Nuances of Solar

mamamusings photo courtesy Flickr

My first meaningful encounter with solar gain occurred on a Memorial Day hike into Olympic National Park. The party clambered through waist-deep snow to reach a small mountain lake. Two days on the trail had me hating myself and the day was sunny, so I took the “snow bath” an experienced companion suggested.

First, I basked for twenty minutes wearing an old black cashmere sweater and dark wool trousers. Billowing snow banks all around reflected sun like a solar oven. It felt like a sauna. I peeled off my clothes, washed shrieking with handfuls of snow, and dressed again. One more minute in the sun had me purring.

That experience and my companions’ poise in the field taught the power of light and set the course of my days as a housekeeper. Clean windows, a fresh interior, viable fabrics, and healthy ventilation are more fundamental to comfort than heat. A warm room will feel squalid if the other elements are missing.

When I know that a winter day will be clear, I grab heat by adjusting curtains and doors before I leave in the morning. Even with no insulation, a room with a south window will warm itself during the day, if the door is closed and there’s little wind. The results may not be impressive after the sun goes down, but the day’s harvest of heat will keep the ambient temperature in the room higher than it would otherwise have been.

I wouldn’t want to spend an evening sitting in a space like this, but it’s comfortable to do short periods of standing labor in a cool room that’s generously lighted with clean bulbs and fixtures. A down vest and knit fur hat added to street or night clothes do a good job of keeping the furnace off for yet another evening, unless low temperatures threaten to freeze the pipes.

If I had learned these behaviors because money was tight, they would be depressing, but protecting the local environment is like caring for a friend. I enjoy living as close to the outdoors as I can manage, even in town. Staying connected to the weather protects me from feeling devoured by my occupation.

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More Nuances of Green

Photos courtesy Flickr

Thinking about global warming colors all decisions about behavior. To minimize carbon emissions must be as fundamental a change as the rules of sanitation that developed after germ theory in the nineteenth century.

For the last several years, I’ve conserved heat as rigorously as health and comfort will allow. It’s amazing how little automated heat is necessary once one begins to watch the thermometer and keep a keen eye on weather reports.

Meteorology is orders of magnitude more accurate than when the furnace was installed in this house around 1920. It wasn’t until the late Seventies or early Eighties that satellites made it possible to rely on forecasts. Before then, weather reporters sounded more like bookies than scientists.

The greenhouse maximum/minimum thermometer in the kitchen lets me know when the overnight low approaches freezing, the point at which I start to worry about the pipes, and the point at which the down bedding begins to feel a little inadequate.

Sailing small boats taught me to manage the house like a vessel, keeping energy and life support systems in good trim. The constant, minor attention that the house requires rewards the effort with huge energy savings and the peace of mind that comes from a tranquil home.

Housekeeping with a weather eye means checking the forecast in the morning and evening, opening or closing curtains to grab or conserve heat, opening or closing interior doors to control air flow, deciding whether one incandescent bulb will suffice to keep the chill off a space (surprisingly often it does), and planning which zones in the house to heat with which systems, depending on what I’ll be doing during the day.

These minor attentions have cut my oil consumption to a quarter of what it was the first winter we lived here. I have restored the storm windows and insulated one room on the second floor, but apart these changes, the house remains as it was designed in 1890 to function without central heat. Cutting the furnace out of the loop and restoring the hands-on attention for which the place was designed has actually improved the performance of the building. I’m amazed and proud that insignificant changes in behavior generate such a carbon advantage in daily life. The keys to the change are the thermometer and weather satellites.

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Nuances of Green

Mordac photo courtesy Flickr

Usually I garden only on Saturday morning, but by the first of December, any opening in the weather is a welcome time to pick up slack in the yard.

Fortunately, there isn’t much to do this year. All that’s left is to police small debris from a project and spray some weeds with a benign herbicide when it’s over forty and dry.

Last week’s mowing turned fallen leaves and a few weeds into mulch. For years I’ve mowed debris where it has landed, trying to recreate a woodland ecosystem where plants die and nourish their next generation. The process seems to be working: each year the place is more gentle and self-sustaining and takes less work. Mowed leaves and prunings seem to decompose quickly enough to interrupt cycles of disease and pests.

There’s a pile of long branches from major pruning in September. They’re destined to become a low, rustic fence that will conceal the rude posts that support a garage. That’s a “go outside and play” project for sometime over the winter.

In this climate, a late fall mowing carries the lawn over the holidays and into early February’s warm spell. Staying on top of the mowing encourages dense green turf. Should it snow, a thaw just makes the garden look fresh rather than weather-beaten.

During the warm months, I only water things we can eat. The rest of the garden goes gold and dormant until our growing year begins in October. The rains bring everything back to life, and walking around the property feels like strolling through a giant salad.

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The Light of Day

Photos courtesy Flickr

This year’s Thanksgiving brought memories of holiday tables of the past. I set a small table for two at the window with the best view. Dinner was at four, before sunset.

The setting was simple: a natural linen cloth, undecorated plates, classic flatware, and simple stemware. There was a small silver bowl of seasonal flowers from the garden, and I set a couple of tea lights into glass snowballs.

That was it.

As we ate a few healthful courses of good food (inspired by the guy-style cooking of a network chef), I realized the relationship between lighting and tabletop design. Yesterday’s choices were eighteenth-century, a period when the main meal was at mid-day and labor was not cheap.

The nineteenth-century table, which seems more old-fashioned to me, is a response to an evening dinner hour and a large household staff. The cut glass, highly ornamented silver, elaborate embroidery, and painterly decoration of china provide a light show under the flickering illumination of candles, kerosene, and gas light.

Sometimes one strategy works, sometimes the other. It’s a small matter to store a few elaborate accessories and now and then build a flashy tabletop on a classical base.

Simplicity leaves energy enough to give thanks.

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