Windpower

Golden Weather Forecast
Originally uploaded by cresk

The wind blows fairly regularly and steadily in Yakima; in fact, Jack and I built a privacy fence and wind break along our back deck where we installed a hot tub.  THen we could enjoy the sun without getting blown away. Traveling between Yakima and Spokane on I-90, we’d  see wind machines near Ellensburg. The constant turning is mesmerizing and brougt me a feeling of hope. Any region close to the ocean or mountains has an abundance of wind that can be harnessed. So much energy in the weather, why not use it? Here is an informative site that will give you links and let you know what is happening with this fuel rich technology: http://www1.eere.energy.gov/windandhydro/ 

In Yakima, we didn’t harness the wind, but we considered solar power.  We’d read some books on lining the roof with black hoses, running water through them for out door showers, or indoor if the plumbing were set up correctly.  Jack was handy, he could have done something like that.  He did rig up pipes to fire up the hottub with wood.  It worked okay, but used too much wood.  We switched to propane, which was cheap back then.  Now the wind is a good posibility for cheap fuel.

Right now I’m considering an electric car.  That’s not what they’re called, exactly, but my friend has a Prius and she likes it a lot.  I live in a community now where I can walk everywhere.  My Yakima house was in the country.  There was a tiny store within walking distance, but nothing that we’d use for anything other than, oh, I forgot the onion or tomato paste for the dinner meal.  Or maybe icecream after dinner.

Mt. Saint Helens

I’ve always feared explosions, you know, like a backfire on an ill-tuned car or propane lighting with a whosh.  I think it stems from an explosive father, but who knows these things?  The first major explosion that wasn’t personal happened when Mt. St. Helen’s went off.  And she went off big time.  I was camping just 40 air miles from the volcano.  We lived in Yakima at the time.  Our baby was three, and we went up the Athanum Creek west of Yakima, met with some friends, set up for the night, had our dinner and went to bed.  The campsite was noisy, some other campers, some road noise, but mostly frogs in a pond near by, croaking away.  I couldn’t go to sleep with all the noise and wondered in the dark about whatever was on my mind at the time.  At that stage in the game, probably my loneliness.  And then the frogs stopped.  Silence.  I didn’t feel a quake or anything, but I’m guessing now, there must have been a tremor.  You know how those elephants went inland just before the sunami?  I’m guessing it was similar, the frogs all stopping, waiting for the next thing to come.  The volcano went off early in the morning.  It was loud where we were, like a barreling logging truck coming around the bend just up from the campsite–and then Kay said, it’s the volcano, and then the sky darkened and we ripped up camp.  We were out of there in seconds, and the ash was falling heavy, sandy stuff, the first heavy stuff coming from the explosion.  Day turned to night and Jack drove along the river, hardly able to see, all of us hardly able to breath, my daughter’s head inside my sweatshirt so she could breath, and we followed the taillights home.  I guess if the folks in front of us had gone in the river, we’d have had time to stop.  Back at home, we ran the tub with emergency water and turned on the TV and drank wine while we watched the eruption unfold.  We somehow expected everything to get contaminated.  But is didn’t.  Just inches of gray ash and swishing clouds coming up from the feet of cows as they tried to graze in the fields.  Eerie. Exciting.  Something not everyone gets to live through

Rat

I was sitting in the kitchen while my baby slept in the back room.  I was quiet, there at the kitchen table, having a cup of tea, enjoying the quiet.  As I sat there, out from behind the stove sauntered a rat.  It took it’s time, walked over to the cat’s dish and ate a little, then drank from the water bowl, then ducked back behind the stove.  If I hadn’t been sitting there so quietly, I don’t think it would have been so nonchalant.  But because I was quiet, I got to see what was happening in my very own house–kitchen no less.  After the rat was gone, I looked behind the stove.  There was a hole by the outlet where the varmint had come inside from under the house.  I plugged it with steel wool–and that was the end of the rats in the house.  Now that I’m recalling this, I’m feeling exceedingly grossed out.  A hunched back critter coming in for a bite in my kitchen while my baby slept in the bedroom.

Gas Prices Rise to $1/gallon

I said, I’m just not going to pay it. I won’t drive, but of course we lived out in Ahtanum, which was a ways into the country from the town of Yakima. Not rural as other places I’ve lived, but more farmland and orchards and bare hills. When I first saw the bare hills, I was shocked. I’d never been anywhere that was treeless. But here were hillsides that looked like a shaved animal. There was grass of course, and some small shrubs, and if there was a wet area, a small spring, then there would be some willows.

It was the late 70s. Gas went up and so did the interest rates. 12% wasn’t uncommon. Jack and I sold our house in Yakima and moved back to Spokane, our home town. Everyone said we wouldn’t sell, not now, not during a recession and high interest rates. But we had a nice little place, an acre of land, a stream, sheds and fenced pens. Perfect little place to raise a family. So we sold it right off and had three offers on the same day. I swore it was because I held the concept. I knew what I wanted and it happened.

I wish I still lived in that little house. All through my life there have been houses that I’ve regretted leaving. I’ve often wished I could be a fairy or a genie and switch my nose and levitate my house to some other town. Some town where family and friends lived. Yakima was such a closed place to live. The orchard families didn’t need new friends. They were happy with their own kind.

Yakima Spring

The wind howled down from the mountains.  We’d been up to those mountains, more than once.  White pass, snow and elk.  We had an old car, with bald tires.  We didn’t know better, or perhaps it was we didn’t care.  But we crossed that pass to visit some friends in Tacoma.  They were the same age as us, and more responsible.  We were babies, both children of tyrants, both children with a child.  And there we were, our baby six months old.   The pass was bare when we drove over, a blizzard on the way back.  We bought chains at Sears and headed home.

But it was spring that impressed me.  Chilly mornings with smudge pots smudging up the sky.  Or irrigation watering the orchards, or wind machines.  Anything to warm the trees enough to keep the blossoms on.  Jack and I would stay in bed long.  It was the way it was then, sex, sex, and more sex.  He was delivered to god through sex. That’s an interesting way to put it, but I understand now that it was his way to feel the presence.  Sometimes on those early spring mornings we’d sit in the hot tub and watch the sun rise through the mist of oil burning in smudge pots.  Sounds weirdly polluted, but there was a good feeling about it all.  A life affirming feeling–fruit will stay on the trees.

Country with fog and sun

country with fog and sun / campagna

Originally uploaded by rtv75

We lived on an acre in the middle of many acres. It was like we had more Yakima land than you could shake a stick at. One spring the garden flooded. Water crept across the yard toward the house in the night. No moon, just this sliding sound like burgler’s feet on the carpet. There was nothing to do but wait.

Purple Iris

I had a friend once when I lived in Yakima. I was young then. People say I’m young now, but I’m not, not really. But then I was. And then, my daughter was three. Now…well never mind. But then, this friend came to visit because she said she wanted to learn how to pot from me. I had taken some classes in high school and one in college. I wanted to be a potter. I loved having my hands in clay. So there I was–living on this mini-farm, an acre surrounded by acres and acres of cows and orchards and bare hills, and there I was with a chicken coop that I’d converted into a potting studio. I taught her how to pot. She had horses and a husband she wasn’t sure she liked. She said one day that the purple iris that grew along the chicken shed were pretty. I said, she didn’t like iris, she’d told me that on another day. So there we were, the beginning of the end. I liked iris. I liked how they smelled like violets. I liked how they began to melt on the edges as they aged. The chickens walked in between them. They scratched around for worms. It was hot there. It was summer. The cows munched grass. Mostly I was happy. Well, somewhat. I liked potting. I liked being a mama. I liked the country.

Purple Iris

Iris growing along the edge chicken coop, their tall stalks and unfurling blooms. In the heat and wind. The spring winds blowing down from the mountains. It was all good, the sex, the pot, the Southern Comfort. The volcano blowing, the ash which was supposed to enrich the soil. The spring flood.