New Old Growth
About 20 years ago, I almost bought a very old house in a historic district. I placed an offer, had it accepted, and then cringed my way through the inspection report.
The foundation, it turned out, was every bit as historical as the home. I ended up not buying it. I didn’t have the stomach to deal with a major restoration at the time.
You’d think this would have been an easy decision, but I tried to rationalize all the reasons why I should go through with a purchase. The inspector talked sense into me; he said that the whole place was being held aloft by a few toothpicks and some strategically placed rocks.
I reluctantly walked away.
Why?
It was the floors. They were made of old growth trees that were hand harvested and hewn by the first souls to get their chuckwagons to Indiana. And they were beautiful.
Those old growth forests are long gone now, largely replaced by agricultural development. But, more and more, these too, are disappearing. The smaller farms are selling to larger Ag conglomerates or developers. In fact, over the past 20-year period, I barely recognize the areas surrounding that historic house (still miraculously standing). Instead of tractors, there are neighborhoods, apartments, big box stores, and every fast-food chain imaginable.
The tranquil hills with pastured sheep are no longer there. The historic barns were dismantled, the pieces sold at auction for big bucks. The quirky farm houses and vegetable stands that I remember passing are only a memory now.
And I feel weird about it.
When I return to these places, it is usually for a soccer tournament in some slick new park with turf. I am part of the reason for the land development. I am a consumer of something that I feel uncomfortable about.
For all I know, the fancy soccer field provided the hefty planks of oak gracing that old home. It supported wildlife and old-fashioned agricultural practices. And now it has another value in the world. But even as I park in the lot to watch my son play sports, I wonder if any of the changes I’ve witnessed could have been done better. I wonder if they could have been carried out in such a way to preserve or restore wildlife, to limit sprawl.
When these sites were being planned, I was half a world away, giving birth in a German hospital. I didn’t know that the military would move us to Kansas next. I didn’t know that we would return to Indiana a few years after that. I was unaware that my child would wish to play competitive sports of the travel variety.
And yet, this park was built for me.
All of the houses and stores and fast food were built for me too.
They were built for lots of families just like ours, ready and waiting for our consumption.
…At some level, we are all consumers, I get it.
…Also, I love that my kiddo is pumped to engage in healthy competition, physical activity, and teamwork.
I just can’t help feeling like there is room for improvement in how it’s done. And, as a parent who’s sat in the blazing heat of the sidelines during countless soccer matches, there is definitely room for the shade of a few more trees.
Growing up in New England, growth was often severely curtailed by rocky or mountainous landscapes. The original towns, some of them still going strong, have established town greens, or large community spaces with a usable clearing. The towns were surrounded by forests. This echoed many similarly constructed European towns and villages.
In contrast, the pancake flatness of Indiana lends itself to building just about anything of just about any dimensions. And so, that’s what developers do. Everything spreads and sprawls, necessitating cars and parking lots for normal life. The need to drive everywhere combined with the lack of nature has a jarring effect.
There are some developments that have given a great deal of thought to constructing good, functional, and beautiful communities. Like Culdesac in Tempe, AZ that Mr. Money Mustache raves about. A self-contained, carless development project with a range of housing models, affordability, and every amenity. It is a modern village.
On a recent drive through the country, I was reminded that there are plenty of people already engaging in another model of development.
As I carefully made my way down narrow country roads, alongside idyllic pastures, the first clues that I was approaching these green communities were the solar panels, enormous backyard gardens, and signs to watch for bicyclists. Driving further into the heartland, the density of horse poop on the side of the road could only mean one thing: I was in the heart of Amish territory.
The Amish have an interesting approach to development and lifestyle. While rules vary from church to church within an Amish community, most of the ones I know have power (solar), use cell phones (for business), and prefer greener transport methods (bicycle, horse and buggy, or carpooling in a van driven by a non-Amish person for longer distance). They compost, garden, and hang their clothes outside to dry. There are vast expanses of agricultural land in between the small cities with amenities and higher density housing.
From the modern, hip, and progressive new towns like Culdesac to the rural and largely conservative Amish communities, I see the pattern of human tendency towards connection and beauty. Towards conserving what we have and doing the best we can to manage it.
I’m not saying that we shouldn’t have stores, or fast food, or fancy soccer fields, but I do wonder if the foot print of all of these modern staples could be reined in a little. So, even if I have to drive, I could park once and walk everywhere else. Like I did in my European village. Like the cool inhabitants of a carless town. Like the Amish.
I don’t want anyone developing vast grids of more stuff for future me. I’d rather see a few more trees, walkable or bikable communities, and attention placed on beauty and preserving the landscape. I want to see the start of the new old growth.
