​This week we’re back to working at home, specifically more about making yourself a great workspace outside. Why now, at the end of the summer? Because, as a lifelong outdoors person, I can tell you September and October are some of the best weather for outdoor living, especially after this brutally hot climate change summer. Plus you can push comfort in outdoor spaces farther into cold weather than you’d think, something we’re all keenly interested in this year, and something I’ll be posting about soon. 


Without further ado, here’s your landscape-architect-approved…
 
Five More Ways to Make a Great Outdoor Workspace: 
(or Study Space, for those still-at-home kids)

Fan/heater 
For real luxury, add an electric fan to that outdoor workspace. This can be as simple as plugging a portable fan into an extension cord, or as elaborate as installing a ceiling fan into the porch ceiling. Fans help with flying insects, too, if that’s an issue. You know about patio heaters and other heat sources outside, but let me point out two things: 

1) if you want a patio heater, buy it immediately, because as soon as this extra-hot summer wanes, there is going to be a big demand for those this year.

2) working by a firepit sounds delightful, but from personal experience, it doesn’t happen. Nothing is as distracting as fire. You’ll have a marvelous relaxing few hours sitting by the fire…and doing no work at all. 

Storage space
Outside you can’t leave papers and electronics spread out for days, which is both a plus and minus. You’re forced to be more organized. There are outdoor cupboards and such on the market, but I’d approach this like working in a library or coffeehouse or other public setting: you bring it with you and you take it with you. 

What you need therefore is a good bookbag or a portable file box or something of that sort. You’re at home, so this storage could be more fun: beachy tote bags? A clean wheelbarrow? Those bike panniers you never use (and the world’s shortest bike commute)? 

Space for a guest
Whether that’s a sibling, a spouse, or someone genuinely from the outside world, you need a place to sit - a movable chair - and maybe a spot for a cup of coffee. If you’re having in-person conversations with anyone you don’t live with, outside is the safest place to do it. For kids studying outside, that guest is likely to be you, helping with lessons and technology. Make yourself comfortable while you try to remember math about fractions.

Fun stuff
There’s a whole universe of patio, pool, and backyard accessories out there to liven up your outdoor space with. Maybe keep the inflatable pool toys out of sight of your Zoom camera, but there’s still plenty of space for some strings of lights, flags, or flowers, which brings me to:

Use the nature you’ve got 
​Looking at or being near plants and non-threatening animals makes humans like us more relaxed, less depressed and anxious, and less mentally fatigued. Has there ever been a time when we needed this more? What you need is some greenery in your view most of the time. Trees are better than just lawn, but even a flower pot is worthwhile. Extra credit for backyard birds, maybe attracted to a birdbath or feeder. 

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​Back in the early part of the lifetime that this pandemic has surely lasted, I posted about working from home. What if you want to do that outside, and take advantage of this global emergency to conference call in the fresh air? 

Plenty of people I know are asking a similar question about spaces for their kids to do school work outside, at home. Good news: it’s a pretty similar set of requirements, regardless of the size or age of the worker. So what do you need?

A good school/office workspace outside needs:

Freedom from distraction, especially noise.
Don’t face traffic. Think about where the air conditioner is and don’t sit right next to it. If you’re going to be on the phone or talking via Zoom, put yourself somewhere you don’t feel like you’re constantly being overheard. Consider investing in a speaker or two to boost your computer’s sound, in case of neighboring lawnmowers or other loud phenomena. 

Comfortable place to sit.
Better yet, a selection of comfortable places to sit, each suited to a different task or time of day. Maybe a chair for using a laptop, a soft seat for watching videos or interacting via Zoom, and a lounge or hammock for reading. The material of these seats makes all the difference in how comfortable they are in different conditions: metal is cold yet also hot; plastic is neutral (though not as durable); cushions are far more comfortable in cooler weather (but take them in when it rains).

Table or other stable, flat surface for laptop, books, writing, and so on.
The right height for this is essential, and the relative height of chair and table is also essential. It’s the difference between fatigue and hours of comfortable use.

Good light.
That means no glare in the direction you are looking, no baking in the sun, but also enough focused light to read and do other non-screen tasks. Even during the day, a comfortably shady spot can be a bit dim to read in. Outdoor lamps exist, but lanterns or even headlamps can be fun alternatives that will be easy to repurpose when all this is over (or light your way through the zombie apocalypse, whichever).

Not too windy, not too stuffy and still.
Since this is personal taste and can vary with the day’s weather, the best way to handle this is to let the worker customize shelter to suit his/her tastes at the moment. Freestanding screens can work. Making the various chairs and seating themselves mobile will work, too, since it lets them be shifted to a warmer or cooler spot. 

Electric outlet(s) and solid wifi + cell service.
Providing an outlet can be as easy as plugging in an outdoor-grade extension cord. If you do, take the time to route it where it won’t be easy to trip over and/or tape it down. Fun additional resource: a solar bank charger, probably useful even on cloudy days, and another way to sneak a bit of science into the home-school day. (Also handy the next time the power goes out. Ask me how I know.)

Last bit of advice: ergonomics matter outside, too. No one wants carpal tunnel as a souvenir of the pandemic.

More tips coming soon in Part 2!

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​Church or other worship services outside is a new 2020 idea that isn't new at all. From a COVID-19 perspective, indoor worship as usual has some problems: lots of people, indoors, in close proximity, for an extended period of time. Singing, shaking hands, hugging - all a viral playground. 

Move the service outside, and it’s a lot less risky. In my career as a landscape architect, I’ve designed plenty of prayer gardens, memorial gardens, and other outdoor spaces for churches and temples. Here’s a place to start:

Five ways to make church outside work:

Make people comfortable 
Shade, air circulation, comfortable seating (maybe everyone brings their own chairs). Less obvious: make it easy to look at what you’re supposed to look at, when you expect people to be there. So no glare behind the pulpit or other spot where the speaker will stand. Facing the morning sun of the east has historical meaning behind it, but facing north or south is a more practical choice for minimizing the squinting for both leaders and congregation. What do you do if it rains - a tent? Umbrellas? Cancel? Make a decision and work that into the plan.

Quiet really matters 
You need to be able to hear people talking, without amplification, so no spots next to the highway or the loud HVAC units. If your service includes music, people need to be able to hear it. Don’t make anyone yell. Basically, noise = amplification = more trouble and expense in AV equipment. But also, sound is important to creating a spiritual atmosphere. Maybe that’s windchimes or bells, or the wind in the trees, or the whispered prayers of the other parishioners. 

Accessibility
Outside is full of potential obstacles to those with mobility problems. Make sure your worship space is as level as possible, with a smooth surface that allows those using canes or walkers to navigate it. No steps, especially between parking or drop-off and the space. Also important for people with infants in strollers and for anyone setting up and tearing down before and after services. 

Restroom access
You’ll need it. Glorious as it might be to have a service in the woods way out behind the building, the trek to the restroom will be less glorious for every small child, pregnant lady, and older man with prostate trouble. No steps between the restroom and the space, either. 

Tap into outdoor traditions
The difference between being forced outside into a miserable substitute for normal and having an enriching and meaningful new tradition is mostly attitude and a little bit of effort. What’s your faith tradition’s history of outdoor worship spaces? From ancient rituals and gardens to 20th century camp meetings and revivals, there are a lot to explore.

Finally: yes, it is absolutely worth it to create an outdoor worship space in places where it snows. It’s August. Snow is months away, and the effort you need could be as little as having people bring chairs to set up in a shaded spot. Once this long hot infectious summer finally wanes, there’s ways to create a good Winter Space, too, and if necessary, that could include spaces at your church. Another post on that, coming soon.

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​My sister is a teacher, so my messages are filled with the latest last newest update on her school’s ever-changing plan to reopen in a few weeks, or not, or sort of, or maybe not. It’s in flux, it’s maddening, and it’s very high stakes. I bet your school is the same. 

Flexibility helps, and outdoor spaces could give your school just that, since   coronavirus experts agree that outside is safer. If you’re against restarting in-person instruction, maybe the most vital in-person activities could be done outside. If you’re in favor of in-person instruction, but want lots of safeguards, moving some activities outside can help with that. If you’re one of the many people in the middle of this debate, meeting in person but outside is kind of an in-the-middle solution. 

I spent years designing outdoor spaces for schools and teaching others how to design them. It’s not just playgrounds and ball fields. 

Think about: 

Small meeting spaces
If everything else is virtual, but you just have to have a certain conversation or lesson or demonstration in person, this is place to do it. You don’t need much: a couple chairs, maybe a small table, but for maximum sanitation, people could provide their own folding chairs (and sanitize the table before and after). A chalkboard or whiteboard would be helpful, and fine outside as long as temperatures are above freezing. Position this space somewhere as free of distraction as possible, perhaps facing a wall of the building or an area of trees, not the parking lot or a road with traffic, with shade and protection from wind. A small elementary school might want three or four of these spaces, distant from each other as well, maybe marked with large colorful signs to make it easy to determine which one you’re headed for.

Teacher/staff lounge
Think of your deck or your favorite restaurant patio - that’s an outdoor lounge area. At a school it’s vital that this area be screened off so that kids and parents aren’t constantly wandering in, and you need some audio privacy - not next to the playground or the main entrance from the parking lot. All outdoor lounge spaces need shade and protection from harsh winds. Since hand sanitation is the name of the game right now, a sink would be ideal to include, but if water isn’t available nearby, at least a big jug of hand sanitizer needs to be included. 

Outdoor classroom 
A lot of schools have one of these already, but they were more popular years ago than now, so it’s probably older and maybe not used much. This could be the time to change that. Look for a semi-circle of simple benches somewhere, and be advised that if those benches are wooden and old, they may be tough to adequately sanitize between uses. Also be advised that putting a tent without walls over the outdoor classroom could make it a lot more useful. 

Small-scale gyms 
A spot to run around with a couple other kids or siblings could be really valuable, especially at schools where many families don’t have yards of their own. Playground equipment is problematic as shared surfaces that lots of little hands touch, so you need somewhere else. Maybe shared equipment is out, but you can do a lot with marking paint on the ground.  A bench here for adult supervision is a nice touch. 

Many paths to entry
Schools usually funnel all foot traffic to certain entrances, kids here, teachers there, visitors here. Social distancing demands that we do the opposite, and disperse that traffic as much as possible. Schools are required to have a lot of fire exits, so there’s plenty of doors, but think about how people get to those doors, especially from parking lots, local streets, and bus stops. You need lots of signs, maybe color-coded ones, maybe even temporarily repainting the doors to match that color-coding or painting lines on the ground like hospitals do. The trick is to make these many new paths to doors work with these other new outdoor spaces, so that visitors aren’t walking through the small meeting spaces and so on. You’ll likely need a master plan, a map of the school grounds with everything drawn on it. 

But it snows here!
Yes, many places in this country have at least a few months of the year where it’s too cold or too wet or both to be outside. But it’s less than you think. All the techniques used to make your favorite restaurant patio comfortable on chilly nights work for outdoor school spaces, too, like portable heaters and wind barriers. Most schools have at least some masonry on their facades, which holds heat from the sun, so any spaces next to a west- or south-facing wall will stay somewhat warmer. It should also be said that it’s well worth putting on a sweater and hat to bring COVID cases and deaths down. 

And if you can’t get enough of all of this, my final statement to you is:  forest kindergartens 

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​At this point, there’s more or less consensus that if you have to be around other people during this pandemic, the best place to be is outside. Ergo countless ad hoc outdoor spaces for dining, working, and just hanging out. You know who’s really great at creating outdoor spaces that aren’t ad hoc, ones that actually work well? You, the landscape architect. This is your moment.

Before the list, a note: a full-scale professionally designed outdoor space is a major endeavor, taking time, plenty of money, and usually licensed contractors. It’s a lot for a business to take on right now, and of course, we need everything outside right now, not in 6 months or next year. Enter the ad hoc part.

But consider: anyone can carry a folding chair outside. Someone with skill can place that folding chair where it works the best, looks the best, and is the most comfortable. That someone is you. It’s a great moment for minimalist projects using that skill with off-the-rack furnishings, repurposing what’s already at hand, and making the most of what’s already on site. 


Five potential projects from the pandemic

1) Outdoor gyms and workout spaces 
In my town, people are using the area around the high school track for burpees, strength training, agility courses - all the stuff they used to do at the gym. I’ve also seen people doing yoga on mats spread on the gravel parking lot of a local park. Clearly there’s an unfilled need.
 
2) Outdoor meeting spaces, at offices and other businesses
A conference room outside needs what a conference room inside needs, plus shade, shelter from wind, and hopefully at least a little privacy. Bonus points for any kind of calming vegetation. 

3) Outdoor dining, obviously. 
You knew this one, but realize that so much of this is done terribly, even before the pandemic. It needs to be comfortable for the diners and the servers, and right now that means giving waitstaff plenty of space. As customers tiptoe back into eating out, outdoor dining needs to not just be safe, but *look* safe, as well as inviting. Sound challenging? That’s why you hire a pro to design it.

4) Outdoor hair salons/barbershops
The nation is crying out for a haircut, and the safest way to do that is outside. We can do better than a folding chair on the sidewalk next to the parking lot, can’t we?

5) Outdoor school spaces
A big category that’s super-timely, as debate roils about what’s going to happen come fall (fast approaching,  regardless of what the seasons say). We’re familiar with outdoor classrooms, but schools are composed of many different spaces serving different functions: cafeterias, play areas, bus loading, drop off/pick up, staff lounges, gyms, auditoriums, and those classroom spaces. Having at least a few spaces outside could provide vital flexibility for schools navigating the first fall of the pandemic.

It’s October. Every door creaks, every picture has eyes that follow you, every call is coming from inside the house. Night falls sooner, mist swirls, dry leaves - or footsteps? - whisper along every path. Bats fly out of the tower on the old house at the edge of town, and surely phantom hitchhikers wait along every lonely road. 

Picture these spooky scenes. Where do you see them happening? Everybody knows a spooky place. A place that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Not just dangerous, but eerie. Maybe not now, but years ago when you were a child, you knew a place like this - the haunted house, the old cemetery, maybe just the basement or attic. 

Remember it, then ask yourself: have you really outgrown spooky places? What scares you, and where is it? Maybe it’s Area 51. Or your favorite Bigfoot hotspot. Or Point Pleasant, West Virginia, or (the former) Edmonson, Kentucky. 

We’re justified in fearing some places, because they are contaminated, a scarier scare for the fully grown than whatever’s going bump in the night. Paranormal or aliens or radiation, eerie places are fascinating in a way that your run-of-the-mill dangerous place is not. Show me a dangerous intersection, and I’ll show you a place you avoid but never think about. But what’s eerie combines fear with mystery - and mystery is a potent, enduring universal attractant. 

Mystery, in fact, is one of the aspects of landscapes we find attractive, according to research on the subject. That general rule is this: that we are intrigued by scenes that we can’t immediately understand fully, because they invite exploration and hint that there’s more to be learned from them. Spooky places are mysterious, but they also scare. Two reasons to notice them, remember them, and care what happens to them, for good or ill. Another general rule: we place less value on what’s overgrown and unkempt, because those places look like no one else values them. But what good is a well-maintained spooky place? It’s just ordinary. A greater feeling of abandonment makes an eerie place eerier, and perhaps that much more mysterious/frightening. Our feelings about them are, in a word, contradictory. 

Also contradictory is that spookiness can protect a place. We aren’t indifferent toward places we fear, and indifference is the real enemy here. Indifference is what makes a place invisible, and that invisibility makes it ripe for a new Wal-Mart or subdivision or what have you. That protection can create a space for nature. To see this in action, you wanna see something really scary. Like Chernobyl.

In 1986 an accident at Ukraine’s Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant caused one of its reactors to explode. At least 50 people were killed immediately, and 120,000 residents were evacuated. The site remains radioactive today. A vast 1,000 square mile exclusion zone surrounds the site, including the abandoned city of Pripyat.  

Today, Chernobyl is famous not just for the disaster, but also as a haven for wild horses, elk, boars, bison, and most especially wolves. There’s room for them to live and thrive (radiation notwithstanding) because we humans are too afraid to enter that place enough to disturb them. Chernobyl is the perfect example, because we’re afraid not just of the place, but of objects and resources, like timber, that might be extracted from that place, and it’s a big place - 1,000 square miles! Big enough for wolves to thrive. 

Nuclear contamination is authentically terrifying, but there’s also a thousand horror stories about mutants, people or animals or viruses, and about you yourself becoming mutated. We can’t see radiation or contamination, so we can’t tell if it’s gone or increasing or creeping up behind you. That’s sinister. At this point, thirty-odd years on, the sheer size of the abandoned area around Chernobyl is unnerving because who knows what’s really in there? If you go in and get into trouble, no one can hear you scream. It’s self-perpetuating spooky.

Bring contamination closer to home, subtract the radioactive wolves, and you come to Love Canal. Love Canal is a former subdivision near Buffalo, NY, made infamous as a toxic waste disaster. The homes and, incredibly, an elementary school, were built on the site of an abandoned canal project (hence the name) that was used as a chemical waste dump in the 1940s and 1950s. A disease cluster in the neighborhood prompted grass-roots investigation, revealing that chemicals were leaching through groundwater into area basements and yards, as well as the school playground (!). A lengthy and intense struggle by neighborhood activists (mostly women) led to the relocation of over 900 families, and eventually to the creation of Superfund by the federal government in 1980. The disaster exponentially increased public awareness of the dangers of industrial pollution, particularly in working-class areas (like Love Canal) and minority neighborhoods.

Today the site of these vanished homes is a parcel of approximately one square mile, comprised of meadow, more or less, and scattered trees. It’s a savanna with crumbling driveways and roads, surrounded by chain link fence. A landscape that’s terrifying, if you’re old enough to remember Love Canal as breaking news; unsettling, if you are one of the residents across the road wondering about the genesis of their ailments; welcoming, if you are a rabbit or possum or deer. 

Industrial contamination is scary stuff, and the nature of pollution underground, in ground water, or in the soil, or in your basement courtesy of your sump pump, is, again, hidden and mysterious in its extent and severity. They say it’s gone. Is it? The idea that we’ve unleashed dangers we can’t control, be they industrial or nuclear, is a very disturbing one - and a fascinating one, as illustrated by most Twilight Zone episodes, a lot of science fiction, and any scary story about repeating names while looking in a mirror.   

Spooky/ nature spaces don’t have to be famous. I used to live near Split Rock, an overgrown abandoned quarry and industrial ruin in Syracuse, New York. Already you see the eerieness, right? - “abandoned quarry,” “industrial,” “ruin” - but there’s more: in 1918 a factory making explosives for World War I exploded, creating a horrific fire that killed fifty men and critically injured fifty more.

Today the Split Rock  quarry is a big blank spot on the map, approximately 900 acres of woods and brush - and according to some, paranormal activity. It’s a place where roads dead end, with a few rusty “Danger - no trespassing” signs for atmosphere. There’s plenty of good reasons to leave the place alone: old quarry cliffs and holes, industrial ruins, worrying contamination from that munitions plant, and the very real danger of getting lost in the deep, dark, possibly haunted woods.  While not truly urban, Split Rock is close enough to the city to keep me alert for urban ills. There may be a few of those there, plus the occasional ghost hunter, and surely mountain bikers using the unofficial trails. But mostly, Split Rock is left to the deer and the coyotes and smaller creatures. 

Set aside the specters and the chemicals, look at these places as natural landscapes, and you’ll find they look pretty good. Sinister places benefit us just like any natural area, benefits like cleaner water, reduced flooding, less urban heat island, and carbon sequestration, the whole ecosystem services  bundle. These processes are going on in each of these places; some of them are doing all three. They benefit us even while we fear them, and their enduring mystery helps keep us from destroying them, thus protecting their ability to continue helping us. 

Fear can create space for nature to recolonize, recover, even thrive. Contaminated sites are especially good at discouraging development, partly because they tend to have sticky legal issues about what’s there and whose fault it is and who should do what to clean it up. 

Yet plenty of eerie places have no natural value. Most buildings reputed to be haunted are just buildings - ecologically speaking, the most haunted house is just a house, unless it’s got an overgrown yard. Lots of horrifyingly contaminated brownfields are redeveloped  into utterly mundane things, like freeways or strip malls, and people forget what they were. Even the sites of authentically horrific events like Civil War battles, can struggle against encroaching development. Sites like Chancellorsville, where 24,000 men died in 1863, arguably could benefit from being more spooky, thus helping preserve them. 

What makes the difference, turning an unsettling place into a natural space as well? Is there a way to harness spookiness to help preserve natural areas? Can we use this without it backfiring and creating a place so eerily fascinating that people love it to death? 

Back in the ‘90s, there was an interdisciplinary effort to design a warning landscape to scare away humans (or any other intelligent life) in perpetuity from nuclear waste storage sites like Yucca Mountain and the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant. Yucca Mountain, in Nevada, has since gone kaput as a doomsday nuclear storage facility, but the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant in neighboring New Mexico is socking away nuclear waste underground, and still asking how to keep people away long after our civilization and language have crumbled into dust. 

Fear, made to act as a warning. Spookiness to save your life. Think about it, maybe while you ignore the tapping at the window and tell yourself the shadows on the stairs aren’t moving.

Also posted on Medium.

I'm writing a section for my next book about climate change predictions for the US by region. Wanna know what those predictions are? Look out the window. 2018 has been a real preview of the future, with above-average temperatures everywhere, soaking rains in the East, and drought and fire in the West. What matters is the long-term trend, not any individual year, but still, 2018 gives us a chance to see which everyday systems are not going to work for the warmer world. Ordinary things we take for granted. Like what happens in your yard when it rains.

Although I started my career as a landscape architect, full disclosure: I have always found stormwater management a little dull. These days precipitation of all kinds has become way more exciting, in the worst way, due to the increasing frequency of seriously scary storms. I write this with one eye on updates about Hurricane Florence inundating the Carolinas. My house up here in Connecticut has weathered nearly 50 years of coastal storms, including Hurricane Irene, in 2011, and Superstorm Sandy  just a year after that. Average annual precipitation here is about 47”. In recent decades, the Northeast as a whole has seen a marked increase - more than 70% - in the amount of rain falling during storms. This is a surprise/not a surprise, because these more frequent, rainier storms are part of climate change predictions for the region. And climate change, as you know, is a show already in progress. 

My house is in the woods between two seasonal creeks, with a walkout basement.  The whole property is sandy soil full of New England rocks, so drainage would seem to be a no-brainer. The previous owners of the house certainly thought so, since this house came to us with its sole drainage strategy as standard gutters and downspouts. This utterly predictable set-up is supposed to catch the water as it runs down the roof, funnel it through to eight points around the base of the house, and dump it out on the ground there, at the end of the downspouts. Those downspouts? They end 8” from the foundation of the house. A few have splash blocks that carry the water 24” from the foundation, if they don’t overflow. An absolutely typical setup, found on countless houses, maybe even yours.

What’s wrong with this? It works as intended, which means all the water captured by the gutters is dumped right next to the foundation, at the end of those downspouts. There the water can infiltrate into that rocky, sandy soil and go on its way through the hydrologic cycle and out of my life, and that works fine - most of the time. The walls of our basement testify that it didn’t work fine once, maybe twice, in the life of the house, when a flooding event marked the walls a few inches above the floor. Hmm. 

So we extend the downspouts, which is ugly, easy, and temporary. We need something more permanent, which would, in the past, have meant running those downspouts into a set of pipes to take that water, underground, to one of our creeks. The easiest way to route those pipes is across the driveway, which a landscaper suggested we do. You don’t really know what’s under a 50-year-old gravel driveway, but it’s probably not solid bedrock, a distinct possibility anywhere else in the yard. 

But wait: think about that tried-and-true set of underground pipes and the gutters in 10” (Irene) or 20” of rain? (Sure, 20” is a lot of rain, but Hurricane Harvey (2017) dumped up to 60” of rain on Texas, so…) Simply: everything overflows, and everything backs up. Only so much water can fit through those pipes at once, then water starts to pool. Water coming from the house and backing up means way too much water around the house’s foundation, and that means way too much (ie any) water inside the house. 

If you don’t want a lake in your basement, you need drainage meant to handle a deluge-worth of water. Yet it’s overkill to run the LA River through your yard. It’s hideous, and it’s right outside your house, and also: groundwater recharge is a thing. Sure, Connecticut’s had two badass storms in the last seven years, but it’s also just emerged from a two-year drought, because climate change is about weirder weather, not just warmer weather. Who wants to spend the next drought staring at a yard built for floods? 

A layered system seems to be the answer: a normal rainy day system to work all the time, with a gullywasher system for the next epic storm. The gullywasher layer doesn’t have to work very often, but when it’s needed, it really has to work, because it’ll be that epic storm. When the deluge comes, you’ll need to get in and out. Maybe that’s the classic supermarket run for bread and milk, but it could be for emergency services to rescue you. It could even be for you to evacuate. It’s important, that rare thing in home landscaping that actually is life or death. So nope, keep that pipe away from the driveway, aka the sole route in and out. Look around and imagine a foot or two of rain, and give it somewhere to flood that isn’t where you’ll be or how you’ll get out. 

My strategy is something like this: some of those underground pipes attaching to the downspouts, but with the ground surface sloped to form swales that will move the water away from the house and into the creeks when all hell breaks loose. An old idea, the dry well, may come into play here, too, as a way to provide a place for water to pile up, so to speak, in the epic storm, and a place for water to infiltrate the rest of the time. Circling back to that recent drought, this also could be a good place to install a cistern, if the next drought or the one after that is worse. 

If climate change affects simple home landscaping to this extent, it really does affect everything. The strategy of layering everyday systems with ones for catastrophic events is a good one, and maybe one that can work elsewhere. Your yard seems ridiculously trivial, but aren’t you likely to shelter at home if/when the big one hits? A little planning can create a lot of resilience, or at least more than you’ve got now, exactly where you’ll need it when the storm comes. 

This post is a preview of a sidebar in my upcoming book about the neglected city, Design by Deficit. Also posted on Medium. 

If you spend a lot of time outdoors, like I do, you’re more or less perpetually alarmed about Lyme disease. Even more alarming are the array of other tick-borne diseases  that are way scarier, but reported at much lower levels - SO FAR!! As always, it’s easy to panic, and difficult to know what to do. 

Those rare-but-scary other diseases make solutions that only work on Lyme, like vaccinations, only so promising. More promising are solutions targeting these diseases’ common factor: what people are doing, what ticks are doing, and where they meet each other. 

There’s some surprising tidbits to be found in this. Like this: most people are infected with Lyme in their own yards, during daily activities, not out in the woods on that hike or camping trip. Maybe this is because we think about ticks in the woods but we don’t at home. Or perhaps people who choose to be out in the woods are people more likely to know about ticks and take those precautions - you were wearing special hiking clothes anyway - while people doing daily activities in their yards are just people, without that self-selection effect. 

You can’t stay in the house forever, so can you de-tick your yard or de-Lyme your ticks? Another surprising fact: deer aren’t the main villains here. The tick in question is the deer tick (aka blacklegged tick), so white-tailed deer get blamed for this modern plague. But a closer look at the life cycle of Lyme-infected ticks reveals the key middleman is much smaller and more common: the white-footed mouse. As mice tend to be, they are around in large numbers, unnoticed, and closer than you think. You see deer, but not mice. This particular mouse likes woodsy areas and their edges. Your yard will do fine, especially if you live in a heavily wooded area like much of New England, ground zero for Lyme. 

It’s tough to exclude mice from your yard. You can fence out deer, but just try fencing out mice. What really works to suppress mice is eating them. Since you probably don’t want to try that yourself, it’s lucky that foxes are very happy to do that job. A 2017 study found that indeed, where there are more foxes (and some other European predators, where the study was set), there are lower numbers of Lyme-infected ticks and ticks in general. Surprising again, the key dynamic in play seemed to be that mice move around less when there are predators around, as the study’s authors speculated. There are still mice around, but they are kept under wraps by the foxes, so they encounter fewer ticks. 

Red foxes are champion mouse eaters, and where foxes are, there tend to be other creatures. Some of these, like opossums and possibly turkeys, eat a lot of ticks, which helps in a different way. Others could help in a less direct but effective way by serving as alternate hosts for ticks. This means the ticks bite other creatures, like squirrels, that are less likely to carry Lyme disease instead of disease-carrying white-footed mice, and therefore never become infected with Lyme. You may still get bitten, but you won’t get infected if the tick that bites you doesn’t carry Lyme. 

How do you get foxes on board in your backyard fight against tick-borne disease? You do it with landscape management, looking at your yard and neighborhood as habitat. This starts with trees. A landscape with very small patches of forest is good for mice, but not larger animals that prey on them or on ticks. A landscape with larger patches of forest has the potential to house foxes and possums and so on, thus keeping the lid on mice and ticks and Lyme.  In urban areas, tree canopy is often referred to as the critical factor in the presence of foxes and other larger wildlife. It stands to reason, though, that what’s under those trees matters, too, as well as what kind of trees they are. More diverse woodlands with greater diversity of plants at ground level, especially native plants, tend to be home to greater diversity of wildlife. 

What else makes up the low-Lyme landscape? At a more detailed level, it’s less obvious what’s good and bad. Leaf litter is the natural cover of the forest floor, but it’s also habitat for deer tick nymphs and larvae. Brush and tall grass create good wildlife cover, but they are also the preferred spots for adult ticks to lie in wait for someone to bite. Every creature needs a water source, but dampness and humidity are key to deer tick survival. Obviously there are a series of trade-offs here that merit more study to discover the right balance. Foxes in particular need den sites, hollow logs or buildings to dig under or similar. But these same denning sites can also make the fox’s larger cousin, the coyote, at home, which brings us to one last surprising fact.  

Where there are coyotes, there are fewer foxes, because the bigger, stronger coyotes tend to kill the foxes. So if more foxes means less Lyme, do more coyotes mean fewer foxes and therefore more Lyme? That’s exactly the suspicion of a few researchers studying the matter, who note that the key factor in the outbreak of Lyme in New England may have been the arrival and establishment of coyotes in the region. 

So stay tuned, but consider what a low-Lyme landscape might be. Maybe also consider what the fox is worth to you that keeps you from getting Lyme disease, and what the forest that nurtures that fox is worth, too. The assortment of creatures living around us and the web of their interactions with each other plays a surprisingly key role here. You can surround yourself entirely with pavement and buildings. You can do the vegetated version of that with closely mown, chemical-soaked lawn. Or you can have a diverse, intact woodland edge ecosystem that works just well enough to allow predators like foxes to keep the mice and their ticks in balance, without making coyotes too much at home. Wild, but not too wild; just wild enough.

 Also posted on Medium.

(Based on my November 3, 2017, presentation at “Community Renewal and its Discontents,” a conference at Albany Law School’s Government Law Center) 

Picture a vacant lot. If nothing comes to mind, the one in the photo will do. What would you find there? Litter, probably. Rats, perhaps. Maybe an old tire or two. Your first answer is probably not “climate change mitigation” or “better mental health.” But expectations aside, you could be getting both from that vacant lot and other accidental urban natural areas.

Weeds fight climate change? Well, yes, but not weeds especially - plants do. The list of ways urban trees mitigate climate change impacts is impressive, but they boil down to this: cleaner air, cleaner water and less flooding, cooler local temperatures, and better livability in the city generally. Trees aren’t weeds (except when they are), but any plant growing on that vacant lot shares some of the salient characteristics. They all photosynthesize. They all raise the relative humidity around them. They all sequester carbon within their structures. They all allow more rainwater to soak into the often-compacted urban soil. At core, “weeds” vs. “trees” is a distinction of human perception, and these climate benefits depend on what plants do and how they interact with the physical world, not how or whether we see those plants. True, some of the benefits of urban trees depend on the larger overall size of the trees to cast shade, but then again, some weedy species, like tree of heaven (Ailanthus altissima) or buckthorn (Rhamnus spp.), can get pretty big. Bottom line: look at that vacant lot again, and take a deep breath.

While you breathe, relax, because that same urban wild is also benefiting your mental health. Again, the list of mental health benefits from urban trees is lengthy, and again, it’s mostly about trees. In summary, humans evolved in natural environments, and therefore, we do better in some important ways when we can see natural environments. We think better, we feel better, and we treat each other better. Research on these effects usually shows a small benefit, but a (statistically) significant one, and these are easy benefits to get, with little downside. The research on benefits to mental health falls into three categories: benefits related to getting more exercise, benefits related to better social cohesion, and benefits related to stress reduction. Do you get these benefits from weeds as well as from trees? Yes, at least some of the time, but what matters here is how we see the weeds. Is that vacant lot a danger or an oasis? Are those weeds wildflowers or a home for vermin? Is that a deer or an assailant hiding in the underbrush?

That ambiguity makes it essential that we know whose health we’re trying to improve with these urban wilds and their benefits. Who you are makes a difference in how you see a given wild, and who you are also often makes a difference in where you live within a particular city. The demographic group, particularly race/ethnicity and gender, of the viewer can make a difference in how s/he views unmaintained vegetation, particularly whether it is threatening or desirable. The level of environmental education a person has, as well as how urban or rural a place s/he grew up in, can also matter.

More useful than sweeping statements about perception and demographic groups: it matters where you are in proximity to the wild area in question. You might enjoy the view from your 10th floor office while I worry about the overgrown lot across the street, but we could be looking at the same vegetated land. Each health benefit of urban wilds has its own geography. Some benefits, like heat island reduction, are best experienced by those closest to the wild site. Some costs, like depression of property values, are, too. Other benefits, like vegetated views and downstream reduction in flooding, may be gained by people too far away from the wild site to be affected by nearby burdens like increased pollen count or disease-carrying ticks. The same urban wild can simultaneously provide benefits to some and burdens to others, or some benefits and burdens to the same people at the same time. It’s not simply good or bad. It’s…both. 

The question that matters, then, is how to manage wilds in your city for the most benefit and least burden to those most in need. What parcels are more valuable as wilds than as redevelopment, and why? What neighborhoods have the greatest health needs and the fewest resources with which to meet them? For parcels that remain wild, how best can they be managed to be healthy for nearby residents and positively viewed by the general public?

Climate change and healthcare share an urgent need for on-the-ground action that transcends contentious debate. Both are complex problems poorly suited to soundbite solutions. Both are negatively affecting the health of countless people, right now, today. If you had something that could make a difference in both areas without the need for political will or legislative action, wouldn’t you use it, even if the difference it made was small? Look out your window. That small difference may be closer than you think.