Gardens of Efficiency

Toronto's growing season is short and reckless. Those of us who can't wait until June throw pretty flowers in barrels and planters knowing that they may be struck down by frost, turned into drooped melted Crayon reminders of our haste. But we can't help ourselves. Relishing every moment of warmth and color is a communal ritual. Everyone is out, and peer pressure is in full swing. How can I not feel a pull to do something about my tiny patch of lawn stubble when Mrs. Lam across the street in her (much larger) lawn is on her knees picking weeds one by one out of her lush green grass with precision most of us reserve for plucking eyebrows.

Walking around this neighborhood taking in the stunning beauty of tiny front lawns has gotten me thinking about what moves us to garden, and what doesn't. We are moved to create something beautiful, to drink in the possibility of growth. We've been cooped up for too long. If we dared, we'd stand on our porches and bellow Diana Ross' "I'm Coming Out." (Fortunately, we plant pansies instead).

But here's the catch. While my front yard is a perfectly acceptable dash of color and effort, my back yard is a sty. Really. Cement this, plastic that, overgrown things, and a beautiful stone Buddha sitting under an old lilac tree wondering where he went wrong and how he can make his way back to Sri Lanka.

All of which, naturally, gets me thinking about home energy efficiency, and the choices that we make. Air Sealing - caulking up leaks and insulating pipes - is one of the most basic and constructive steps we can take to make our homes efficient. It's the opposite of a sidewalk garden. Nobody ever sees caulk. At least, we hope they don't. Ditto insulation. We don't walk by houses and pick up ideas for insulation, the way we steal landscaping ideas. In fact, home energy efficiency envy only comes into play when we go face to face with our neighbors, when we find out what they're up to. At potlucks when Sarah and Matthew talk about going (gasp) geo-thermal, and Katherine draws a crowd talking about her rain-capture system. (If you think I'm joking, remember we're all over 40 - stripping is no longer the easiest way to draw a crowd).

In other words, I am a little worried that our quiet gestures of efficiency are too quiet to be infectious. And that's not good.

Take, for example, my house. Two days ago (the morning after most of the plants in our barrels died) I noticed that I was cold. I was standing about 10 feet from our programmable thermostat (with which I have a rather strained relationship). Rather than look at it, I shouted up three floors, "John! Did you turn off the heat?" To which he responded (predictably, as I could now see that the thermostat was off), "Yes."

I looked at the ceiling and then the floor, doing a cartoonish impression of a befuddled old man. Thermotat off. Cold. Hunh. Smart. But. I. Well. Better? Why? And then I had a very very childish thought: I wish the neighbors knew. Wouldn't they be impressed. I wish our garden looked richer and healthier than all of the other gardens on the block because we were using less energy. Remember ET? How that plant drooped when ET started to fail, and sprang to life when ET started to get stronger? Remember how sure you were that Drew Barrymore would never grow out of her role as Gertie? She did, eventually. But I digress.

People who know claim (accurately, I think) that we don't invest in energy efficiency for the sake of efficiency and return on investment. They say that we invest in things that we want - beautiful, useful things, and if they are efficient, that's a bonus. But I think we also invest in order to be part of the community we live in.  That's the theory behind the One Thousand Home Challenge, supported by Bright Built Barn, a house in Maine that wears its energy use and production on its sleeve for all to see, and a theory supported more simply by beautiful gardens in front of modest houses. I'm not sure the ET plant is going to make it to market - and it wouldn't hold up in winter, anyway. So here's what I'd like to see: a stake I could put in my front yard that grew more and more beautiful as our energy use declined. Everyone would want one, and on that chilly morning when the heat was off, I could peek outside and say, "Isn't that beautiful."

Photo credit: Naomi C.O. Beal