#22 Solar Empowered

Trial by Solar: Life off the Grid
One of the most taken-for-granted aspects of urban living is turning on electric lights and rarely thinking about where the energy really comes from. For me on the mountain, I've been trying to learn about how to manage my energy, quite literally. My cabin was built around 1980 and is part of a road association of perhaps 80 properties that range from 20 to 40 acres or so.

As I understand it, at the founding of the road association, the CC&Rs (Codes, Covenants & Regulations) specified that anyone buying a property was committing to a life “off the grid,” meaning no public utility would be bringing power poles and lines through these woods. Many people who headed into this mountainous terrain were surely happy to be free of a bureaucratic power company and reliance on fossil fuels, while others were surely hoping that the power would be brought in eventually. Reporting on a subsequent battle royale in these har’ hills years ago over those conflicting goals would require another post.

Suffice it to say that while my neighbors up the hill have electricity pouring in through power lines that go right to their house, I am off the grid (OTG). Hence, I use solar panels to generate electricity. I can also (as do many of my other OTG neighbors) utilize a generator to power the household, but I’m trying to learn to rely on solar alone. It’s not easy!

Like other parts of the cabin, the solar system was rejuvenated in the recent renovations. I’ve referred often to Ralph Pisciotta, the eletrician and solar magician, since he also has befriended me and fed me all kinds of reading, especially on Zen Buddhist topics. Ralph rewired the whole cabin (featured here putting the solar equipment together in May). He also helped me design and understand my solar power system. Techno-idiot that I am, my knowledge is minimal, as you shall see, but more than I ever had when simply flipping a switch while On the Grid.

The Solar Hut and Solar Panels
You can see my solar panels on the roof. Ralph hooked me up with two new panels that generate 400 watts together. I had three older panels which together generate 200 more watts.

In essence, the photovoltaic cell in the panel is composed of a layer of silicon that has been “doped” on one side with boron and with phosphorous on the other side. When sunlight hits this PS&B sandwich, photons throw off electrons, and with conductor wires, the subsequent electrical current flows into the storage “tank” of batteries.

The batteries and the inverter are stored in this adorable Solar Hut on my deck by the kitchen. The Carpenter-Craftsmen added their touches: Mike created an artistically appropriate vent, and Tom made the arch over the hut door, which came from some old pieces of redwood boards off the inside of my shed. (Recycle, reuse, reduce…)

How Healthy Are Your Batteries?
Here are my batteries, which look similar to car batteries. There are 2 sets of 12-volt batteries, meaning each set is comprised of 2 6-volt batteries. The two banks are connected and work “in parallel” and “in series.” You’ll see that each battery has 3 plugs, one for each cell, and each cell generates 2 volts.

The cells require distilled water to cover the metal plates inside. Back in May, Ralph and I used a hydrometer to measure the “specific gravity” in each cell to be sure that the batteries were still viable. With the turkey baster-like hydrometer and the flotation device inside the glass suction tube, we could see what the health of the battery, in effect. We were checking the acidity of the liquid in each cell to gage whether the battery plates had sulfated, which would mean the battery would not hold a charge. We also wanted to know about the comparative charge of each cell.

I have to be sure to refill the cells with distilled water on a regular basis, especially during a sunny week when the liquid in there is boiling from the charge.

Previous to the renovations, the cabin relied on a 12-volt DC system, or a “direct current.” A DC system requires special plugs for all electrical appliances. I had several adaptor plugs and small inverters, the kind you can use in your car by plugging it into the cigarette lighter. In rewiring Ralph provided AC circuitry so that I can simply plug in appliances normally—well, with limits. No hair dryers or any appliances that require more than 1000 watts or that will blow out my circuits.

I am learning about the significance of these batteries, an appropriate metaphor as I have often seen my whole journey into a prolonged stay in this cabin in the woods as a much needed opportunity to recharge my personal batteries. Ralph has been teaching me the importance of keeping my 12-volt batteries charged and the many ways I need to be conscious of maintaining the system.

Ralph instructed me to think in WATTS. As some of us didn’t learn in science class:
Amps x Volts = Watts
Each battery has a 225 Amp Hour Rating; that is, it will put out 225 Amps over 10 hours. So to measure that in wattage:


225 AH x 12 volts x 2 [banks of 12 volts] = 5400 watts total over 10 hours
That means, I could blow my alloted 5400 watts in one hour if I plug in everything I own and go to town on an electric splurge, or I can use up to 540 watts per hour over ten hours or less. It all depends how much energy I need to expend and how I chose to expend it. It’s like driving your car at 75 miles an hour and burning up your gas a lot faster than if you drove at 55.

The Inverter
I only have a 1000 watt inverter, the cute little back pack gadget pictured here. My Magnum (I love saying that more than a pacifist should) takes the direct current (DC) that comes down the wire and gets stored in the batteries and changes that power into alternating current AC.

The inverter is connected to my battery charge montior indoors (below), which gives me a rough idea of how much charge is left in the batteries. During a sunny day, I can use all kinds of gadgets, with the sunlight seemingly flowing directly from the solar panels into my laptop or record, but I still have to allow the batteries enough time to recharge while the light is shining on the panels. That is, I should not turn on all of my gadgets before the sun slips over the treeline and off the panels.

Small Is Beautiful
I chose to get a small inverter for three reasons: I am committed to minimizing my electrical needs; 2) the cabin is too small to host a lot of electrical gadgets; and 1) it is less expensive to go small (that is, I can always add on another 1000 watts later, as necessary).

When reviewing what kind of upgrade I wanted to my solar system, Ralph had me list everything that I thought I might need to run electricity on. Top on my list is my laptop computer, and of course one or two lights at a time. And then I found how much more I kept adding as I asked myself what I really needed and how much I needed to turn it on.

Laptop: Check. But it can use up to 90 watts an hour, so I have to be careful with how long and to what ends I use it.

Electric toothbrush: Check –or my periodontist will be really unhappy with me. So healthcare determines some of our electrical needs.

Television: Chuck. My laptop now serves the same purposes as I used my TV for. I can rent movies and get news and some programs online as necessary.

Modem: Check. I definitely need to get online at home, but I knew that with a small solar system I wouldn’t be able to get online as much as I have been addicted to in a Gridded Life because the modem requires at least 75 watts.

Washer/dryer: Chuck. No room for one, and definitely too costly in terms of electric power.

Printer: Use with prudence. It gobbles lots of wattage, so I have to ration its use.

No electric clocks. As for a blender or other kitchen appliances, I could surely plug one in on a hot summer day, but I also don’t have room to store all that stuff. I do have a CD player, but I can’t always use it.

The 90% Club and the 60% Orange Light of Death
Every time visitors show up for the night, I warn everyone about being prudent in using electricity, especially if it’s been rainy or cloudy. I watch the battery charge monitor frequently to see whether I’m back up to 100% after being plugged in for a while. If I run low, I rely on my paraffin lamps and candles to prevent overuse of the batteries.

I find many of my visitors get into the softer lighting, an atavistic return to the campfire at home, perhaps. I initiated the “90% Club,” referring to the battery charge monitor showing 90%, on the October visit of my brothers and sister-in-law, even after the pouring rain that day. After our candlelit dinner, I suggested we turn on the light over the sink for dishes, but they were adamant that they didn’t want the overhead light. “It’s so beautiful this way!” And by the time we all turned it, we still had a 90% charge.

At the other extreme, I have discovered one way that my system warns me when I have been less than frugal with my stored energy. The first warning was the Orange Light of Pending Electrical Death on my monitor last weekend. It had been raining for days, but I had to get online and print out quite a bit of material for my editing work. I did so during the middle of the day, hoping that I still had left enough daylight time—albeit rainy daylight—to recharge my batteries some, at least to 80%.

Not! The charge only stayed at 70%, and then that evening, after turning on a light for 20 minutes, I saw for the first time the Orange Light on 60%, which means I’m in danger of running down my batteries, which would be terrible for their health.

So it was back to lanterns and candles, along with the firelight. But that’s not so bad…

#21 Not for the Squeamish or Proper

This blog post is really about learning to share our resources, and in honor of Cholo who was such a kind force on this planet, I post one picture that best captures such generosity of spirit (not of Cholo, but found by my friend Lucy in memory of Cholo): After all the soaring sentiments relating to the passing of my best buddy, Cholo, I return with a report on the seamier underside of ecologically advanced rural life: The Joys of the Composting Toilet. Feel free to skip this entire post. I won’t be offended. For the rest of you compulsively interested readers, don’t worry: This post will be short (if not-so-sweet).

In the dry spell before the rains get rampant, it is time to change out the soil in one of the humanure compartments that had been “roasting” for a year. I asked Chris, carpenter extraordinaire, to take a picture of me shoveling out the &#!+ in the composting toilet. Mike, carpenter par excellence, who was (unfortunately for him) nearby, hammering away at the new foundation, laughed, asking why I would even want such public evidence. True, seemingly ridiculous, but many of my visitors have evinced interest (if not disgust) in the nature of a composting toilet. So I thought I might share the education I am getting.

Two letters for the Day of the Big Dig: P-U! I mistakenly and optimistically posted earlier that when the compost is dug out, by the time it has been untouched for a year, the happy little microbes working away, it is merely inoffensive, rich soil. NOT! At least not in the way this toilet has sat for a year. I clearly have a thing or two (or twenty) to learn.

Backing up, here is a picture of the inside of my former outhouse (not connected to the house via the rest of the bathroom). Ralph, the Solar Electrican Magician, stubbornly continues to refer to it as my Outhouse. I’ve tried out other names, like The Toilet Room (obviously too obvious as to its function in this culture where we are supposed to be more subtle about That Room), or The Non-Water Closet (a clever play on the British W.C. and the history of toilets when water tanks were up high to insure a vigorous flush—but far too much to say in a sound bite). Loo, anyone? Well, Outhouse it is, since the room is rather out there, not heated and reminiscent of its rather primordial origins.

Okay, so now that we all agree on nomenclature: it’s a beautiful little room for an outhouse, n’est-ce pas?

Underneath, not so pretty.

The idea of a composting toilet is that we return our dirt to the dirt: “humanure.” When you use the toilet for your human soil, you throw 2-3 cups of a special mixture of one third each of soil, sawdust, ash or lime onto your bodily refuse. Here is my “Composting Kitchen” where I shovel up the mixture from big cans. The mixture both helps the feces chemically deconstruct and helps reduce the offensive odor. (Coconut coir or peatmoss are also used.)

This “aerobic” composting entails what’s called "thermophilic decomposition.” Apparently the bacteria thrive at high temperatures (104-140 °F), but by combining the feces with the sawdust, etc., it will oxidize or break down. Some of the resulting components are consumed in the composting process, reducing volume, and eliminating potential pathogens. However, the urine must be eliminated as much as possible because if the pile is too wet, then the "anaerobic organisms" thrive, creating foul odors.
Urban Woman did not read even such simple instructions before taking up regular residence in the Cabin in the Woods. Missing from the maintenance of the composting toilet? Let me count the ways.

First of all, you supposedly let a pile of “humanure” sit for a year before trying to clean it out. So in all fairness to me, this pile was created a year ago before I moved in last December 1, and the previous caretakers were clearly not using the correct soil emendment. I already knew that when I moved in because the outhouse stunk. When I asked one of the caretakers why it smelled so bad, he said that the emendment is supposed to have sawdust in it, but he didn’t have any sawdust to add to the mixture. So it was pretty much wet dirt going on top of soil made wet by urine, which is too much moisture for the manure to break down adequately.

Getting sawdust, by the way, is not as easy as it may seem. When I moved in, I went to my local hardware store for a bag of sawdust. They directed me to another hardware store that cuts lumber. So I went to shovel out a big black garbage bag full of sawdust myself under the buzz saw. When I went back a few months later, they had been told not to give sawdust to customers anymore because some of the wood is processed and we’re not supposed to mix the residue of processed wood with unprocessed wood, in case it leaches into a garden, I presume. Hence, I went to the actual mill just outside of town and found a veritable gold mine of sawdust. Was Urban Woman ever happy!

So back to the Outhouse: You recall from the picture of the inside that there were two handsome wooden toilet seats. One was out of commission ever since last November when I moved into the cabin.

Now, by November, it was time to dig it out and let the other one, now filling up, take its turn to lie fallow for a year.

Here is a picture of the cement box under the lovely wooden toilet seats. Indeed, the top layer of soil was fairly inoffensive dir. Underneath, however, and especially toward the front, a layer of uric acid-laden soil made the digging out process far stinkier than I had expected. I should probably have had on a mask. I definitely disinfected my shovel and myself at the end of the process. (Yeah, yeah, too much information, but I told you this post is not for the squeamish.)

After digging out both the dry and wet stuff, I instinctually (and it’s presuming a lot that I have any such instincts), I threw in several bucketfuls of sawdust at the bottom of the cement cubicle to dry up the wet, eventually leaving such a lovely, clean compartment.

(I now beg you squeamish folks who thought you could handle this to stop reading!) Before initiating the new toilet, I saw some pictures of nifty CTs that have a funnel system for urine which tends to hit the front of the toilet area. I will soon install such a system that will better divert the urine from women who do not wish to pee in the woods (no pressure, ladies, but I do have to deal with it). I’ve found a "Female Urinary Director" (who knew?)—no, not a person, a device that will serve as a funnel (hey, I spared you the picture, so I'm not entirely insensitive). With some piping from the funnel up top, a hole in the wall, and a closed paint bucket down below, I should be able to redirect most of the urine and keep the compartment much dryer over the next year of deposits.

I’ve also learned in my research that the pile needs to be stirred periodically so that the various layers will adequately get air and all the little microbes do their aerobic processing. I hate to have to say this, but we really do need to stir the s____ sometimes. That IS to say that all the Occupy Movements are not just a typical pain in the ass (so to speak), but that people who stir up the $#!& are sometimes the ones willing to do the nasty work of making us look at our nastiness and see what it is we need to do differently. There’s just no other nice way to say it when it comes to composting toilets.

So why use a composting toilet, you might well ask. Because a compositing toilet reduces use of a most precious resource, WATER. Just flushing the toilet, an American uses on average 7,660 gallons of water each year, as reported by one company that is trying to encourage the use of a more modern composting toilet is part of the ecologically friendly construction.
(See Biolet for an example of a “self-contained” composting toilet: http://www.biolet.com/resources/id/How-Composting-Toilets-work .)

In fact, in many National Parks in the US and at roadside toilets in various countries in Europe, the toilets are composting. Just think about sharing the resources, even at your own expense like that beautiful dog at the top.

As for all that uric acid: I invite you men to go into the woods and pee, that’s all there is to it and all my male visitors are happy, perhaps because they are liberated from having to put the seat down.

But you ladies! We’ll talk when you get here. Just think about how all those women coped for centuries, eons, before there was something so boxed in and private as the Outhouse. Yeah, no wonder we had penis envy, Freud!

But I’ve got some ideas for us women, never fear.

#20 A Versatile Companion Remembered: Eulogy for Cholo

Sunrise March 8 at the Berkeley Humane Society, 1997

Sunset November 8, 2011

Cholo came home with me and Lonny (photo lower left) at 8 weeks. At 14 and a half, Cholo has lived a long and happy life. I wanted to share a few highlights in photos for those who will find this as fine a memorial for a creature who has given so many of us pleasure.

CHOLO'S CHARACTER: As a puppy just home from the pound, Cholo sat at my feet and studied me. I always remembered that moment, how odd he seemed. Puppies are typically uncontrolled bundles of squirming energy. What up with this pup so quiet and observant?

Of course, he had his squirming moments, jumping all over the back seat when we approached anywhere fun. I remember once my friend Susan was riding in the front seat while Cholo slobbering eagerly over her shoulder to show his affection. I decided then that he needed better car manners. Ever willing to please, he learned to be just a little less enthusiastic as a backseat driver.

Being disciplined was one of Cholo’s fortes. Many will remember that he would walk off leash on not-too-busy city streets with us, but at a corner, he’d stop and sit, waiting for the invitation to continue on with us. I taught him that trick when he was about 8 months old and someone brought him to the house out of the street, reprimanding me for letting my dog wander off the sidewalk. Except for a squirrel running across the road, he (almost) never got off the sidewalk without permission after that.

In fact, once, Cholo and I were walking with a group of friends down city streets, and I suddenly realized Cholo was no longer with us. I looked around, I looked back, and there he was, on the corner a block away, anxiously awaiting the signal that he could cross too. Good dog!

Cholo had a distinctive look. I can’t count how many times—almost daily, hundreds of times, complete strangers asked me what kind of dog he was. I had at least two responses to keep myself entertained with the same question. One, “That’s a Purebred Mutt!” and two, “American Scruff.” The answers always got a smile, just like Cholo’s very scruffy smile produced smiles everywhere he went. He also looked particularly distinguished with his legs crossed.

CHOLO’S FRIENDS: I'm on the road often, and of course Cholo went everywhere with me, and my friends always welcomed Cholo into their homes. I received many warm condolences on his loss, too many to share all of them, but I include a few.

Cholo made friends easily with his winsome face. Two of his early good friends were Izzy and Micah, who grew up with Cholo. Izzy was 2 when he gave Cholo his first birthday party. When the boys were older, they taught Cholo to swim in the American River: He had been too scared to wade into the little inlet by himself, but when they waded out and tossed a ball to each other, along came Cholo. He was already 8 years old by then. You can teach an old dog new tricks. Here is a photo of Izzy and Micah saying good-night to Cholo when they visited the cabin.

At age 13, Blair, a Girl Scout who came to sell cookies at my door in Sacramento became Cholo's babysitter, giving him walks on my long days at the university. Soon her whole family adopted him, too. Cholo enjoyed various trips to Lake Tahoe with Blair’s mom Sydney, not to mention swimming in the pool at their home. Once when I was across the country, they nursed Cholo through an emergency with a life-threatening abcess (we later discovered from a foxtail he had snorted up his nose—nasty). Sydney wrote of Cholo: “what a wonderful, loving, wise, tolerant, peaceful life force he was.”

Cholo was named Dr. Cho by my friend Dr. Darryl (Babe) Wilson (of the Fall River natives in northern California, photo left, in one of my Travels with Cholo). Babe always added a thought for Dr. Cho in his letters to me, quirky reminders of the wisdom of this creature, especially as Cholo aged and was teaching me patience. On Cholo "going on ahead," Babe wrote, “At dawn I'll sing a song for you both, then I'll say, "Ina'lum'qotmi" (You must go but you must take my heart with you” to Dr. Cho as he continues The Journey of Life without us for a while.” Thank you, Babe, from me, Amal.

Here are a few other portraits that people have begged to get with the honorable Cholo and some words they wrote in memory of their friend.

My father Pete Bancroft and I with Cholo in Sacramento (right): Pops wrote, “Cholo was truly a member of our family, loved by us all … Those of us who have seen him in recent weeks all sensed that at 91 (going on 98) this marvelous gentleman was keeping himself together almost entirely and solely out of love for his mama.”

And note (photo left) my father and his kids with our first beloved dog Buck in 1963.

My older brother Bradford, his wife Phyllis, their Mula and my Cholo in Los Angeles (below left). My sister Chris on the road in Mendocino in July (center). My younger brothers Stephen and Greg, with Greg’s wife Wendy on the back deck in October (right).

(Below left) With Fred and Ann in the fall leaves in Sacramento. Wrote Fred: “His enthusiasm and affection, his good nature and adventurousness, his courage. The essence of DOG. I loved him, too. He was a beautiful boy.”

(Right) Cholo with friends Nomi and Susan On Top of the World last December. Nomi, the mother of Cholo’s two first play buddies, Izzy and Micah, said that we will all feel the void of this warm soul. "He was deeply loving and loyal as you were with him – an amazing tender relationship. You know how much the boys and I loved Cholo and felt that he was part of our family. Izzy especially felt that he was a brother and loved him deeply. Cholo's energy, delight, dignity and kindness touched us deeply and will always be in our hearts . . . forever.”

(Below center) With Jeff and Eben in the Redwood Dell in Willits a couple of years ago, where in fact Cholo is buried.

A favorite position for Cholo was to give everyone a chance to rub his knobby head, as here (below right) with his head on Katherine’s lap last November. I appreciated Katherine noting the "amazing give and take between you two. Not just dog-master thing going on. I don't know, the exchanges felt wry and whimsical, relaxed with an obviously-earned familiarity, syncopated." Yes, Cholo was easy to be with in all those ways.
Left is Cholo with my dear friend Marjorie and her husband Robert only two weeks ago On Top of the World, the hill by the cabin that looks out to the ocean. Marjorie, like so many, reaches out to Cholo in love and joy.

ACTIVE AND INTERACTIVE IN HIS YOUTH: One strange gift that dogs give us (of so many) is teaching us about loving so fully for such a short time. As Cholo slowed down so dramatically, even exponentially in the last two years, how long ago now seems his youth when he was running after balls incessantly, swimming or taking long walks at the river and in the woods. He loved his fetchit; here he is (below left) with Jeff’s nephew Benjie, alert and ready to swim.

INTREPID CHOLO: In the last few months, he endured sometimes trying situations. Putting up with snow, hikes, sleeping in the unheated cold shed during cabin renovations, travels with his mama.

DOG AS BUDDHA BEING: Surely any of us who love our dogs and cats marvel at how these once wild critters came to be part of our lives, working the system to get food, warmth, and massages. While some theories about dogs believe that they manipulate us to keep them in comfort on their terms. Is the love they seem to show just our interpretation of their manipulation of us? In some ways, and yet....and yet....

Clearly Cholo enjoyed his friendships, and aside from what he got from all of us, he also gave us a hint of the wild, a Buddha nature. He was here to work in his own way—guarding his pack, keeping us all together as he roamed up and down the lines of a group on a walk. He was here to show unconditional love: even if I’d left him for hours, he was willing to forgive my slights and love me fully and immediately. And finally he was here to simply be in the world, enjoy what nature and people have to offer.

I often watched Cholo observe the world around us. He was patient, wondrous, curious,

I seek to be more like him. And that was only one of the gifts he gave.

Here he is (below) at the special hilltop in my ‘hood, a place we call On Top of the World. I like thinking of him with the sun perpetually shining on him.

The End, New Beginnings

Letting go of Cholo--putting him to sleep--was one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make, wondering if he was ready. Though he was no longer able to eat, couldn't walk far, and panted hard with pain he could not describe, I hoped it would turn around. With the help of my friends Bird and Sienna and the good vet Dr. Chana who all know dogs well and what their demise means for them and their human companions, I was able to let Cholo rest at last.

He is buried in what I refer to as the Goddess Dell (below), a circle of redwoods where his back is curled against the sheltering wall of a burnt out giant stump (left), with a yes, whimsical collection of river stones, redwood slab, and a hanging collage of found objects made by a previous denizen of the cabin Helen (who deserves a story herself). My nieces know my habit of inviting guests to make offerings to the nature spirits. And what better offering than a cherished companion animal.

Visiting the dell is itself a remove from the world, and now I can feel Cholo's eternal slumber. I’m sure he is continuing to run in his sleep and enjoy the pleasures of adventure, which he helped me enjoy on our walks over the years. Thank you, my honey. Blessed be.