demolition

10:42


13:08


18:56

I woke up yesterday morning to a terrible noise, looked out the window, and saw this gigantic claw-craned bulldozer tearing down a house—fortunately, unlike in the case of Arthur Dent, this house wasn't mine, and I didn't have lie in front of any bulldozer. (Unfortunately, however, none of my friends, so far as I know, have mastered intergalactic hitchhiking.)

Like several other houses on the street, this one was fire-damaged and derelict. David said it might have been worth saving, if it had at least sported a roof. It has, however, endured the summer rains and winter snows of several seasons and was, without question, beyond salvation.

The new mayor has upped the priority and pace of demolition—in this city houses go derelict faster than the city can demolish them. We knew this house was on the demolition list. We were apprised that we would come home one day and it wouldn't be there anymore. That day was yesterday.

Surprisingly the demolition crew was just a single person, armed with this hydraulic claw-scooper. He'd take a few scoops out of the wrecked house, then climb down and spray off the building with a fire hose to keep down the dust, then a few more scoops, a little more water, and so on, while the neighbors watched on, drinking iced tea on their porches. I could only imagine he held a clipboard titled "houses to demolish today." One hopes he checks the addresses more carefully than the postal service letter carriers.

By contrast, three of the other derelict houses on the street have been saved by the Davids, who lease two houses to Ant Hill Co-op. I am amazed they have the patience to do it: begging houses off the demolition list, gaining title from the City for a couple thousand dollars a piece, and then slowly rehabilitating them, each demanding something like a year of renovation. And the renovation, too, is accomplished with materials similarly scrounged.

burning man on the cheap

While biking yesterday we came across a training center for Monroe County firefighters, featuring in addition to the standard concrete tower, several aircraft mockups and a railroad tank car. It would be amusing to go spectate when they set these things ablaze.

harvest moon

Summer is over now and the harvest looms. The maple trees are loaded with their autogyro seedpods, prodigious progeny in helicopter form. For now they are holding back, restraining the deluge under laden limbs. The apple trees offer up their abundance, too, rosy orbs of summer sweetness, saved. Pictured: peaches.

Music and Story night at Ant Hill Co-op

On the one year anniversary of our first new-member orientation dinner we held Music and Story night at the Ant Hill Co-op. The event was very much a success—we went around and told stories or sang songs and I think everybody liked it so much maybe this longstanding Berkeley co-op tradition will take hold here too. Pictured: our living room with the newly refinished floor, and guests on pillows.

What are your favorite music and story night memories? Mine is of zestyping with his incredible act at one Wilde House night. Here and now, I liked Jon's song about raindrops and Burt's story about India and mixed-up call numbers. I told the story of how I got involved in co-ops, and how everything comes full circle.

scottsville by bicycle

One of my favorite memories from Sweden is of biking to Malmö, and, for that matter, my other bicycle adventures in the springtime, when I'd venture out in some random direction on my dilapidated old bicycle that I'd bought for $25. The town of Lund would suddenly fall away and I'd be out in the fields amongst the windmills and farm roads and all the mysteries you can find in such places. When I tired, I'd find a train station and take the dear little Pågåtåg train home again. The trip to Malmö was one of the best. I stopped at a cute cafe out in the farmland for a delicious breakfast of pytt i panna—a hash of ham and potatoes. Since then I've pined for similar quests on a similar motif, featuring a bicycle ride to unknown villages followed by hearty food in a cozy place, and, if possible, return, exhausted, by train.

Yesterday Jones (joneshead) burst into the dining room at the co-op, raised his eyebrows, and asked, "bikeride?" Soon he and Bree and I were on bikes on the Genesee River Trail, which leads from our backyard to points south. Cloaked in the jungle of summer, the trail generously avoids urbanization wherever possible. An extinct railway was pulled up to make it. New York's conveyances fall into corridors, with highways replacing railways replacing canals. Here a bike path replaces a railroad replaces the even-more-extinct Genessee Valley Canal, which lead south towards Pennsylvania. At the city limit the trail diverges from the roads and plies through farmland, riding the railroad grade like a chariot.

Ten miles of corn stalks, beanfields, and intermittent wildness smiled past. We emerged in the town of Scottsville, where we sauntered down Main Street to the Scottsville Diner, where we dined on haddock sandwiches and ice cream.

a pesto fortune

At the Public Market this morning. Apparently basil is in season!


The orchard riches are categorized and compartmentalized: in other words, tamed.

cabbage with dewdrops

Cabbage with dewdrops, Peacework Organic Farm.

CSA Farm Shift

Peacework Organic Farm. Newark, NY.

Our co-op participates in the Genesee Valley Community Supported Agriculture (CSA). And by "participates," I mean that we have gone every week to pick up our farm share (a brown paper bag full of vegetables and greens), and we have paid our fees, sometimes even on time. But on Saturday it was time for our farm shift, our day of working on the farm.

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