HinesSight

Fire karma comes closer

Nothing grabs your attention like hearing the phone ring, picking up the receiver, saying “hello,” and then having the neighbor across the street excitedly tell you that he has just called 911 because there is a wildfire burning a few lots down from you. The neighbor was out of breath because he had noticed smoke, went to check it out, and ended up trying to put it out with a garden house (the people whose house the fire had started next to weren’t home).

Laurel was in town, so I left a message at one of her likely stops, LifeSource Natural Foods, asking the staff to tell her that a wildfire was burning nearby, so, if it wasn’t too much trouble, she might consider coming home as soon as possible. At a high speed, she did. Interesting…how we’ve been following the fortunes of the Booth Fire (see posting below) all week, worrying that our shared cabin might go up in flames, and suddenly I wasn’t concerned about that at all—our own house instantly becoming a much higher priority.

Lots of smoke was visible across the thick brush and tall fir trees that lay between us and the fire. It was an adrenalin rush, to be sure, running around gathering hoses from hither and yon and attaching them to faucets on the fire side of our lot. It gave me a small feeling of what firefighters go through everyday. That is, it is damn hard work when the temperature is nearly 90 degrees. And I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, not a full firefighting outfit. And I was hauling garden hoses, not much heavier firefighting hoses.

Fairly soon, I heard sirens, a comforting sound. A bit later Laurel screeched into the driveway, having gotten my message at LifeSource, and having left her intended soymilk purchase lying on the checkout counter. We started wetting down dry grass and brush, then turned to greet a fire truck turning into our driveway. “Have you seen any flames?” we were asked. “No,” we said, “just smoke.” And then they drove out of the driveway. I took that to be a good sign.

When the smoke seemed to be decreasing, I hopped on my bike and rode down to the fire scene, where I found two EMTs lounging next to their ambulance, and a bunch of fire trucks watering down the remains of a brush fire. The EMTs told me that the fire had been “beaten down,” or some such fire lingo, so I rode back to Laurel and told her she could put down the hose she was sprinkling with.

After the evacuation of Camp Sherman we had thought, “What do people take when they only are able to fill up their car with belongings?” I am mildly embarrassed (but only mildly) to admit that, before we started hosing down the grass/brush, I ran down to my office, unhooked my laptop computer, and put it in my car—just in case. Family photos, nah. Meaningful mementos, nah. Computer files, oh yeah, those have to be saved. Hey, that’s my/our life in that hard drive. Book manuscripts. Financial files. Names/addresses/email info. My archive of Hines Family Christmas Letters. All important stuff—and one more reason to use a laptop. If a fire starts next door, you don’t want to be hauling around your heavy desktop computer tower.

All is quiet now. It’s time to go to the store and pick up a part for the toilet, which has been leaking. Earlier today I thought it was a big pain to have to fix the toilet. Now it seems like a joy, compared to the much bigger pain that we avoided this afternoon. Near-disasters remind us what is really important (a lightweight laptop computer) and what isn’t (everything else in the house, other than Laurel and Serena, the family dog). May this anecdote help remind us all to attend to what we really care about, right now!, because you never know how long it will be around to attend to.

Lastly: I heard this quote from Henry Kaiser on a talk show yesterday, and had to look it up on the Internet. He reportedly said, “Put your life's plan into determined action. Go after what you want with all that's in you.” Good advice.

Rain dances, please

We would most appreciate some rain dances tonight and tomorrow, focusing your attention on the Camp Sherman area in central Oregon. Rain prayers are fine as an alternative. Rain magic…rain wishes…rain sorcery…rain making. Anything that will put out the Booth Fire before it torches Camp Sherman, and the cabin we own with three other people on the Metolius River, do it.

The weekly newspaper in a nearby town (Sisters), the Nugget, has been doing a fine job reporting on the fire via their web site. Camp Sherman has been evacuated as a precautionary measure, even though the fire is still several miles away. Through a fellow cabin owner, we’ve seen emails from a Camp Sherman resident who lives in the Metolius Meadows development near our cabin. It’s sad to think of what it must be like to have to pack up what you can in your car, and head off to a shelter or motel in Sisters.

This resident said that firefighters told them they will work to save their home, because it is on the meadow side of the road. A home across the street that abuts national forest land has been otherwise triaged—if the fire gets to Camp Sherman, that home will be allowed to burn. This person’s opinion was that the cabins in Tract C, where our cabin is located, probably will be OK. I don’t know why they said this, but I hope it is true. Tract C is between Metolius Meadows and the river, so maybe if the fire is stopped at the housing development, it will be shunted off to the sides, and miss Tract C.

Well, it makes you appreciate being safe and sound at home, when people in Camp Sherman have had to leave their houses, and may never see them again. We’ve come to love Camp Sherman, and the wonderful people who live there. Do those rain dances!

Correction!!!

The publisher of HinesSight, namely me, has been contacted by someone, namely my wife, who was prominently mentioned in these pages recently, namely in the last posting. The publisher rashly printed out this post for Laurel’s information and amusement, and discovered that she was more informed than amused. Even though the publisher emphasized that some exaggeration is central to humor (do dogs really talk to bartenders?), my understandable desire to be able to go to sleep tonight without fearing that, sometime during the night, my head or some other important bodily organ will be smashed with a baseball bat by someone leads me to issue this correction:

Actually, there still is some artwork picked out by me on the walls of our house. And there also still is some furniture picked out by me on the floor of our house. Laurel recently stalked (I mean, walked) into my office and pointed out these items. The fact that they are all within the confines of a single 200 square foot downstairs room in our 3000 square foot house does not detract from the fact that they exist, and serve as eminent proof that I still have (a sliver of) control over the artwork and furnishings in our abode.

I also need to acknowledge that almost every home furnishing we possess has been bought by both of us. At the very least, this means that I have handed the VISA card to the sales clerk, after Laurel told me what we would be buying. Still, this is a mark of a healthy marriage in which power and control are appropriately shared, and I am happy to be married to such a beautiful, considerate, and loving wife, who is not even looking over my shoulder at the moment—so these words are freely chosen and freely written.

What Laurel leaves me

Recently a HinesSight reader, who would remain nameless except for my writing “Karen Lord,” asked a question that goes right to the heart of my marital relationship, and deserves answering in some detail. Before we get into this, I should add that Karen is our CPA. And a very good CPA at that. Further, she is probably the only liberal/progressive CPA in the entire United States, a real mark of distinction. So, if you call up Karen, tell her Brian sent you. Recently we referred a new client to her, which means, I hope, that we get a free tax return once we hit a total of ten referrals.

At any rate, Karen said that she has been enjoying this weblog, including my frequent appeals to God to prove Her divine omnipotence and omnibenevolence by placing a new Mini-Cooper S in my driveway. Apparently Karen is as skeptical as I am becoming that God is going to come through on this deal, notwithstanding how eminently reasonable it sounds to me, because she asked, “Why won’t Laurel let you have a Mini-Cooper?” Now, the more interesting theological question is, “Why won’t God let me have a Mini-Cooper?” But this query is shrouded in mystery, while Karen’s question is easier to answer.

It isn’t just that Laurel won’t let me have a Mini-Cooper. Actually, Laurel has left me with nothing at all, a Mini-Cooper being included in this nothing, along with everything else that I don’t have which I either used to have, or would like to have. This is, I believe, entirely normal after thirteen years of marriage, so I’m not complaining. And please, don’t tell Laurel that I sound like I’m complaining (she reads this weblog rather infrequently, thank heavens), or she may take away even more of my few remaining privileges and possessions, for being a malcontented boy.

It always has seemed to me that the Buddha would have achieved enlightenment much more rapidly if he had remained a householder, because detachment from one’s worldly possessions is part and parcel of a man’s married life. When Laurel and I got married in 1990, I remember that I moved in quite a few pieces of favorite furniture, including a beloved couch that was the most comfortable couch I had ever had. All gone. I also hung quite a few pieces of artwork on our walls that I had accumulated over the years. All gone. Bit by bit, piece by piece, everything in the house that was mine got replaced, until I could no longer remember who I was once, because I was now…All Hers.

So, Karen, I wish the question were so straightforward as, “Why won’t Laurel let you have a Mini-Cooper?” We have to start on a more basic level, “Why won’t Laurel let you have anything at all?” The simplest answer, of course, is that she is the Ruler, and I am the ruled. A serf has no possessions of his own. Everything belongs to the Manor Lord. He feels grateful to have what few belongings remain to him, though I am having difficulty identifying these, as our married years grow in number.

Until recently, a small painting given to me by a neighbor in the town where I grew up (Three Rivers) hung over a spare washer and dryer in the relatively unused side of our house. My god, it was over a washer and dryer, next to the hose hookups. I had optimistically thought that this little memory of my youth would be left to me by my Lord and Master, because it was in such an inconspicuous location.

But then, the all-too-frequent conversation happened once again. Laurel said, “How attached are you to that painting over the washer and dryer?” “Very much so, my Queen, my Liege,” I replied. “I beg permission to be allowed to keep this small piece of artwork, for it was given to me by an old friend, and it means a lot to me.” “If that is so,” said She, “then, pray tell, describe to me the painting that you admire so greatly.” “Ah, well” I stammered, “it is a wonderful image of, um, a mountain. Or, perhaps, trees by a river. Flowers?” “You have no idea what hangs over the washer and dryer, do you, Serf?” “No, Mistress,” I had to admit. “Then my edict is that it shall be banished to the attic, along with all the other paintings you had before we got married, and it shall be replaced by the print I just got at the Art Fair, and have had framed.”

And so it goes. I no longer know who I am, or what I like. I have become an image of She, my Wife, my Chooser-of-Art, Arbiter-of-Clothes, Home-Decorator-Supreme. For a while, I foolishly thought that the garden would escape Her attention. But this was fantasy, for She sees all, and knows all. What is not approved by Her does not last. This is the way of Marriage, and I know that I must accept my destiny. A few years ago I had the temerity to buy some lilies and plant them by our front walk. I enjoyed them as they bloomed once a year, and became deer food soon thereafter. And now…they are gone. Unrooted. Replaced by a Laurel Plant.

As it should be. As it has been. As it will be, forever and forever. When we married, what was mine in the home, closet, and garden became Hers. And what was Hers became Hers. So now, all is Hers. And I am gloriously free of the burden of earthly possessions. Including a Mini-Cooper. It is said, “No man can serve two masters.” But all married men do. The Lord above, and the Lord next to him in bed. I accept my place. I love to obey. I shall be content with what I receive.

Unless… [to be continued]

Anti-partitioning battle continues

The Hines’ battle to save the Earth from greedy land developers, or, at least, the small corner of the Earth that is Spring Lake Estates, continues. A few weeks ago we were surprised and dismayed to learn that the Marion County Hearings Officer had overruled herself on the Nielsen’s lot partitioning case. We won the first appeal, as the Hearings Officer found that the Nielsen’s hydrologist had failed to demonstrate that this partitioning wouldn’t harm the long-term sustainability of groundwater in the surrounding area.

When the Nielsen’s appealed this denial, the Marion County Board of Commissioners remanded the case back to the hearings officer. We felt that our facts were solid, as they are, so we didn’t spend the money to have our hydrologist restate what had already been persuasively stated to the Hearings Officer. Unfortunately, the Nielsen’s hydrologist twisted things around to such a degree, and made enough specious arguments, to apparently convince the Hearings Officer that recalculated water balance figures (meaning, how much water is being recharged to the aquifer from rainfall, after homeowners use up their share) made sense.

Well, the figures didn’t make sense. And we consider it our duty to point this out to the County Commissioners. So it was a pleasure (not financially, but ethically) for Laurel to troop down to the Courthouse this afternoon, $500 check in hand, to file an appeal of this egregious decision.

Included with our appeal are four pages of highly persuasive arguments and data from our own hydrologists, Malia and Greg Kupillas, demonstrating that the analysis by the Nielsen’s hydrologist, Nick Coffey, is all washed up, so to speak. However, it doesn’t take a weatherman to know which way the wind blows, and it doesn’t take a hydrologist to tell that our area has severe groundwater problems. The number of well deepenings and replacements testifies to this.

But we needed to show the County Commissioners, who will hear the appeal (if they accept it), that licensed hydrologists concur with the Hines’ conclusions about why the Nielsen partitioning should be denied. We much appreciate the financial support from several neighbors who are contributing to the cost of this appeal. The truth is on our side, and eventually we will prevail. While this is just one lot (or two, if the partitioning were to be approved), we’ve come to see this case as a reflection of what is right, and wrong, about the whole way people relate to the environment.

Think globally, act locally. We’re trying to do just that. The battle continues.

“Winged Migration” not for the birds

Meaning, this is a movie to see, because you’ll like it. Really. It is indeed all about birds, with people showing up in just a few scenes (and even then often badly, as when hunters are shown shooting down hard-working geese, gamely migrating along in their beautiful aerodynamic fashion, only to be sent into a downward death spiral for the pleasure of a few guys who think it is macho to kill a defenseless bird with a shotgun).

Roger Ebert’s review contains some interesting background information about the film, which I won’t bother to repeat. “Winged Migration” has images that are unforgettable, which is more than you can say about most movies. It took three or four years to film, with footage from all over the world—much of it from ultralight aircraft and hot air balloons, so you really get a feel for what it is like to migrate, and fly, from a bird’s point of view.

I can’t understand how anyone could watch this movie/documentary and not come away more committed to saving the Earth’s remaining wild places, and wild creatures. “Winged Migration” doesn’t have much narration, so you don’t learn many facts about migrating birds that aren’t already well known. But it packs an emotional wallop.

I’m not a huge bird fan. I was deeply skeptical that watching 89 minutes of birds flying around and doing other stuff that birds do (which turned out to be eating…mating dances…nesting…preening…fighting…no evident pooping, strangely) would be very interesting. But Laurel reminded me that I had liked “Microcosmos,” a close-up movie about the world of bugs by the same moviemakers. So I settled in with a bucket of Salem Cinema popcorn and a raspberry Italian soda, not sure if I’d be able to stay awake to what promised to be a predictable conclusion: birds go south (or north) in the winter; and north (or south) in the summer; then, next year, they do it over again.

True, this is how the movie ends (and begins). Yet, in-between is so much avian drama and natural splendor, I didn’t mind the absence of a real plot, and human sex/violence. The birds seemed much more real than people, and our human endeavors, actually. The migrating birds have been doing their thing for millions of years. We Homo sapiens haven’t. The migrating birds are wonderfully adapted to their environment, and each year leave it as well equipped to sustain their existence as they found it. We Homo sapiens don’t.

When the movie shows the birds flying over the unnatural sprawl of large cities, or an incredibly ugly Eastern Europe industrial plant of some sort, I felt ashamed to be part of a species that does this to the Earth. Most people seem to take it for granted that people are different from other animals, and so have a right to screw up the planet for our supposed benefit. “Winged Migration” made me think, “We’ve got a lot to learn from these bird-brained creatures.” Their elevated view of the world, beautifully filmed by some daredevil camerapeople, is closer to reality than our narrow humancentric perceptions. Go see this film. It will forever change the way you look upon a migrating goose. And it will make you want to have an open season on hunters rather than waterfowl.

Serena renaming not in the works

At least, the past few days have convinced us that the family pet definitely shouldn’t be renamed Thor, a.k.a. the Viking thunder god. Notwithstanding Serena’s proud half German-Shepherd bloodline (the other half being Labrador, though her Lab DNA must be missing all retriever instincts, given how much time and energy I spend retrieving tennis balls), we’ve learned that she is a total dog-wuss in the presence of thunder and lightning.

Here in the Camp Sherman environs of central Oregon, we’ve had some impressive thunderstorms the past few days. (A few trees reportedly caught fire on Black Butte last night, but were quickly put out by smokejumpers.)

Serena has spent several hours curled up, and trembling, in whatever areas of the cabin most look like a lair to her at any given thundering moment. First, she headed for her portable kennel, but that apparently was too close to some windows. Then, we found her lying on my meditation pillows, in a bedroom closet that I’ve appropriated for my deep spiritual practice, which some might casually dismiss as sleeping while sitting cross-legged if they weren’t aware of the subtle transformative mystic energies being contacted in my seemingly somnolent state.

Perhaps this is why Serena felt so safe perched on my pillows and Indian shawl, which we quickly replaced with her faux sheepskin dog pad. I shut the closet door halfway, to enhance the cavelike feel, and Serena made it through the thunderstorm in fairly good dog-spirits. This afternoon, more rain and thunder drove Serena under the small desk on which my laptop computer sits, to nestle, trembling again, against my legs as I tried to write some emails.

Dogs are good for lots of things, including licking up spills on the floor that you otherwise would have to take a sponge to, and also reminding us of the Magical Side of Nature. If we didn’t know what thunder and lightning was (and I barely do, I have to admit), we humans too would either be curled up in some womblike place of shelter, or rendering sacrifices to Thor. Sometimes it seems that knowing too much leads to knowing too little. Maybe Serena’s reaction is the proper one—fear and trembling in the face of natural powers we can’t control, and barely understand.

Laurel and I went for a mountain bike ride yesterday afternoon, just as the storm was gathering strength. We rode along the beautiful single-track trail behind Metolius Meadows while thunder boomed and nickel-sized raindrops fell on us. We felt very small. Two little people in a great big quasi-wilderness, watching the wildness of a thunderstorm flash and crash overhead. It was great. It was real. It wasn’t bullshit make-believe like so much of human life is. It reminded us that whatever we think we humans are, we aren’t much, compared to the Forces of Nature than could wipe out each and every Homo sapiens in a heartbeat. Serena instinctively knows this. In this way, our dog is smarter than we are, and we have much to learn from her.

[Note: I do not have any inside information from the Forces of Nature that they are preparing to wipe out each and every Homo sapiens in a heartbeat. However, general justification for this statement is contained in this paragraph from a book I’m reading, “The Universe Story,” by Brian Swimme and Thomas Berry:

When we examine the nature of the universe we find galaxies with a violence so intense that we cannot account for it scientifically: great spikes of energy blasting across hundreds of millions of miles from the center of our galaxy out through its member systems. Speculation points to black holes of monstrous dimensions generating such extremes of energy from the center of our galaxy. Our own Milky Way galaxy might be capable of generating such a death spike. If such an energy blast does erupt, we will not learn of it much before it reaches us. Even now, a wall of plasma could be rifling towards us at millions of miles a minute; with such stupendous power it would not even notice the Sun and Earth as it scattered us into elementary particles in its inexorable flight of destruction through the stellar systems.

Suspicions about conservatives confirmed!

I suspected it all along, that hard-core conservatives are psychologically disturbed. And now here’s a study to confirm it. Well, the U.C. Berkeley study doesn’t say exactly that conservatives are psychologically disturbed, but it isn’t hard to draw this conclusion from the findings. I mean, if at “the core of political conservatism is the resistance to change and a tolerance for inequality,” that doesn’t sound like the person I’d like to be, or have living next to me.

As anyone can tell from listening to talk radio, conservatives can’t tolerate ambiguity very well, so they tend to see and state things in terms of absolute black and white, right and wrong, good-doers and evil-doers. The researchers are careful to say that this doesn’t mean that conservatives are simple-minded, but it seems to me that you sure could draw that conclusion. After all, they also say that “this intolerance of ambiguity can lead people to cling to the familiar, to arrive at premature conclusions, and to impose simplistic clichés and stereotypes.”

Regardless, the most interesting thing about this study is that it suggests that people’s political opinions can be largely explained by their personality. Liberals tend to have a certain personality that is more compatible with the tenets of liberalism, and conservatives’ personality is more compatible with the tenets of conservatism. Yet, most of us believe that we freely choose our political leanings, whereas it seems that those preferences are largely determined by all the genetic and experiential influences that have gone to make up our present personality.

So, I guess I shouldn’t be so judgmental about Michael Savage and the other conservative talk-show idiots. They can’t help being simple-minded; that’s just the way they are. Gosh, for a brief moment I’m feeling so compassionate about people who suffer from the malady of conservatism, I’d contribute to a “Find a Cure” fund, if such existed.