Homestead: The Many Generations – Cooking for 30 and Fanning the Flames of Vitality

Homestead Reunions are supposed to happen every five years.  The last one was in 2022 and brought an impressive number of alumni from my generation.  I was in a robust Homestead class and lived at the Homie during a time of high activity, including big work on the strawbale Cabin Bob and a new garden south of Bob.  This time, I wished that more of my class (of 2004) was present.  Thankfully, my cohorts Matt from West Virginia (class of 2005) and Erica from North Carolina (class of 2009) came and brought their whole families.  Erica attended Denison after I graduated, but I came back as an alum for May Term 2006 (wherein we started building the Earthship Cabin Phoenix) so, in effect, we were Homies together.  This event wasn't just for fun.  We had important work to do.  Perhaps I should give some back story (and share an iconic picture from 2002; that's me in the beanie).

I am a proud graduate of the Homestead at Denison University.  This means that from my sophomore through senior years, I lived in rather atypical college housing.  I lived with a community of 12 students in rustic cabins in a wooded valley approximately one mile from the main campus.  We rotated cooking responsibilities on a wood-burning stove and shared plant-based dinners every night.  We maintained solar panels and batteries to produce 12-volt direct current solar energy, enough for lights, a refrigerator (no freezer), and some CD players that we wired in to the DC through their battery ports.  An onsite well provided fresh water.  We grew various gardens and orchards, raised chickens, hauled and split wood, and built improvements to the cabins.  When I moved in, we were finishing building our strawbale community center Cabin Bob (named in honor of the late, great founding visionary of the Homestead, Dr. Robert Alrutz) and moving the kitchen / dining room into the new structure.  We did all this while also maintaining full course loads at a prestigious liberal arts college and participating in other student activities.  Our collaborators included many non-resident students and community members (friends of the Homestead) who partook in and learned from community dinners, work parties, and work shops. Good use of the summer break is essential to the success of the Homestead.  During the summer, Homies and their collaborators complete larger gardening and building projects and generally get the place in good order.  

The Homestead is an intentional community and a sustainable living project.  Homies experience a level of community that is rare in today's atomized world, topped off with consensus-based decision making and a sense of higher purpose.  Many alums, including me, say that the Homestead made us who we are today.  Some—like my cohorts Colin and Brad, co-founders of the Seattle Urban Farm Company—launched careers directly inspired by the Homestead, whereas others apply Homesteading lessons to careers in medicine, law, creative arts, natural resources, international aid, etc.  See the forthcoming zine I'm editing The Homestead Biographies Project for a deeper look.  I was happy to get Erica's herbology-based advice for my persistent back injury.  She got her inspiration to study the healing power of plants when she lived at the Homestead.

The Homestead continues to evolve, and some things have changed after my graduation.  Notably, it now has more solar panels and a connection to the electrical grid, so the Homies even have a freezer and standard electrical outlets.  I am glad to see that they are still playing the vinyl records (including plenty of classic folk) that I donated from my parents' collection in the mid-2010s.  Over the years, there have also been many Homies who play live music from real instruments, including guitars and drums.

In April, I learned that Denison University plans to close the Homestead on its 50th anniversary year, 2027.  Needless to say, the news hit me like a freight train.  Subsequently, I have been meeting with a small but committed team of alumni and current Homies every week.  Our goal is to save the Homestead.  Step one is for us alumni is to help the current Homies get their place in the best possible shape.  Jakob of the class of 2027 was happy to give us a list of projects.

Thus, we return to the glorious weekend of September 20th  2025!  I arrived a little later than I would have liked on Friday evening, riding an Uber from John Glenn International Airport in Columbus.  The Uber driver was shocked when I wanted to be dropped off at the upper parking lot and walk the last half-mile in the dark with three stuffed bags, but walking that last part is a proud Homestead tradition.  However, right after he dropped me off, Jameson (class of 2008), still with a formidable beard, who had some stuff to haul, picked me up in his vehicle.

That pleasant cool humidity that characterizes nights at the Homestead was still in the air.  Old friends greeted me with hugs. It is hard to put into words the flood of memories and emotion that come to me when I'm back at the Homie, my beloved home during the most formative part of my formative years.  Normally, I don't describe myself as a spiritual person, and yet, back at the Homie, the spirit of past and present young people bringing their dreams to life seems to emanate from the walls.  As the comics legend Will Eisner put it when describing a city building in New York: “I know now that these structures, barnacled with laughter and stained by tears, are more than lifeless edifices.  It cannot be said that having been part of life, they did not somehow absorb the radiation of human interaction.  And I wonder what is left behind when a building is torn down.”  Of the original three Homestead cabins, built in 1977-78, only Cabin One still stands; Cabin Phoenix stands where Cabin Two used to be, Cabin Atlas where Cabin Three used to be—so I wonder what is left behind and generated anew.

Erica showed me the alumni camping area out by the metal sculpture (which comes before the A-frame when you enter via the footbridge).  Her husband, Jeremy—a blacksmith—said that he never expected that the Homestead would be the next place he saw me.  I last saw them in real life when we hiked to Catawba Falls near Asheville, North Carolina in 2017.  They had one young son at the time; now they have another son and a daughter.  This weekend, the metal sculpture would act as a portal between the family camp and the camp for Homies who didn't bring families.  I set up my tent in a nice flat spot just on the solo camping side of the sculpture, inflated my ground pad, and listened to the sound of so many crickets singing just outside my abode for the next two nights.  

Whereas six students currently live at the Homestead, interest in the project is growing again among the student body.  Unfortunately, I had arrived a little too late to hear Tom—class of 2008, who also brought his whole family—spontaneously give a rousing speech to a bunch of first-year-students at Friday night community dinner about how he lived here and so can you.  Many of them got excited about the prospect.

  On Saturday morning, we got rolling with the work party, featuring the combined efforts of about 40 people, including Homies and their families, friends, and collaborators from across the generations.  I don’t know if I’ve ever seen so many different projects going on at the Homie on a single day.  Erica shared lost knowledge and upkeep of the wood stove with current Homies (and I dropped in a few lessons as well); working on the stove with the fire going on a warm September morning felt a bit like a sauna.  Jeremy led in the repair and reconstruction of the stairs up to the porch (also known as “the Beach”) on the East side of Cabin Bob, joined by various helpers including Jakob and his fellow class of 2027 Homie Noa.  Due to the full Sun, the stairs, too, was a hot assignment, an even better way to get your cardio than hot yoga.  

I worked mostly on team chicken coop to prepare it to be a home for chickens again.  The team sawed up fallen trees and gathered the logs for firewood, cleared brush and rubbish, and repaired and reinforced fences.  Matt wielded a chainsaw and Jameson was maestro of the wheelbarrow.  After hauling and tossing some logs, I followed my penchant for reinforcing chicken coops with layers of fencing and wire mesh to keep predators out.  And I got my obligatory picture in front of the coop with a staple gun.  

O.G. Homies Richard (class of 1977) and Don (class of 1978) deployed their deep knowledge and power tools to the stairs and chicken coop projects.  Both were in the original team of a dozen or so students who worked with Dr. Alrutz to propose and build the Homestead.  The very young joined the work party, too (and had a great time as shutterbugs with a point-and-shoot camera checked out from the Denison library).  Tom and other grown-ups found them family-friendly projects.  The wood shed proved especially engaging—the kids formed a line and passed logs like a fire bucket brigade.  Matt resembled a peaceful version of the Ogami Ittō, the samurai protagonist of Lone Wolf and Cub in how he multitasked, sometimes carrying one or more of his kids while performing Homestead work.  In another cross-generational collaboration Claudia, a Homie in the class of 1986, worked alongside her daughter, a current Denison student.  Laura (class of  1992) jumped in for all things garden (alongside current Homies Emily and Lilly) and for unearthing the red brick pathway (even better than a yellow brick road!) into the chicken coop.  This was her first time back at the Homestead after graduation, but she obviously hadn't forgotten all her old tricks.  

I hadn't forgotten all my old tricks, either.  I joined forces with Matt's wife Bri (who was a summer Homie in the class of 2006) to cook pasta primavera for the whole community on Saturday night, and it slowly came back to me how to use the flue control to modulate fire and heat levels.  Going from cooking for myself in a conventional kitchen in Florida to cooking for 30 here was an adjustment!  However, I originally learned to cook at the Homestead, more commonly for groups of 10-20, including Homies and guests.  When all was ready, in Homie tradition, we rang the cowbell to call everyone in, the entire group formed a circle holding hands, and the cooks for the night announced what we had made.  And I shared a quote.  I sat with past and present Homies at a wooden and metal table on the stone patio out the south door of Cabin Bob in the fast fading light, and we talked about homesteading, animated cartoons, and other subjects.  I helped build both the patio and table some years ago, and memories of drilling into 4 X 4s and heaving heavy rocks into place lingered like dancing shadows.

That night at the fire circle, when the fire died down to glowing coals, I used my wide-brimmed hat to fan the coals and reignite roaring flames.  Jeremy was impressed and declared that he would copy my technique for campfires.  I tried to conceal my swelling pride that I had impressed a blacksmith with my fire skills.  I may not have impressed his son Orson earlier that day when we talked about dinosaurs.  I had to drop some truth bombs—i.e. that T. Rex would win a fight against Spinosaurus.  That last fire was smaller and quieter than I had expected, consisting mostly of alumni and featuring the Ross versus Jameson debates on a variety of environmental, public health, and media topics.  I had been expecting to reminisce on Homestead stories with lots of alums and current Homies, but I was adaptable to other formats.  Erica, gesticulating energetically, urged us to stop arguing and love each other, but I'd say that all disagreements were strictly collegial, no hard feelings.

In the morning, it was Erica's turn to give a spontaneous and inspiring speech to the current Homies.  She explained that if past and present Homies are a plant, the present Homies are the meristem, the special tissue of undifferentiated cells—known as meristematic cells—that have the totipotent power to become any type of plant cell.  Their potential is boundless!  Whereas the alumni—who used to be meristem—have differentiated and become plant structures such as stems, roots, fruits, and leaves.  Current Homies responded by asking rhetorically “And you said that you couldn't write an inspiring bio [for to The Homestead Biographies Project]?"

More important than any specific project or skill, we alumni tried to bring on the mojo, to inject some additional revitalization into the Homestead, and inspire current and future Homies and friends of the Homie.  Lilly said, “I wish that you all could come every weekend.”  

While there are differences between the present version of the Homestead and the version that I lived in, there is still much that is the same, and the same spirit emanates from the walls and Earth.  The crew of resident Homies will soon increase, and the student body as a whole loves and supports this unique project.  They get plenty of visitors, especially for their Friday community dinners.

I left earlier on Sunday than I wanted to, but I took the opportunity to ride back to Columbus with Tom and family, who dropped me off at the Main Library, so I could make a stop at Cartoon Crossroads Columbus—a weekend comics fest—before  proceeding to the airport.  It will take time to process the memories and emotions from the weekend.  

A few weeks after the reunion, I learned that the current Homies acquired a new flock of chickens.  This revives a glorious Homie tradition; I remember the excitement when I brought chickens home.  My work with the staple gun wasn't just for show.

Given present circumstances, Homestead alumni can't sit back and wait for quinquennial reunions.  There will be more events like this one.  We will soon have the website savethestead.com up and 

running.  You can learn more there about the quest to save the Homestead.  Erica said that she wants her kids to have the option of becoming Homies.

TAKE ACTION: SIGN THE SAVE THE HOMESTEAD PETITION ON CHANGE.ORG

2002 Homies photos by Ameen Howrani, all others by R.W.S. or his willing assistants.

Survival Tip #1: Know the Sun for Navigation and Life

To give this blog more practical aspects, I will periodically include survival tips within my entries, beginning with this one.

This morning, I awoke just in time for a glorious sunrise over the rolling prairie out my east-facing window; the landscape cast in pink and purple and blue, interrupted by a few shining white lights of a distant semi-truck rumbling over a distant highway. Now the sun streams in, gives light to the room, and fuel to the lettuce which grows in plastic clamshell containers in the windowsill.

The sun gives many things, including direction for navigation. Although we have all heard vague statements about using the sun as a compass, I recently learned how to use it effectively (combined with an analog wristwatch), thanks to a promotional mailing from Backpacker magazine. (I subsequently found that this technique is described in many places, including Bradford Angier's How to Stay Alive in the Woods, and various youtube videos.)

How to use a dial watch for a compass
 

Point the hour hand of the watch at the sun. Halfway between the hour hand and the number 12 is south. Before noon, move in a clockwise direction from the hour hand to find said halfway point. After noon, move from the hour hand towards twelve in a counterclockwise direction. Once south is found, the other directions follow. North is directly opposite to south. When facing north, west is on the left, east on the right (spelling “we” on a compass.) At twelve noon, the hour hand points directly south (or close to it). This entire technique gives approximate, not precise, directions, because our clocks are not perfectly coordinated with the sun (because of standard time, explained below.)

I am in the growing minority of people who wear analog watches on the wrist. But if your clock is a mobile phone or a digital watch, you're still not stuck. You can draw a traditional clock (in the soil with a stick if necessary) with hour hand pointing at the sun, and employ the same technique as listed above. Or you can use another available dial as a makeshift clock (as Dave Canterbury did in the "Split Up" episode of the television show Dual Survival, using his digital watch and the pressure gauge from his parachute.) Of course, exercise caution when looking at the sun!

On my past several hikes, I have applied the watch-as-compass technique, and quickly became confident enough to keep my magnetic compass hidden in my jacket pocket, while watch and sun (plus map) showed me direction. In so doing, I discovered a remarkable added benefit—I was tracking the sun in ways that I hadn't before. I developed an awareness of its daily trek across the sky, the tiniest hint of the awareness known by the ancient peoples who built the great houses of Chaco Culture National Historical Park, and calibrated their structures to the seasonal movements of the sun and moon and stars.

For most of human prehistory and history, people have turned to the heavens for navigation and the keeping of time. Many American Indians use the term “with the sun” where I use the term “clockwise”—for the sun moves clockwise on its daily trek from east to south to west. The television series Longitude (based on the book by Dava Sobel) informed me that the original purpose for the invention of the watch was navigation at sea, with the difference between time on the ship and time at the home port being key to determining longtitude. As Sobel describes it: “Every day at sea, when the navigator resets his ship's clock to local noon when the sun reaches its highest point in the sky, and then consults the home port clock, every hour's discrepancy between them translates into another fifteen degrees of longitude.”

Radiolab's Time episode informed me that, in the United States in 1850, time varied in every location, based on the sun. Every town had its own twelve noon, based on when the sun reached its daily zenith. (Additionally, there was no single official clock, and so one person's 9:00 was as valid as the next one's 9:20.) Railroads pushed to make time become standardized, because different clocks led to missed trains. Some towns protested standard time, seeing it as a threat to individual identity. But the railroads won out. Eventually, the Standard Time Act of 1918 made standardized time and timezones the law of the land. Since then, the average American has become more estranged from the sun, as its necessity for timekeeping and navigation has diminished.

And yet, we would be wise to reconnect with Father Sun. For a greener and more sustainable world, it is essential. The Homestead at Denison University introduced me to passive solar building design: the south-facing windows of my old Cabin One trap sunlight in the winter to warm the structure. In the summer, the sun makes a higher arc, and its rays shine through the windows less directly. Similar windows are employed in the strawbale Cabin Bob and earthship Cabin Pheonix, and the superb insulation of straw and soil keeps the structures warm in the winter, cool in the summer. All Homestead buildings face south, the direction of maximum sunlight, and capitalize on some form of passive solar design for winter heat. Sadly, most buildings in America do not. Passive solar could keep millions on barrells of oil in the ground, reduce global warming, and save on costs. And it is but one example of the wonders we will achieve, if we come to know the sun. 

Of Zines, Forest Wonders, and Aliens

Much has happened in the past month. My journeys have taken me to the bountiful forests of the pacific northwest, and back to the mysterious deserts and caves of the southwest, a few times. Alongside fellow artist Lesley McClintock, I had a successful exhibit at the Portland Zine Symposium. In preparation, we had a memorable art-jam session, as well as an “open mike” gathering and reading, at the Independent Publishing Resources Center (IPRC). The IPRC had tools ranging from old-fashioned letterpress and printing press to high tech computers and scanners, and varied cartoonists and zinesters working away to finish their publications for the big show. There was an energy present, which reminded me of my alma mater The Center for Cartoon Studies, and made me envious of the independent artists of Portland, who have regular access to such resources. At the symposium, I sold or traded a stack of my own comic books, and returned with a pile of new and different works by the other exhibitors, which I am gradually reading.

Back at Carlsbad Caverns, I reintroduced myself to the world of caves, and worked frantically in preparation for guiding my first tours of Lower Cave and Slaughter Canyon Cave. No sooner had I completed these interpretive missions, past such luminary speleothems as the Texas Toothpick, the Monarch, and Skeletor (shown below, driving his slaves), than I had to depart for my next expedition to the west coast.

This one brought me first to Seattle, then to Mazama, Washington. I was witness to wonder, both in the mighty forests of Mazama, and the wedding of Brad Halm and Erika Kercher. Brad is an ol' Homestead friend of mine, and co-founder of the Seattle Urban Farm Company. Erika is an Outward Bound instructor, based in Mazama, hence the wedding location of their favorite place to hike, climb, canoe, and grow a garden. For me, the wedding was another Homestead reunion, with multiple Homestead and post-Homestead comrades sharing a cabin in the woods, with camping space in its yard, which I capitalized on. The ceremony took place in a field, against a backdrop of towering evergreens and volcanic rock-faces. It would be hard to imagine a better send-off to the next phase of life, with the spirits of earth as witness. At night, the lights of countless stars glimmered through the black void of space; perhaps they bore witness as well.

On my drives between Carlsbad and the airport in Albuquerque, I contemplated visitors from space. For betwixt these locations on Route 285 is Roswell, a small New Mexican town, whose name, for the world, has become synonymous with UFOs. I finally made landing at the International UFO Museum and Research Center. Established in 1994, the Museum is devoted to the UFO phenomenon, and especially the "Roswell Incident." In 1947, on the morning after a violent thunderstorm, rancher William “Mack” Brazel found strange wreckage and debris scattered across his sheep ranch in the desert of southeastern New Mexico, and later made the 75-mile journey to Roswell to report it to civilian and military authorities. After inspection, the air force announced to the press that a flying saucer had crash-landed, but changed their story to a weather balloon a few hours later. At the UFO Museum, the walls are covered with affidavits and testimonials from witnesses, who claimed that the flying machine was from another planet, and contained materials not of this earth; that the military recovered alien bodies along with the wreckage; invented the weather balloon story as a cover up; and silenced anyone who knew otherwise with bribes and threats. The Roswell Incident makes for an intriguing story, whatever the origins of the aircraft in question.

Especially in my youth, I regarded the possibility of extraterrestrial visitors with a special sense of awe—and fear. While vampires and werewolves could send shivers across my frame, I had confidence that these creatures were pure fantasy. Aliens on the other hand, might be real. When I saw the 1993 film Fire in the Sky, I became apprehensive about walking in the woods alone, especially in my home territory of West Virginia. I was concerned that I might be next, and didn't want the little grey men to put a needle in my eye. In recent years, I have become less afraid of otherworldly travelers, and more concerned about global warming and nuclear war. After revisiting some of my childhood wonders and fears at Roswell, I expressed them in my sketchbook.

I wish happy and safe journey to my readers, and hope that you stay clear from all threats. terrestrial or extraterrestrial!

Revisiting past lives, in the midwest and southwest

With or without reincarnation, most of us have had multiple lives. In every new community, and every new work or school, there is some sense of re-invention and redefinition of roles and parameters. When revisiting the past, you both can and can't go home again. Upon return to an old home, there is a ring of familiarity, and a gulf of distance.

I experienced all of this on my latest road trip, going west, from Morgantown, West Virginia, to Grand Canyon, Arizona. My first two-night stop was in Granville, Ohio, and The Homestead at Denison University, the community of my defining years. This year, winds of change have swept across The Homestead. The university administration determined that, in order to bring the collective up to modern-day safety standards, the original cabins (built in 1977 and '78), must go. They shall be replaced by a new cabin, a green structure insofar as possible, but one containing a sprinkler system to defend from fires, and temperature-control so the sprinklers can function. Not quite as spartan as The Homestead I knew. This summer, all Homesteaders will be employed in an intensive effort to construct the new cabin, so some can move into it this fall. Therefore, for The Homestead, the summer of 2013 shall be very similar to the summer of 1977. In both, Homies worked feverishly to build their own houses, and used outside professional and volunteer helped wherever needed.

The Homestead residences, right to left: Cabin One, 1977; Cabin Phoenix, 2008; the new cabin, under construction

Originally, Homestead founding visionary Dr. Robert Alrutz proposed the demolition of old cabins and construction of new ones every five years, to give more students the knowledge and rewards of building their own living spaces. Instead, two of original three cabins have lasted for 36 years, while one was lost to fire in January 2000 (no people were harmed in the event.) Since 1999, The Homies have added a strawbale “community center” called Cabin Bob (named in honor of Robert Alrtuz); an earthship “Cabin Pheonix” to replace the building lost to fire; an new outhouse, insulated with bottles and cans; a toolshed; an improved solar-electrical system; a rainwater-catchement system; new gardens and orchards; a new chicken-house; and much more. Each cabin has its own unique life, personality, and story. And, like all people, governments, and civilizations, the cabins don't last forever. “Cabin Three” lasted from 1978 to 2013. Recently, workers demolished it to make space for the new structure. Homesteaders have a tradition of writing on the walls, to share their own reflections, and those of literary figures. Sometime in the past, a visitor to The Homestead wrote on the wall of Cabin Three: “This place is a fantasy. May it forever be.” I hope that the spirit of Cabin Three will live on, a benevolent haze, sometimes inhabiting the new structure. 

 Cabin Bob, the community center, with residential cabins in background

Right now, The Homestead looks like a construction site in the woods. Professionals of various sorts are hard at work on the new cabin, first laying the foundation. They make preparations for the student labor, the bulk of which will take place in the summer. And so, this visit to The Homestead was a little disorienting, as I walked through fields of mud from upended earth, past parked bulldozers and backhoes. Somehow, the workers moved the toolshed, which is the size of a small cabin, to a new location (with a crane?). And they knocked down many trees in front of Cabin Bob, to create more garden space. The Homies have pledged to plant trees this summer, to compensate for the ones felled. It is a time of upheaval, but the familiar Homestead magic is present. I am certain that something beautiful will grow from The Homestead's chaotic new developments, like the beautiful Crater Lake, formed in the tumult of volcanic eruptions. My regret is that I will not be there this summer, to bring the new cabin to life with hand and hammer and saw. I have the utmost faith in the current Homies, but I will miss the first-hand experience of building.

After The Homestead, my westward voyage resumed. Fortunately, I had multiple friends and relatives to visit along my long road trip, and so I escaped the full effect of the “lonely road.” I stopped in St. Louis Missouri, and saw my aunt, the famous film scholar Gaylyn Studlar, and her husband Thomas Haslett. I enjoyed their company, their cats, an some good food before I proceeded west on I-40. Institutionalized nostalgia for Route 66 permeated much of the Interstate through Missouri. There was even a public rest area covered in Route 66 installation art. And when I passed the multitudinous four-color hand-painted billboards and barn-ads for Merrimec Caverns, I felt I had passed through a time-warp. I made a brief stop at the caverns, passed an old-fashoined “zoo”, and was dissapointed to find the Jesse James wax museum was closed.

Route 66-themed rest stop

And then the road took me to Stillwater, Oklahoma, one of my childhood homes, where I have not set foot in 20 years. In Stillwater, the earth is flat, at least locally. I revisited old family friends, discussed comics and science fiction literature, and visited the former home of Chester Gould, creator of Dick Tracey, and, possibly the most famous student of Oklahoma State University. I revisited my Alma Mater, Will Rogers Elementary, where I struggled with multiplication tables, and developed skills in tetherball and four square. I saw our old stone house, which had been painted a uniform dark brown by new owners. Sadly, the scotch pine that I planted in the yard no longer stood. But the big tree in the backyard, site of my makeshift tree houses and my birthday pinatas, was still there. I walked in “the fields” at the end of the street behind our old house, with its open prairie, thickets of juniper, and hills. As a youngster, I took more than a few thrill rides in a big red wagon down the hills, over bumps and jumps and mud-slicks. And I held cap-pistol battles with friends on the sandy mounds. I brought box-turtles home from the fields, and fed them strawberries and earthworms, before releasing them back to the wild. 

The flat "fields" of Oklahoma

To the nostalgic visitor, Stillwater, Oklahoma seems much like the peaceful, friendly, quintessential western American small town. I felt like I had stumbled into a Ray Bradbury story, and was exploring Green Town, Illinois. I waited for the haunted carnival or the enchanted doll or the rocket ship to Mars to show up.

A childhood home

In Texas, I visited Palo Duro Canyon State Park. I hiked to the canyon's base, breathed the dry canyon air, experienced the sun, already formidable in April. I trekked across expansive landscapes of cliffs and chasms, where bright yellows mixed with dark greens, from the plant life. Ravens flew overhead. The trail below my feet, like much of the infrastructure at Palo Duro (and at national and state parks and public lands all over the country), was built during the Great Depression by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC). Every time I observe these lasting accomplishments by hardworking young men, I lament that no comparable program has been launched in response to the contemporary economic crisis. I advise the president and congress: it's not too late to end the “sequester” and launch a “green new deal.”

Palo Duro Canyon

I made sure to have a full gas tank and several full containers of water before I crossed the deserts of New Mexico and Arizona--”Indian Country.” Interstate 40 took me across many hundreds of miles of hot and dry landscapes of rock, cast in orange and yellow and red, dotted with yucca and sage. For a desert, it was surprisingly populated, with truck stops and gas stations at regular intervals, and many outposts and trading posts purveying Native American jewelry and souvenirs. (A lonely gas station in a desolate part of the desert had bathrooms decorated with large sheets of paper, where travellers could write something about their trips.) Public “rest areas,” however, were disturbingly rare. Many rest areas, especially in Oklahoma, were deemed “closed.” Evidently, in the age of austerity, even these small spaces of break and relief from the road, where one can picnic or walk among among trees or cactus, are on the chopping block.  A rare rest-stop in Arizona allowed me the opportunity to photograph myself among the rocks:

 Arizona stones

I had some long, long days of driving. Alone among mega-trucks, able to see the horizon many miles away, beneath the panoramic sky which accompanies flat land. Entertained by audiobooks, fueld by trail mix, submarine sandwiches, hot tea, and saving coffee for when I needed it. I watched the miles to my destination tick away on my GPS, and occasionally updated friends and family with my cell phone. Although guided and aided by devices that travelers on the old Route 66 did not even imagine, my mode of travel was distinctly similar to theirs. I drove an automobile, burned petroleum in the internal combustion engine, released toxic fumes, and caused global warming. While communications technology has matched or exceeded the wild visions of science fiction, transportation technology remains mired somewhere in the mid-twentieth century.

The road took me through Albuquerque and past the petrified forest, and, finally, to the Grand Canyon. Here, I make a multi-day stop, a welcome relief from driving all day. I will take a backpacking trip in the Canyon with my friend Lesley, who is now a volunteer ranger for the park's environmental education program. And I'll revisit memories of past visits to the Canyon, including ambitious hikes to the Colorado River and back, first with a group of scouts in my teenage years, and then with my comrade Dave in my college days. In my new hike, I shall again face the fearsome sun above and unforgiving rocks underfoot. And I shall feel the rewards of travelling by means of my own bones and muscles.

The Grand Canyon

After Grand Canyon, my final destination will be another National Park: Carlsbad Caverns. There, I shall be a seasonal park ranger. Luckily, I was not “sequestered.” After four stints at Crater Lake, I have found a new site of natural beauty to interpret. In advance, I have been trying to learn all I can about bats and cave life. I anticipate majestic scenery, above and below ground. I prepare for mystery and challenge, and crawls through narrow passageways lit by headlamp. The nightly mass exodus of Mexican free-tailed bats from the cave shall be a wonder to behold, and an honor to give an introductory speech for.

Evidently, I won't be the only Studlar revisiting past lives this summer. My father, the famous political scientist Donley Studlar, had a special nostalgia for Carlsbad, New Mexico, and its fabled caves. The town was his family home for one year, when he was in third grade, and his father pursued oil drilling work in varied parts of the southwest. Upon learning that I was going to Carlsbad, my dad dug through his multitudinous piles of papers and souvenirs, and retreived a 1950's informational booklet about Carlsbad Caverns, and his school picture from Joe Stanley Smith Elementary, over 55 years old.

In my latest western sojourn, there are many nostalgic returns, but also fresh opportunities. Taking guidance from the past, I plan to make something good and new.

Blogger's note: I wrote most of this entry on April 26, 2013. I have subsequently had my Grand Canyon adventure, and gathered some great pictures of reptiles, plants, and the like. I'll post them soon.

Thanks be to friends, goats, and the wealth of the soil

Ross and the goats of Wealth Underground Farm

I have much to be thankful for this post-Thanksgiving season. I am thankful for my mom, dad, and brother, and the rest of my extended family spread throughout the country. I am thankful for Lesley and my other great friends. I am thankful to be a Park Ranger at Crater Lake National Park for some of the year. I am thankful for the results of the November 2012 election: given that only two political parties have realistic chances at office, the better of the two has made substantial gains. My heart goes out to the victims of Hurricane Sandy in New York and Haiti and elsewhere. I hope that we can rebuild and restore. And I hope that we work to curb global warming, and prevent worse recurrences.

The Homestead 35th reunion, 2012

 

I am thankful for my other family—the community of current and former residents of The Homestead. We share a unique bond, like no other place I've known. Once, I was stranded in Austin, Texas, as a “refugee” from Galveston Island after Hurricane Ike. With no place to stay, I sent an email to a Homestead alum named Grant, whom I had never met, but knew lived in Austin from correspondence on our alumni email list-serve. And yes, he took me in for a week. Such is the kinship among Homesteaders.

Several of my Homestead comrades have launched new sustainable business projects, and furnished careers for themselves and earth-friendly goods and services for their communities. Among these pioneers are Colin and Brad of The Seattle Urban Farm Company, and Chris and Nolan of Wealth Underground Farm. (Side note: Colin and Brad published a book this year.  Food Grown Right, In Your Backyard provides wise advice for novice and seasoned gardeners alike.  And it makes a great Christmas gift!)

The new tome of garden wisdom

From time to time, I return to these outposts of Homesteading, for a few hours or a few months. This Thanksgiving, Lesley and I paid a visit to Portland, on that rare and precious thing known as a sunny day. From downtown, we rode bicycles for ten miles, past green houses surrounded by vine maples, past street mosaics and telephone poles full of staples, and across the St John's Bridge. The snow-covered Mount Hood was like a shining cloud in the distance; the river, 200 feet below us, swirled green and grey; we pedaled on a little patch of earth, surrounded by expanses of sky. The icy wind turned our knuckles white. Cars and trucks rumbled by slowly. In Portland, they slow down for cyclists.

After the bridge, between us and our destination, loomed a great hill. We pedaled and breathed hard. We hopped off the bikes and walked them, and breathed harder. I felt my legs become a little stiff, and I walked faster. Eventually, by this combination of walking and pedaling, we reached the top of the hill. We guessed a distance of five miles uphill, although the cold green highway signs indicated we had traveled only one.

After a right turn and a short downhill coast, we reached Wealth Underground Farm. Within the house, Nolan, Chris and his family, and their comrades crowded by warmth of a wood-burning stove, which provides both heat and cooking. While they steamed vegetables and boiled free-range flesh, we talked about life, mutual friends, present and past work and farming (wherein Chris and Lesley discovered that both had worked at Hidden Villa), and The Homestead of our origin.

Nolan, Chris, and Ross at Wealth Underground, 2011

We went out into the farm. I had last seen it in the spring of 2011, and tilled the earth and planted seeds alongside the agrarian duo. Now, in the fall, the garden swelled and gushed with plant-life. Cabbages the size of my head, turnips the size of my fist, and kale leaves wider than the span of my hand. Pumpkins and squash. A greenhouse with still-ripe tomatoes. It was impressive, to put it mildly. And they regularly furnish goods for a 30-member CSA!

The Mind of the Goat

And we met the goats. Their fur was soft, their brains inquisitive. They accepted petting from Lesley and I, and expressed special interest in the Portland map. I only permitted them a little nibble.

Lesley and the goats of New World Farmstead (Eugene, OR)

To roam among goats, to eat of the earth, to build my own shelter, and to gather by the warmth of the fire. I seek all these in life, but wonder if it is too much to ask of the modern world. Fossil fuels can rapidly take one from point A to point B, and can give any room a tropical climate. But the joys of walking the journey or splitting the wood are missed. We celebrate in winter because of the need for companionship against the challenges of weather, wherein there is hard darkness but also joyous light. Life in a climate-controlled box makes for an even, dull grey. However, when the age of cheap oil comes to an end, we may all learn the way of the Homestead, by necessity. If such occurs, we will have losses but also great gains.

On the way back down, the hill was short. It felt like half a mile at most. Thanksgiving with Lesley and her family went well. After dinner, we performed “Dumpster Theater,” our new show of storytelling and shadow puppets. We told ancient stories, and used new materials, acquired in the rubbish. We shared the wisdom of coyote and huckleberries and fire, across the generations.

Top photo by © 2012 Lesley McClintock.  Reunion photo by © 2012 some Homie alum.

Castles of Earth and Sky: A Narrative of The Homestead's 35th Anniversary Reunion

There is something magical about a reunion with old friends. The years or decades spent apart fade into the distance. We pick up right where we left off, albeit with a few scars and reminders from interim events. The phenomenon is stronger when the reunion takes place in the setting we shared; better yet when that setting is a beloved one. And so it was on my Memorial Day weekend, wherein I partook in the 35th anniversary reunion of The Homestead!

The Homestead at Denison University is a student-run intentional community with a focus on ecological sustainability, and an ever-evolving experiment in learning through living. For my latter three years at Denison, I was one of 12 students who comprised its membership. I have shared this distinction with over 300 others over the span of 35 years.

To make it feel yet more like old times, I departed for The Homestead from my other old home, my parents' house in Morgantown, West Virginia. From my suburban neighborhood; to become part of the rush of vehicles on I-70; to Granville, Ohio (a small New England town oddly placed in the midwest); past the main campus of Denison University, and finally to the parking lot of The Homestead—where I follow tradition and leave the vehicle behind, and walk the remaining half mile to my Walden. I encountered Christine, a former classmate, in the parking lot, whom I was glad to see (and hug.) I was also glad to have help in shouldering my many bulging bags of stuff on the walk back (I've never been good at traveling light). On the way, I learned of Christine's geologic research in National Parks. Not long thereafter I met up with Matty, who had returned from Kenya, where he did logistics for Doctors Without Borders. Matty gave me a hand in setup of my tent, in the tent city which had formed beside the entrance. After a walk back to the parking lot to retrieve my flashlight (wherein my former classmate Cassi met me half way and accompanied me for the rest), a car pulled in from Michigan. Out burst Ana, and her husband Joel followed. Ana is now a elementary school teacher, and co-manager with Joel of an urban homestead in Detroit. I had not seen her since the 2007 reunion, and was relieved to see that she had lost none of her trademark ebullience. And she carried an album of photographs from our Homie days in one hand, and a bag of electic clothing items in the other—to complement the Homie costume closet. Suddenly, we had an incomplete reunion of the class of 2004, there in the parking lot, not far from the red recycling barn (DURP).

We made the walk back, through the forest, through the field where fireflies flashed like Christmas lights, past the towering 'mama tree' sycamore. Once back, I entered Cabin Bob, the strawbale building which contains our kitchen and community center—a place to meet, socialize, play music, or read (the upper floor is a library.) Cabin Bob has a way of staying cool on a hot summer day, and comparatively warm in the depth of winter. We can attribute some of this to the power of strawbale insulation, some to the wood stove, and some to the hospitable spirit that permeates The Homestead. On this night, Terry, one of the founding Homesteaders in 1977, shared stories from the genesis of this marvelous experiment. Multiple generations of Homies listened with rapt attention. She told of her work alongside Robert Alrutz, the biology professor who was the original visionary behind The Homestead (Cabin Bob is named in his honor.) She carried a copy of their formal proposal which had won the hearts and minds of the university's board of directors. I never met Dr. Alrutz; he passed away in 1997, before I attended Denison. But he has done immeasurable good in my life, and the lives of my friends.

At The Homestead in May, the demands of schedule and academic calendar loosen their grip. One lives by the rhythms of nature and community, going to sleep and rising when it feels right, resting or socializing when such seems like the thing to do, cooking and eating as needed; and working to improve the grounds and buildings and gardens, following where one's muse directs. Even in the heat and humidity of this past weekend, work beckons at The Homestead. It's a natural part of country life.

I tend to awaken early, with the warmth of the sun and the chorus of songbirds. Roosters crow at all times of day (and sometimes at night); they act more as part of the background music than they do as an alarm clock. On the first morning of the reunion, I found myself in the garden, alongside a small crew of past and present Homesteaders. We planted a plenitude of tomato plants, which had been donated by Jameson, an alum. And we cleared and tilled garden beds for forthcoming plantings. I welcomed the bit of shade which the forest surrounding the garden provided while we worked.

On the way back from the garden, I saw Matty in a tree, while present-day Homesteader Juan Pablo stood on the ground, rope in hand. They discussed their new mission: to clear offending branches from the tree, so that the solar panel below could receive proper sunlight to feed The Homestead's off-the-grid electrical system. (Workers from the university physical plant are to be credited for putting a solar panel right under a tree in the first place.) These homies knew that the stakes were high. They must not only trim the heavy branches, but direct their fall. As Matty put it, “If the branches smash the solar panel, people will be making fun of us for the next 35 years.” Various homies chimed in with their own visions for what will happen, where to cut, and the direction to pull. They settled upon a plan. The roar of a chainsaw echoed across the Homestead. Juan Pablo and his crew pulled tight on the rope, as the chainsaw's rumble combined with the crack of a tottering limb. And then CRASH! The limb was on the ground. The solar panel stood intact; the limb had cleared it by less than a foot. A shout went up, a round of applause, and exclamations of “that was close.” The Homies removed more of the tree, piece by piece. The solar panel stayed intact.

The clanging of the cow bell is always a joyous sound. It invites all to gather for a mealtime, and homies appear from nearby and from far corners. We join hands in a circle and the cooks of the day proclaim their creations, we make announcements about upcoming events, or share literary quotations. Eighty persons attended the circle on the Saturday of this reunion.

We partook in the vegetarian repast, and told stories—many stories, spanning 35 years of Homestead history. Stories that make you laugh, stories that can make you cry, stories that make you shiver with fear, stories that make you feel warm and fuzzy inside. Stories about the cast of characters, human and animal, who has left their mark on this land; stories about the evolution of the landscape, and the about the fun we had along the way.

Quite luckily, Homestead alum Chris Jacob (know to us as Chris J) has taken it upon himself to record some of these 35 years of verbal traditions. He is at work on a documentary film about The Homestead. At the reunion, he made sure to interview many Homies, including yours truly, and solicit their stories. I eagerly await the release of this film.

The stories continued around the campfire at night, until they were replaced by the beating of bongo and Djembe drums. On a hot summer night, the campfire felt like a sweat lodge, but that didn't stop the eager band of Homies in reunion. We even donned costumes, from the costume closet and from Ana's wares. We drummed and danced long into the night. I played my standard spoon-on-mug.

The next morning began slow. Homies lounged in the flesh-cooking sun, or chilled in Cabin Bob, and drank coffee. After a while, Cassi accurately deduced that the sluggishness was related to empty bellies. She recruited me for a mission: to make breakfast. And she showed me the grand stock of vegetables, which was hidden in the corner. I recognized the wisdom of her plan, and took command of the kitchen. I knew that the large number of persons present required great volumes of food. Rapidly, I recruited multiple volunteers to chop vegetables and gather herbs. Mushrooms, onions, garlic, carrots, tomatoes, and especially—potatoes. We filled bowls with potatoes and their complements. We soon had potato dishes a-sizzle in olive oil all over the stovetop, and more inside the oven. We scrambled some home-grown eggs as well. For this breakfast, I deliberately tried to make way-over-the-top too much food, and then make more. But after we rang the bell, circled, and unleashed the Homies upon the meal like a band of hungry bears, I discovered—that portions would be small. Cooking for twelve is a challenge, while cooking for over fifty is a stunt from a higher plane. Nonetheless, our potato smorgasbord fueled some impressive labor in the sun.

After breakfast, present-day Homie Kyle led an effort to apply stucco to Cabin Phoenix. I was present (as an alum) when the construction of Phoenix began, wherein a backhoe dug the foundation, and Homies with sledgehammers pounded earth into tires to create blocks. And so I am honored to have partaken in this final stage of the Phoenix project as well, applying the last water-resistant coat to the walls. We mixed cement and sand and color. We worked the paste (stucco), which behaved much like cookie-dough, onto the walls. Afterwards, Christine, Cassi, and Juan Pablo gave Phoenix a window-washing.

Later on, I did a bit more gardening alongside Ana, Joel, Chris J, and others. We exchanged stories about beekeeping while we weeded and tilled the new beds. Then a comrade summoned me to assist in re-raising the windmill. My height was advantageous for this task. With the combination of ropes, ladders, and human muscle, we raised the propeller-tower almost as skillfully as the old inhabitants of Easter Island raised their statues. And we returned a longtime Homestead icon to its rightful place of standing. The windmill's background story is for another day.

No Homestead reunion is complete without a talent show. Ours featured stories of The Homestead, real and fantastical; martial arts movie parodies; juggling; disc golf feats; an inimitable display of rapid bread-eating by Juan Pablo; and a reading an excerpt from The Raven and the Crayfish by yours truly—with an accompanying improvised interpretive dance by Matty and Chris J!

 Eventually, I had to see Matty, Christine, Cassi, Ana, Joel, Chris J, and all my other friends off to their respective homes. And I too had to go back. Arrivals and departures of various friends happened at all times throughout the reunion. The joy of seeing old friends combined with the pleasure of meeting new ones, who have borne or will bear the Homestead torch. In the span of four days, I gave and received so many hugs; I completely lost count. Several of my classmates brought young children to the reunion—their children, conceived sometime in the years since we graduated. I am happy to see a new generation emerging, who I hope will live in the spirit of The Homestead, and exceed even their remarkable parents.

A bond exists among all Homesteaders, even those who did not share the space concurrently. We all shared in the good life—meaningful work, meaningful play, a sense of purpose, and an eye towards the future. At our last circle, before most of us prepared to depart back to our various other lives and livelihoods, I read a passage from the last chapter of Walden. The part where Thoreau shares that he left the woods, but took its lessons with him. From this passage, I recall the line “If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.” Homestead alumni carry a 'castle in the air'—the vision for a better world, a world more like The Homestead. Now our mission is to take steps (however small) to bring that vision to life. With a little faith and a lot of sweat, we can work wonders. Vegetables, beans, and the bonds of friendship provide essential fuel for the quest.

A heartfelt thank you to my fellow Homesteaders to shot the photos with me in them!  

"Stove top" pic by Cassi Leneski; "Stucco" pic by Mike Becher, and I don't remember who shot 

the Cabin Bob kitchen overview.  © to respective photographers.