me think about and appreciate micro environments: the benches next to the fountain when the wind is blowing, the tree that spreads its branches outside a bay window, the garden down the alley that is cool where you can’t hear the street. Small spaces markedly different from the spaces next to them. It amazes me that such different spaces that can exist side by side, pushed up against one another.
And it amazes me how exposed my garden feels, and how I'm not really bothered by that.
Teasing out abundance, and beautifying space, is also something I really enjoy. Suburban gardening worked pretty well for me, despite my disinclination to weed. But one of my first days on the farm, looking at the vast expanse of Field Three, I knew in my bones I could not be a farmer. I love farms, want them to exist, want them to be sustainable and viable, and want to visit, but even small ones are just too big for me and a hoe. I get overwhelmed.
I think I knew then that I was meant to be an urban gardener. But it would be over a year before I moved to the city, and post-college mobility and a general hesitance to put down roots, as well as a cat that nibbles on leafy greens, kept me from gardening for awhile.
But now the cat is leaving, and when I determined that I was staying in this apartment with a south facing front porch and yard, I decided it was time. Almost mid-June and well past the reasonable time to put plants in the ground, but time.
So I spent last week collecting plants from various venders in Reading Terminal Market. A flat of tomato plants and some basil came from the florist, and more tomatoes, a pepper plant, and herbs came from an Amish vendor. I ordered a seaweed-based organic fertilizer from Neptune’s Harvest, and bought flowerpots from the thrift store and Ikea. (Aside: on what planet does it make sense to make flowerpots with no drainage holes?)
But I needed dirt. A lot of dirt. A lot of good dirt.
The landlord maintains the front lawn, but there’s a bare patch by the porch that was clearly once a flowerbed that I had my eyes on. I suspected that it would be pretty hard backed and not very rich, and I needed dirt for potted plants too.
Now, you can get free compost soil, mulch and wood chips at the Fairmount Park Recycling Center. This is not a very well advertised service, and its only open on weekdays from 7:30 am – 3:00 pm, but it exists. Getting there would be inconvenient, and I considered trying to get a big bag of something from a box store, but most of that is chock full of Miracle Grow. And at Fairmount Park it’s free, and you can have as much as you want.
So on Friday I took the day off from work, got a hybrid car from Philly Car Share, and drove up there, congratulating myself the whole way. Hybrid car! Free recycled compost! Day off from work!
The recycling center was easy to find, just off the road through some trees, and the first thing I saw when I pulled in was a glistening pile of beautiful dark soil. People had clearly been working at one side of it, and several cars were backed up to the edge as people shoveled dirt into buckets, bags and trunks. I pulled in, parked, and signed in (which they yell at you to do if you forget.)
And then I noticed that the pile of soil was flecked through with trash. Lots of trash, sparkling like feldspar or mica.
I read somewhere that the compost comes from leaf collection in the city, so it makes sense that food wrappers and ever-present plastic bags get sucked or raked up along with the leaves. When I got closer everything looked pretty well shredded, so they must process it all before letting it bake and break down. Smart city, I thought. Even smarter for making me “sign in” on a release-of-liability form.
Not to be deterred, I got out my shovel and container, and tried to work around the trash.
It was hard to stop shoveling – I wanted to take lots. Is it weird to get that excited about dirt? Maybe, but I think its weird that good soil feels so scarce in the city. The only thing that stopped me was the thought of having to lug it back to the car, and then out of the car once I got home. I vowed to come back with helpers.
Digging in the bed later on, I found that it was looser and sandier than I expected. I also dug up some old bulbs, evidence that it for sure have been a flowerbed. I found a battery, various bits of plastic and paper, a rusty old nail, and the skull of a small animal, probably a mouse or a vole. All around me the city kept going, cars and trolleys and people on their way to work. I wouldn’t call it peaceful or relaxing, and it felt both as good and different than any other kinds of gardening I’ve done.
Living in the city has made me think about and appreciate micro environments: the benches next to the fountain when the wind is blowing, the tree that spreads its branches outside a bay window, the garden down the alley that is cool where you can’t hear the street. Small spaces markedly different from the spaces next to them. It amazes me that such different spaces that can exist side by side, pushed up against one another.
And it amazes me how exposed my garden feels, and how I'm not really bothered by that.
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