TRYING TO BE GREEN IN A BLUE GREEN WORLD

On quiet mornings I walk my two dogs across the two-mile nature trail that encircles our neighborhood lake. And in these rare moments of solitude I marvel at Mallard ducks riding on the backs of each other, geese flying in a v-shaped arc overhead in the fog-drenched morning cold, and a Blue Heron lifting off from the wetland bog and flying low and solo over the water’s mist. The dogs pull on their leads and drag me forcefully over the wetlands path, carved out with bridges and a woodchip-strewn embankment encircling the bog. The noise of the interstate dissipates there, and I can hear the screech of an owl, the playful chirps of Bobwhites calling one another, and the underbrush rustle of squirrels and chipmunks.
Overhanging vines and low trees frame a canopy over me and inside the woodlands I feel that I’ve entered a sanctuary, a quiet place where the lark sings, the sand softens and meets the stream, and leaves fall like petals off the trees. Once inside the forest’s cover, I find the mental clarity I crave, and my heart beats slower and calms me. Daily I find myself longing for the morning walk, attributing the need to the dogs’ needs, when instead it is my own calling.
Stepping off the path and back onto the road, I meet the determined asphalt of my daily life. The highway grinds in the background, and I can hear the pulse of tractor-trailer engines shifting gears. Cars pass me, and drivers wave, gulping coffee and switching stations on the radio. Garbage cans bulge at the waist after being dragged to the street to await the county truck where, upended, they will purge their contents. The hair lifts on the backs of my dogs as we cross the road and they yelp and tug on their leads. I look at my watch and think of the day ahead.
Before we leave for the morning the landscape truck arrives. My flowerbeds are choking with bristling, jagged weeds. We have engaged our landscapers to pick weeds and lay pine straw. The crew of men clusters in the driveway, blowing on their hands. I gather my jacket and meet them outside.
“This is much worse than we thought,” says the foreman, a Caucasian man sent to communicate with the homeowner and then convey those ideas to the workers.
“We’ll never be able to pick all these weeds. We’re going to have to spray and cover with pine straw. In the future, you need to spray with pre-emergent,” he advises.
“Can’t we do something more organic?” I implore.
“No, ma’am. Not unless you want to pick all these by hand. And we do not have the manpower to do that today,” he insists.
I am caught between the pesticide and the labor. He sees my indecision and continues, “Besides you could never pick all these weeds. They’ll just spread and come back two-fold.” I acquiesce.
The foreman straps on a huge plastic tank filled with a blue-green liquid that swishes back and forth in a kind of frothy stew. A hose and a nozzle wind around in front of him. He wears a surgical mask and gardening gloves. He begins his march across my yard, spraying the flowerbeds. Spots of blue-green dye dot the yard and sweep down in streams, a neon painted river of alien blue.
The glaring dye marks the driveway where apparently some pesky dandelion tried to poke its way out of a tiny crack in the concrete. The backyard children’s play area is dusted with blue-green streaks. Painted weeds crumble under their outlandish costume.
I go back inside and ignore the blue-green jungle. This morning we dawdle over book bags and permission slips, missing breakfast. Thus, the ride to school requires a detour to our favorite donut shop. I purchase four glazed donuts and one chocolate frosted with sprinkles. I also purchase coffee, juice and milk. I now have two bags, three Styrofoam cups and a plastic bottle.
Because the children go to a private school there is no bus service. We drive a Honda SUV. I get in the drop-off line behind another minivan, a Suburban and an SUV.
I am on my way home when I remember that I need to stop by the pharmacy and pick up Joey’s prescription for his allergies. I run in the drugstore, but I linger in the aisle as I notice some anti-bacterial soap, some non-slippery soap for kids, and a jar of Noxzema with new packaging. I am opposed to germs so I buy the anti-bacterial soap. I like the kids’ soap idea so I buy that too. I do not need any more facial cleansers, but I like the new packaging of Noxzema. With the prescription medication, I am out of the door after spending $60.00.
Driving through our neighborhood I pass three different chemical trucks – All-Chem, Chem-Green, and Chem-Lawn. Everyone’s lawn is lush and immaculate. Dogwoods and azaleas are beginning to bloom. There are no weeds and no one is out picking weeds either.
A few years ago the county lake was drained and dredged. An influx of silt from the highways and grading projects saturated much of the lakebed and wetlands. After the county siphoned out the murky water, the lake bottom was dry and cracked like a broken tooth. The red clay at the bottom was littered with tree stumps, branches, abandoned tires and barrels.
Surprisingly, most of the ducks and geese stayed. Swimming in river inlets and pockets of rainwater at the deepest section of the lake, they survived and even bore offspring. They pecked the parched soil for earthworms and other sustenance. The Blue Heron made a home in the back corner of the wetlands where the water came through an old underground pipe.
I circle through the neighborhood and travel down Harts Mill Road. Two new subdivisions are being built. Earth-moving machines are clearing the path of trees and other shrubbery. Previously there were two single-family homes, brick ranch styles with grassy front lawns and hardwood oaks and elms towering over the roof line. Now a cul-de-sac street has been cut and paved. The asphalt winds s-shaped over the old front lawn and then draws a tight fist at the edge of the property. The brick from the house lies in a heap next to the construction dumpsters and the yellow monster digs and scraps at the remaining brown patch of earth. I make my way back home.
Time eludes me. I must race to check Joey out for a doctor’s appointment, then take him back to school, and then back to school again for the end of the day. I have no time for lunch so I swing into the drive-through lane of Arby’s.
Last night in bed, I read a scathing article on the meat industry and how the cattle population is “beefed up” with an unnatural diet of hormones, protein, and corn. Then cattle are fed antibiotics to combat their bodies’ natural tendency to disease after exposure to this unhealthy eating system. After reading the article, I vow to never eat hamburger again. As I wait behind the sputtering car in front of me, I wonder whether roast beef comes from cattle. Cars move ahead, and a decision has to be made.
I wanted the roast beef, but I contemplate the chicken. I order the chicken and it arrives steamy in foil; the smell is hard and saturating. I drive off while unwrapping the sandwich in my lap. The meat is pressed and the crust of the chicken is a hard batter of indeterminable ingredients. When I bite into it, it tastes of flavored spices, but the texture is coarse and rubbery. The mayonnaise is thick and slathered on the bun and a wilted piece of green lettuce balances on the sopping bun. I toss the chicken back into the paper bag, and vow off both red meat and chicken.
After picking up Joey, I take him to the doctor. While waiting, I peruse the magazine rack. Each cover announces this month’s articles: “Six Ways to Make a Child Feel Special”, “How to Make Money on Ebay”, “Toys We Love for $10 of Less”, “Get Rid of Clutter”, “Boost Your Earning Power”, “Best Toys of the Year”.
I recognize a circular pattern of thought here consistent with our own household behavior patterns. Earn, spend and throw away. Just when you think you have the best of something, something better comes along. Thus, last year’s great toy is now clutter. I feel caught in the whirling dervish of a consumer tornado.
We leave the doctor’s office and head northward to return Joey to school. After dropping him off, I run an errand to the vet where I pick up a prescription for our dog, Bugsy, who has been lethargic and limping. After administering the medicine to the dog, I return to school.
Once in the car Joey and Ben spy the soccer snacks in the back and are intent on them. I deny, and then relent. They open two bags of Chee-toes. Within a few minutes their fingers are covered in a thick, shiny orange sludge, the color of a new crayon. The dust from the snack covers the corners of their lips and falls on their clothes. They shovel more and more of the crunchy snacks into their mouths, finally upturning the bag and shaking the remnants onto their tongues.
I have been in the car for five hours. I have driven twenty-three miles. We consumed one and a quarter gallons of fossil fuel. Once at home, Ben watches television while I spend the next hour picking up clutter around the house. I start the first of five loads of laundry. I take out two bags of trash. I estimate that I take out two bags of trash on a daily basis. I spend thirty-five minutes picking up toys in my children’s rooms. I step over and around books, crayons, plastic tanks, metal cars, and twenty or so new gadgets. Most of their toys have not been played with in several months.
I pick up books and magazines cluttering our bedroom. We subscribe to Time, Newsweek, US News World Report, the New York Times, the Atlanta Journal and Constitution, Southern Living, Family Fun, Oprah, People’s In Style, Real Simple, Vanity Fair, Golf Digest, Money, Smart Money, and Business Week. These pile up around our bedside tables. We hardly ever read them all. Sometimes I just flip through them and then toss them out.
Catalogs also take up a lot of space. We get two to three catalogs a day in the mail. This reminds me to check the mail. We have two actual bills, a birthday party invitation, an invitation to a charity fundraiser, two flyers from local stores, an invitation to apply for a credit card, miscellaneous envelopes of junk mail, and two more catalogs. I throw out everything, but the bills, the invitations and the catalogs.
I go upstairs to answer my email. I have not checked my email in a few days. I have 312 email messages. I scroll down the page and begin deleting without reading them. Out of the 312 emails, I had two from friends and one from Joey’s coach. I spend twenty minutes deleting all the unwanted email.
I check our messages on the home voicemail, and vow to return calls when I get home. I have done nothing about dinner, and realize that I will have to stop by the grocery store for the second time today and pick up something already cooked and ready.
The children are tired and cranky. Neither wants to navigate the aisles of the store. I vow to eat something healthier even if already prepared. I pick out a spinach quiche and an organic salad mixture from the deli section. My husband will hate this and the children will not eat it either. I pick up a few more things we need at home. I leave after spending twenty-three dollars.
We have had three visits from UPS today. My husband ordered two bicycles for us with points he earned on his American Express card. With his extensive business travel, we accumulate points rapidly.
The children are watching television. I hear the sound of the Disney channel in the background. A commercial for Disney is encouraging them to visit all their favorite Disney characters on ZooDisney.org.
Now we are all tired and cranky. Nobody wants to eat spinach quiche for dinner. I hear them prowling in the pantry for snacks long after I have cleaned up the kitchen.
While they play in their rooms, I brush my teeth in the bathroom. The bathroom window is centered over our front porch. Four white columns hold up the portico. I hear an odd chirping sound, tiny squeaks from outside, and then upon looking, I see a brown wren dash in front of the window. I move to the window and look out.
The wren is perched at the top of the far west column, head bent towards the triangular mouths that stretch open from the nest wedged between the column’s flat base and the underside corner of the portico roof. Moving to my bedroom window, I have a perfect view of this bird’s nest, tightly wound with sticks and straw and a pinecone.
The soft wet head of a baby bird pokes out, bobbing and stretching over the rim of the nest. I call out to my sons and they scamper in, climbing onto the bed and squeezing their faces into the edge of the windowpane. We raise the blinds slowly to look more closely at the tiny bird.
Frightened by the sound, the wren flies off showing the underside of its bright red belly. The boys and I marvel at the feat of this tiny bird, and its tenacity in building its nest on a column on our front porch. The wrens’ tiny world exists neat and bundled amidst the jumble of our home.
I do not know where to begin to undo the nest that we have built. Underneath the five-dollar bales of pine straw is a blue-green lawn. The food we eat is injected with chemicals, preshrunk and pre-packaged in order to appeal to us. Our house is filled with toys and playthings that we have accumulated and no longer need. Yet, purchases come in on a daily basis. Magazines and catalogs pile up around our feet beckoning us to buy just one more thing.
Much of my time is spent driving around on errands, spending money, decluttering the house and taking out trash. My husband leaves the house every morning before the sun cracks through the night sky, heading to the airport to conduct some business meeting in another time zone. I talk to him on cell phones lines, satellites beaming our voices back and forth. My son cannot breath the air because it is clogged with exhaust pipe fumes from lines of unmoving cars.
Can I unbuild this nest one stick at a time? My sadness crawls up beside me, looking for a warm home. I pat its head. Not because I have given into despair, but because I still have hope.
We close the window shades and wish the bird goodnight. My children crawl into their beds and I tuck the covers around them. They are full of questions.
“How do birds fly?”
“What does it eat?”
“How does it find food?”
“What keeps it from falling out of the nest?”
“I don’t know,” I confess and then add, “But I’ll find out.”
Their questions inspire me, and I vow to build a different nest tomorrow.