Siesta Lane Read online

  Endangered Species1

  Sometimes I feel a diminishing

  as if part of me were being erased

  and I wonder what in human nature

  will disappear the moment copper

  no longer singes the coat

  of the grizzly wading old growth

  when the pelican never again

  trowels the clouds

  above the spray and barnacled back

  of the blue whale surfacing into sky

  like a ferruginous hawk rising

  from the sinews of its prey

  spiralled amid the crystal quiver

  of prairie grass

  where a silverspot butterfly

  places its final tear of bubbling larva

  while the last salmon flashes upstream

  jostled by jets of sperm

  past the cut-throat trout

  sashaying in rock shadow

  beyond where the mariposa lily

  folds its petals forever

  as the lone western pond turtle

  drags its humped knees

  to the frog-loud, lotus-speckled

  oxbow pond that has not yet

  been filled for a parking lot

  where you will leave your car

  hurry to your office sliced by anxiety

  that you have lost something,

  but you are not sure what.

  Siesta Lane

  A Cabin, No Running Water, and a Year Living Green

  Amy Minato

  The places, people, groups, and events in this story are real,

  although filtered through the author’s gymnastic imagination.

  Names have been changed to protect the shy.

  Copyright © 2009 by Amy Minato

  Illustrations © 2009 by Jan Muir

  Photographs © 2009 by Beth Stein

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 555 Eighth Avenue, Suite 903, New York, NY 10018.

  Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 555 Eighth Avenue, Suite 903, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Minato, Amy.

  Siesta lane: one cabin, no running water, and a year living

  green/Amy Minato; illustrations by Jan Muir. p. cm.

  9781602393288

  1. Communal living—Oregon—Case studies. 2. Country life—Oregon—Case studies. 3. Minato, Amy. I. Title.

  HX655.O7M56 2009

  307.77’4092—dc22

  [B]

  2008029537

  Designed by LeAnna Weller Smith

  Printed in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  Endangered Species

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Introduction - Northwestward Bound

  Sojourn

  The Search

  Rainbow’s End

  Migration

  Entrance

  Community

  Incubation

  Freaks

  Writing

  The Garden

  Gratitude

  Mortality

  Circulation

  Altar

  Sustenance

  Making a Living

  Devotions

  Accessibility

  Perspective

  Fire

  Perception

  Alliance

  Immigrants

  Earth

  Symbiosis

  Choices

  Rain

  Sustainability

  Limits

  Sharing

  Food

  Snails

  Cravings

  Survival

  Compensation

  Dread

  Beauty

  Motion

  Homemade

  The Bath

  Sociality

  Cold

  Sun

  Hibernation

  Sweat

  Compassion

  Tenacity

  Wanderlust

  Resonance

  Dance

  Silence

  Fecundity

  Fear

  Darkness

  Spring

  Gatherers

  Acuity

  Wind

  Reciprocity

  Simplicity

  Mud

  Loyalties

  Resourcefulness

  Trespass

  Rot

  Reverence

  Appreciation

  The Goat’s Eye

  The Slough

  Reckoning

  Respect

  Song

  Niche

  Succession

  Courtship

  Nomads

  Leavetaking

  Beyond Siesta Lane

  Acknowledgments

  To my dearest

  Joe, Mateo,

  and

  Ruby Lou

  Introduction

  Northwestward Bound

  It came to me during a Chicago traffic jam, trapped in a metal oven, a popsicle gooeyed onto my sweaty thigh, the guy in the next car cussing through his cigar. I gazed through steaming sunglasses at this muscular city buried in concrete, its veins plugged with cars, and felt my life constrict like a capillary

  Now, I love this city with its fashion parade of architecture, the gruff but generous people, Lake Michigan with her necklace of public beaches. Yet every spring migrating birds confuse reflections of clouds and trees with real nature and collide against skyscraper glass. I imagined flocks of warblers, sparrows, thrushes struggling through the pollution above my windshield, disoriented, smashing against panes—stunned or dead. In my mind’s eye I was a migrating bird—swerving across the freeway’s metallic seascape amid plumes of smog trying to discern truth from illusion.

  There were warning signs even then about greenhouse gases and climate change. Higher temperatures shrink ice caps, increasing water surfaces that absorb more heat, producing higher temperatures that raise sea levels in an accelerating cycle. I thought about all the people living on coastlines, holding their breath. About the planet poised in this crisis like a glass of water about to tip. While surrounding me at just this one moment on just one day in just one of hundreds of cities on earth, thousands of vehicles were spewing toxins into the air like grey cotton candy.

  My fellow drivers began a crescendo of honking not unlike a cricket chorus or the alarms sounds of small birds when a hawk circles like a call to action. What is the ethical response to knowing that my lifestyle threatens the health of our planet and our species’ survival? Could living simpler make a difference to the future? To my sanity? In an age of dwindling resources, maybe we’ll all have to downsize anyway, so it could be empowering to try it voluntarily.

  At that moment I began a journey against the consumptive current—to seek my own refuge from which to ponder this dilemma, to heal some of my longing for wildness. I would find a place where cougars roam and a few clean rivers still carve their own channels.

  Wasn’t Oregon at the heart of the sustainability movement? Organic food. Green culture. Big trees. Mountains. Loud honks and “Whatya waitin’ for, lady? The Cubs to win the pennant?” broke my reverie, but I began, in my mind, packing to go West.

&
nbsp; Sojourn

  Two years later I’m 30,000 feet up, cradling a copy of Walden, on my way to graduate school in creative writing in Eugene, Oregon. The aircraft I’m riding in takes its form from nature, but the amount of fuel it uses makes flying one of the least sustainable modes of travel to begin my more sustainable life. It’s my first step on a tremulous tightrope toward my goal, from which I will slip, regain balance, slip again. Not so simple—simple living. I console myself by figuring that, if all works out, I won’t need a return ticket.

  Clouds mingle like party guests, like my own fears, as we cross the Great Plains. The land below has been denuded, sliced into jigsaw pieces of various shades of brown. I search for the topsoil—the moist, rich, black soil on which most terrestrial life depends. What I see is a barren landscape. The occasional rivers pinch the land like metal strips. A few yellow trees line their banks. Why are they yellow, I wonder. Cottonwoods growing near water? Or poison from a city upstream?

  But it may just be that the inner West is a thirsty place. Too often pioneers that settled a claim in a fluke wet year were scraping at dry soil when the regular climate swung back at them like a scythe. Would I suffer a similar fate? What realities might dessicate my dream? Each tilt of the plane swung a pendulum between my pragmatic and quixotic natures. Finally, the mountains come into view—large, resting mammals. Bald patches from clear-cuts scar their sides.

  The stewardess reminds us that the movie is starting. City Slickers, about three men who leave New York to vacation at a dude ranch. She tells us to close our window shades to better see the picture. When we imagine the American West, it will be a movie of the frontier we see, film taken of the same virgin area again and again. Close-ups of a few sagebrush. Buffalo brought in for effect.

  Not the real story out the window.

  We land in mist-wrapped Seattle and I board a train to Eugene that stitches through the Willamette Valley—the end of the Oregon Trail—with its volcano-enriched soil, soggy logging towns, and the roil and murmur of grey-blue rivers. Dogwood blossoms peer in. Douglas firs press green cheeks against the glass. I rock along with the wheels winching on the tracks, catching glimpses of strangers across the red seats. Who are they? Are any of them traveling into a new life? Are they gathering their courage as well?

  The Search

  Neighbors stare at me blaring blues from the porch of my garagetop studio apartment. Homesick one night, in this new age Mecca with its hippie roots, I sip whisky, fiddle with a cigar and choke down steak in a gesture of loyalty to Chicago, never mind that I did none of those things there. It helps with the lonelies.

  Soon enough I am a yoga-practicing, tai chi, chai tea vegetarian eating tofu on my futon. I finish grad school, dive into a medley of work and social causes, travel, and swear allegiance to a motley crew of buddies. But though a hip college town, Eugene is still a city where buildings obscure land. My soul pinches and pinches at me until I search the classifieds for a way to live more rural and find two possibilities.

  “Rustic cabin on creek near wildlife refuge,” says the first rental ad. I bribe my New York professor writer friends, Sophia and Gabriel, recent University of Oregon recruits, who claim my siblings pay them to look out for me, to come along and provide levity. While, after eight years, I find Eugene too urban, they struggle with it as a backwater and agree to join me because the idea of living more rural than 100,000 people both intrigues and alarms them.” Won’t you be freaked?” “What about restaurants?” “There aren’t even taxis!” After a long drive on a tire-eating road, we arrive at a farmhouse with shells of trucks in the yard. A large woman holding a bowl the size of a tire dumps its mountain of food scraps into a chicken coop on her way from a rickety porch to our car “Hey, there!” She wipes a hand on overalls mottled with dog and extends it to me. “I’m Pat. Come in for some coffee.”

  “Actually, we just have time to see the cabin, if that’s okay, but thanks,” Gabriel replies, gawking at a large bull in the unfenced yard

  Pat shakes her head, sighs, but smiles at us, “City folk, always in a rush.”

  We walk a narrow trail through dense vegetation to what can only be called a shack with broken windows. “Rustic,” in this situation, translates to “fire hazard.”

  “It’s real cool in summer,” Pat offers.

  “I bet,” Sophia agrees, with a sudden desire, I imagine, to be stirring an Italian soda with a tiny straw in an upscale Manhattan café.

  Inside the place is bare and dusty but “not without potential,” I convince myself, thinking a good sweep could do wonders. “Let’s see the creek,” I declare. Pat leads the way.

  We hack our way to a tiny ditch where newly hatched mosquitoes swirl above the few wet spots.

  “This is high water season. It’ll dry up in summer, when the rain stops.” Pat says, her boots deep in muck.

  Sophia untangles her sweater from a blackberry bush and Gabriel begins walking back.

  I, however, am not yet willing to give up my dream of living closer to nature. I know there will be challenges.

  “How did the windows get broken?”

  “Well,” Pat chuckles, “I figure the bear did it.”

  “The bear.” Gabriel’s dark brows dance a tango.

  “Yeah. The last renter used to feed this bear right from the cabin. So now the bear thinks she has rights to it. She breaks in every now and then.”

  We reach the shack, “You can see the claw marks here on the wall.”

  Sophia bolts and Gabriel pulls me by my jacket sleeve. They both call: “Goodbye Pat, thank you.”

  “No need to be scared,” Pat assures us. “Bears don’t bother with people; they go after your food. So are you interested in the cabin?”

  “I’m looking at several places today. I’ll let you know,” I say hopefully.

  “Amy, you’re not living there,” Sophia states when we get back to the car. This coming from Sophia, the world’s most gracious and lovely woman, gives me pause.

  “It could be interesting,” I argue tentatively.

  “Living under a bridge on the Jersey turnpike could be interesting,” Gabriel adds, gripping the steering wheel as we negotiate ruts the size of Idaho.

  In my mind, fear and intrigue battle. I like black bears, hypothetically, their sharp intelligence and long-term memory, their human-sounding voices. I’m especially intrigued by their ability to sleep for months, and I know that they virtually never harm humans, even though we are the main cause of death for them. How fascinating it might be to study a black bear up close! But the reality of one so bold near where I would be living raises the hair on my skin. Maybe wild nature is too alien for this Midwest gal. Maybe I fall short of what my dream requires?

  Sophia and Gabriel cheer me with tales about the munching deer outside their first place in Eugene that frightened them into a twelfth floor apartment. Gabriel claims that a crazed squirrel terrorized him into keeping the shades drawn and Sophia confesses that animal noises at her last writing retreat in the woods chased her home early. I confess to being scared of rats. This leads to a litany of horrific animal anecdotes: snakes coming up through toilets, raccoons taking over woodsheds, leeches sneaking inside swimsuits.

  Finally, we reach the paved road and have exhausted our animal attack stories. I promise not to move into the bear cabin and everyone relaxes. Frost pulls her skirts from the fields and birds hail us from fence posts. The sky is a splendid blue.

  Rainbow’s End

  After winding past posh homes and horse pastures through aptly named Rainbow Valley, we follow a long driveway off Siesta Lane to the second potential rental nestled on a hill among oaks. A “Come On In” sign welcomes us into a tall, bright house where large windows look out across a meadow toward the Coast Range. The woodstove warms the bright kitchen. Big, colorful pillows edge the living room. Three people in Chilean sweaters are eating egg frittatas and reading last Sunday’s New York Times around a large wooden table. Daffodils in a vase open their dog f
aces and give off puffs of yellow scent.

  We chat awhile with the brunch-eaters, Mick, Luke, and Raul, who share their delicious coffee with us, ask our stories, and tell us about themselves. “What’s the deal with this place?” Gabriel asks, cutting the egg frittata into triangles on his plate. “Who pays for what?”

  “It’s terrifically economical. We split electricity, phone, and water bills eight ways, share basic equipment, use wood heat in timber country, and even grow some of our own food. But it’s more work, too.” Mick suggests, pouring more coffee into a chipped but handmade purple mug with leaf imprints. “We write messages, problems, and solutions in a big journal called the Red Book. Then we spin a circular list of household jobs called the Wheel of Fortune to see what chores each person is assigned to do for that week.”

  Raul shifts in his chair. “If you mess up on your chores,” he raps his plate with a knife, “Mick whips you with native beargrass. That reminds me ... ” and Raul’s off, clutching a broom with Luke following, pushing up his thick glasses, slipping on boots, still reading the Art Section.

  Gabriel looks at me and shakes his head. “Sounds right up your alley, kiddo, and in line with your finances.” Then he settles in to read the Book Review; Sophia browses the library. A goldfinch bobs through the air and plops on an oak branch beside the window.

  I will later learn the basic history of the place: Sixteen years earlier Rainbow Valley, with its clay-dense soil and hard water, was home to poor farmers, trashed buildings, and rusty trucks. For $22,000, Quin Wilson bought these eight acres and built this house and a couple of the cabins for himself and his wife. Then his marriage fell apart and he rented the cabins out.

  Using salvaged wood from his construction company, he built one cabin or yurt after another and rented them to friends, imagining a new kind of community. People came to the main house to cook and use the bathroom. That ensured social interaction. But the cabins, spaced apart with trees between, were built for privacy.

  At one point there were seventeen folks here, mostly kids with single parents and eccentrics who finally found a sense of family. The original idea was that folks would pay rent toward owning the place and it would become a true cooperative, but that didn’t work out. People would couple up and move off, wanting to nest. Quin lived here for thirteen years until that happened to him. Also, his children had become busy high-school athletes and the commute to town became tedious.