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.

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.

Dangers from nuke and sewer; wiser approaches

For this drawing, I took some influence from Japanese giant monster movies.

The nuclear situation in Japan remains frightening, as does the threat of a similar event in the US. The bone-chilling guitar riff from Black Sabbath's “Electric Funeral” plays repeatedly in my head.

Since my previous post, I have learned some new things about our unsafe reactors. According to Dr. Ira Helfand, The U.S. nuclear plant most vulnerable to earthquake damage is not in California, but Indian Point, 27 miles north of New York City—with a population of over 20 million within a 50 mile radius. Where or how that population could evacuate in a meltdown crisis is an open question. For more on nuclear power and why it is not good energy policy, consult this thoroughly-researched blog by the U.S. PIRGs.

Meanwhile, wind farms in Japan were unscathed by the earthquake. Remarkable.

Tectonic and climactic forces have ravaged our cities multiple times in recent years. And repeatedly demonstrated our unpreparedness for such events.

I have experienced the destructive power of weather firsthand. In 2008, I lived on Galveston Island, Texas, and worked for an environmental education organization there. In September, Hurricane Ike struck. Prior to the storm's arrival, I evacuated to a Houston. I and several other employees and relatives of the director rode it out in an upper floor apartment. I spent the day before the storm frantically gathering and preparing all the supplies I could—gasoline, batteries, emergency phone charger, radio, water, more water, canned food, rubber boots, etc. The night of the storm, I was alternately asleep and awake, as I listened to wind and rain pummel the building—first from one side, then the other. The sturdy brick structure absorbed the weather's assault. The next day, we were without electricity. The building quickly overheated, being designed for air conditioning. Neighbors gathered for a grill-fest of the meat in their fridges—we had to eat it before the bacteria set to work seriously on that task, making the stuff foul-smelling and unpalatable. We gathered around battery-powered radios and listened to weather updates (and audiobooks). I stood in a long line to collect my allocated food and water from FEMA. Driving in Houston became even more hazardous than usual, in the absence of functional traffic lights.

I returned to Galveston after the storm, to move myself out, and to help the organization recover. I found a devastated island. I learned about the dangers brought on by a storm surge.

An excerpt from an email that I sent to friends about the situation on September 26, 2008 (slightly edited):

“I have made my exit from Galveston Texas. I hid safely in Houston during the storm, and my second-floor apartment back on the island was remarkably undamaged. I lost amazingly little property in the storm, only some books that were at the office. The office was not so lucky as my place. The office is located on the ground-floor, but near the highest street on the island. Even so, the storm surge flooded the building up to four feet. Computers, microscopes, binoculars, slide-projectors, many books, and cabinet drawers full of essential grant papers were waterlogged, went swimming, or were overgrown with mold. And this was no ordinary water filling the office. When the water level riseth, the sewer overfloweth. My last day with the organization was spent clearing and cleaning the toxic office. The smell made my head swell and nose run, and I hoped that my rubber gloves and boots were sufficient shield from the brown scum that covered all surfaces that were flooded. The organization lost about 75 per cent of equipment, and the Galveston Bay will be unsafe to kayak for months. All but the four veteran employees were laid off temporarily, and I have decided to migrate onward.”

When the water level riseth, the sewer overfloweth. Even without a Hurricane, there are many dangers to so-called sanitary sewers. Human excrement combines with drain cleaners and industrial chemicals, and is distilled at sewage treatment plants to create toxic sludge. Depending on your municipality, the sludge may be landfilled, incinerated, or applied to agricultural lands. All of these approaches can be hazardous to your health, and none are environmentally sustainable.

There is a better way. I learned about it thanks to The Homestead, and made it my topic for the Homestead Seminar for my senior year. Human excrement or “humanure” can be a valuable resource—if it is composted under the right conditions so as to kill pathogens. Sustainable living-practitioner Joseph Jenkins has authored an invaluable resource on this subject—The Humanure Handbook. (The Composting Toilet System Book by David Del Porto and Carol Steinfield is also a worthy tome.) With composting toilets, we could all be safer and our planet healthier.

Beyond waste management, The Homestead also taught me about temperature management. The strawbale Cabin Bob is cool in the summer with no air conditioning, and comparatively warm in the winter, even when there isn't a fire. Overall, the structure maintains homeostasis considerably better than the apartment complex in Houston. The Homestead has much to teach us about wiser forms of technology.

Cabin Bob and its proud south-facing windows, which capture the sun's warmth in the winter. The structure and its surroundings have evolved considerably since this 2001 photo.

I had intended to include with this post the educational comic/ poster on humanure that I created for my seminar project. I have been unable to find this item, so will post it at a later date. For now, I'll share a sea turtle. These critters are affected by all that occurs around coasts, and will appreciate a transition to sustainable methods.