One person’s weed is another’s flower

“I wish I never answered the phone that morning,” growled Mike, a planning colleague as a group of us enjoyed dinner at the annual conference of the American Planning Association. We were talking of PITA (pain in the ass) zoning regulations we had to enforce. He continued with our rapt attention, “We have an ordinance requiring people to properly maintain their landscaping. That phone call started a nightmare for me ultimately involving the Smithsonian Institution and National Botanical Garden.” We were hooked.

My colleague and acoustic consultant, Jim Brennan, always told me “noise is unwanted sound.” Mike learned the hard way that “weeds are unwanted flowers,” or in his case, “flowers are wanted weeds.” In planning, we all know that the vast majority of zoning complaints result from neighbor feuds. This call, Mike explained, was no exception; what’s worse, he grumbled, “I wasn’t even ‘up,’ it’s just that no one was available to take the call.” The complainant wanted the city to order the next-door neighbor to get rid of all the weeds in the front lawn, “it’s an eyesore to the neighborhood, and she won’t do anything about it. We’ve talked to her.” “We” was not further defined, just left as an implication several in the neighborhood had talked to the offending party.

Mike drove by the property with a camera that afternoon, and the complainant was right, the lawn was filled with weeds. Taking a picture, he sent the zoning violator a letter the next day ordering corrective action. The violation was logged and put in the tickler for later review and further action, if necessary. The morning after the letter would have reached the homeowner, Mike said his direct line was ringing right at 8:00.

“I do not have weeds in my front yard,” the woman’s voice slammed into his ear. “Jim Smith (fake name, obviously) complained, didn’t he?”

“Ma’am, when a violation is determined,” Mike explained in standard plannerese, “it’s between you and the city. Where we learned of it doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t I have a right to face my accuser?”

“Ma’am, the City is your ‘accuser’.”

“Whatever. There are no weeds in my front yard. I have nothing but wildflowers. My front lawn is ‘xeriscape’ natural landscaping to conserve water. Doesn’t the city want us to conserve water? It said so in the last water bill.”

“Ma’am, I was by your house the other day, the front lawn is filled with weeds.”

Indignantly she replied, “They are NOT weeds. I can prove it. You think they’re weeds because you don’t know anything about the native plants you expect everyone to plant, do you?”

Mike admitted to us that she was right, “We’re always demanding new landscaping include ‘native species’,” he looked at each of us in turn, “Right?” We all nodded. “Well, she had me there. I couldn’t identify half the plants on our native species list if I had to.” It turns out, he explained, that the plants had cycles in which they “went to seed,” and I viewed the property during this cycle. “I learned that she lets the dead plants stay in the ground until she harvests the seeds to add to the front yard. It’s all natural.”

He rambled on about the continuing complaints, his continuing efforts, and then one day he received a phone call from the “violator.” “Mike,” they were now on a first-name basis, “I have on the phone with me a botanist from the Smithsonian Institution’s National Botanical Garden in Washington, DC. She can fax you credentials if you need proof, or you can call her back at her number if you don’t believe me.” Mike said he stipulated acceptance.

The botanist came on and explained that she had reviewed the seed packets the “zoning violator” used on the front lawn, “I don’t understand the objective, Mike, these seeds are all from plants native to your area. None of them are classified as ‘noxious weeds’ or ‘invasive species.’ In fact, based on the photos of the neighborhood I reviewed, her house is the only one with native plants. Everyone else with lawns, shrubs, and trees are universally planted with non-native species.”

The moral we decided was not to enact any code we didn’t fully understand the implications…and definitely to remove the word “encourage” from the spell check dictionaries so it never showed its ugly face in a plan or ordinance every again.

“I’m not going back!”

“They all should be sent back. The whole family,” the rider across the aisle was mumbling on the Route 44 bus heading south on Tatum Boulevard one morning. The regulars were discussing Arizona’s SB1070 and the reaction to the law from around the world. This story is not taking a position—this type of blog is not supposed to dwell on political issues—on SB1070, but the concept of unintended consequences.

The unnamed rider—I don’t think we know any of each other’s names—was talking about the need for expansion to require an entire family—children, parents, grandparents—to be deported to Mexico if any member of the family was in this country illegally. I looked across the aisle and said, “I’m not going back.”

“What?” he blurted.

“I’m not going back. I don’t speak Ukrainian or Russian; I’ve never been there. I’m not going back.”

“This wouldn’t apply to you.”

“Why not? You said if any member of the family, grandparents included, came into the country illegally, the whole family should go back.”

“But you were born here, right?”

“Yes, I was, but my grandmother was an illegal immigrant. Under this law you’re proposing, I’d be expatriated to the Ukraine. Are you sure your grandparents came here legally?” I asked. He was speechless at the concept—unintended consequences.

Three decades serving local governments, I was on the front line of unintended consequences as an urban planner. If one were to read zoning codes across the country—not brand new ones, but an code in effect for more than three or four years—the “midnight call law” is easy to discern. The “midnight call law” is a code amendment added because a member of the Council or the County Board received a complaint from a constituent via a late night phone call. These are easy to see: numbers of animals, noise limits, prohibitions on “non-pets” in urban settings.

There are many others as well—junk, “blighted” yards, and roommates. The common denominator of all these zoning regulations is that the regulations are simple to enact, difficult to enforce, and generate significant ill will between planners and neighborhoods. The other problem is that zoning codes are supposed to be uniformly enforced—it doesn’t matter whether the accused violator is a buddy of an elected official or not. Planners have many examples, but I have two favorites: the “Pot Belly Pig fiasco” and the “They’re not weeds, they’re wildflowers” lawn…in the next two blogs.

Desert Botanical Garden at night

Learn something new every day. A great thought to incorporate into life. Even though a member for four years, I never realized the Phoenix Desert Botanical Garden stays open until 8:00 in the evening. With the desert heat, there seems incentive to for a visit to this outdoor natural environment. As the sun sets, it’s a different world.

Unlike the “Flashlight Tours” during the summer, the entire Garden is open for exploration. Taking my camera on the trip, I was pleased with the effects of both the natural setting sun and the Garden’s own lighting. Kicking myself for not including the tripod, I still enjoyed the challenge of getting good looking pictures.

In recent months, I’ve been shooting RAW imagery, something unknown to me six months ago. Of course, I saw the “RAW” setting on the menu, but it didn’t mean anything. Talking with another photographer, I discovered RAW is just what it says, “the raw image captured by the camera.” The photos take significant chip space—only 185 photos on a 2GB card as opposed to 680 for JPG photos—but the photo quality is amazing.

Just as learning to shoot different films and speeds, there is a learning curve between shooting compressed JPG and uncompressed RAW photos. The latter has twice the pixel density of the compressed image, 48 bits of data per pixel compared to 24 bits for JPG. It also requires installation of camera-specific “codecs” readers. In my case, identifying RAW photos means seeking the “PEF,” Pentax extension on the file name. Every camera generates its own extension and requires its own codecs. It’s not possible to tell from the photo with this article, because the resolution is dropped from 300 dpi (dots per inch) to 96 dpi for the web, but the RAW image is so much richer than a compressed image, I’m not going back.

I can’t come out and play…I have homework

“Two hours outside of class for each hour of classroom credit,” is the ‘new’ rule of thumb, according to one of my instructors. “Frogs! I thought it was one-to-one,” was the first thought crossing my mind. I guess the memories fade as the years go by. I’ve heard it said that women don’t remember the pain of childbirth, maybe the same holds true with the time invested in homework.

After a couple of weeks of school…I can’t believe we’re heading into the second month already…I’m find that the two-to-one rule isn’t quite right for me to maintain my “A” average, but it’s close with some classes, not so with others. In any event, it’s now Sunday, the sun is shining, the dog’s at my side with a tennis ball in her mouth and a cold wet nose nudging my mouse arm, “Come on, Dad. I want to play.” “Sorry, Hershey, I can’t. I have to do my homework.”

It’s not that homework’s piled up, I’ve been keeping pace, but this is the day for the assignments that require some real effort—the angle for a seasonal feature requiring an interview, an analysis of networking (computer networking), and a paper discussing application software. Miraculously, none are due until next weekend, but I’m going camping.

Add to that a couple of deadlines for some online web content and a need to update my own site (Eric Toll Online), I’m not going to be going out and playing today.

Exit logic here

“We require you to take three credits of Literacy and Humanities,” he explained looking at my transcript from Southern Illinois University. I am now taking classes online from Paradise Valley Community College to obtain certifications in Microsoft Networking, plus several other certificates. The number of courses I want to take started pushing the degree line, and so it was suggested I use prior college courses to walk out with the certificates and an AA in Information Technology.

“I have 18 units of humanities and 24 units of English, including upper division.”

“That’s not the same as humanities. It’s a broader variety of courses.” The advisor handed me a sheet of paper with a list of classes meeting the humanities and literacy requirement at the community college.

“Oh, Journalism 234 is on the list. I’m already enrolled in that class.”

“I don’t see it on your schedule.”

“It’s English 235. It’s the same class.”

“English 235 is an elective.”

“No, you misunderstood me. There are 18 of us in the class, the same class, the same teacher, the same classroom, the same time. Nine of us are taking it as English 235, the remainder as Journalism 234. It’s the same course. Who can I see to get this accepted?”

“You’ll have to withdraw from English 235 and obtain instructor permission to enroll in Journalism 234. You’ll probably have to make up your missed work and tests.”

“Can’t the Registrar just transfer the course number?”

“No, you have to withdraw and re-enroll. You can however, get a withdraw passing on your record if the instructor approves.”

“It’s past the date from which I can withdraw and obtain a refund of the tuition I’ve already paid. Then I’ll have to pay tuition for the Journalism class, plus a late enrollment penalty. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“That’s what has to be done.”

“OK, let me read this back to you to ensure I understand. In early August, I enrolled in English 235, Magazine Article Writing in a section taught by Dr. Judy Galbraith as a hybrid with classroom on Thursday night at 6:30 in Computer Commons 140. I paid tuition for three credits, roughly $210. Now I find out that English 235, Magazine Article Writing doesn’t count as a humanities and literacy requirement. However, Journalism 234, Magazine Article Writing, which I can take in a section taught by Dr. Judy Galbraith as a hybrid with classroom on Thursday night at 6:30 in Computer Commons 140, does count as a humanities and literacy requirement. So I have to lose my tuition of $210 and blemish my transcript with a Withdrawal from English 235. I can obtain a Withdrawal Passing if Dr. Galbraith approves it. Then I have to ask Dr. Galbraith for permission to enroll late in Journalism 234 and pay approximately $210 in tuition plus the late enrollment fee. Did I leave out any steps?”

“Well, when you put it that way, it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Right, can you put it another way so that it does make sense? What if I finish English 235 this semester and then enroll in Journalism 234 next semester and proficiency out of the class?”

“We can’t give you credit for the same course twice.”

“You just told me they are not the same course, which is why English 235 cannot count as a humanities and literacy class.”

“Why are you making this so difficult?”

“I was going to ask you the same question.”

In the Still of the Night

The cold chill running down the spine is the last feeling desired camping on a dark, moonless night in the backcountry of the Arizona desert. It doesn’t matter that three of your close friends are by your side around a warm campfire in the chill air; doesn’t matter that your faithful dog is snoring away, curled on her pad next to you toasting by the fire. This campsite was picked for its isolation. Planning a camping trip, the group wanted to pitch tents on the far side of Picacho Peak in the middle of the Ironwood Forest National Monument.

“Camping!” always ends with an exclamation mark when my camping group, the “Gang of Three,” plans a weekend under the desert sky. Once a month Steve, Kelli, and I, plus occasional friends, gather our gear, pack our vehicles and head out from Phoenix—to the desert in the winter in the mountains in the summer. Riding shotgun in mine is my six year old chocolate lab, Hershey, the official Gang of Three camping dog. Like most chocolate labs, once out of puppyhood there is mellowness to her demeanor.

Ironwood Forest National Monument is located between Phoenix and Tucson Arizona-Sonoran Desert. About 20 miles west of the interstate, the National Monument is not near anything. The Bureau of Land Management warns of no facilities, abandoned mines and primitive roads. “Be prepared to rescue yourself,” warns its Web site. Knowing this and undeterred, our caravan headed south from Phoenix on the two-hour journey to our preselected campsite. A dozen miles west of the interstate, we leave the pavement behind; a dozen more and we pass a sign warning “road maintenance ends.” Churning our way across the soft sand at the bottom of wash, we climb the far bank and pass a nondescript sign stating “Ironwood Forest National Monument.”

Staring into the breathtaking Arizona desert sunset, we slowly move down the rutted road with GPS receivers glowing in the growing darkness. We pass an abandoned mining town, mining equipment painted a mottled ghostly brown by the shadows. Slowly rounding a bend with the GPS showing our destination approaching, we see a bright and leering warning sign: “Warning. Drug and human smugglers may pass through this area.” That, we knew in advance and didn’t care.

Darkness upon us, we pitched our tents, started our camp fire, ate our dinner, and settled back in in our chairs with cold beers, chips, and salsa. As the temperature dropped, Hershey curled up next to me on her camping pad. First she lay with her paw pads facing the fire and as they warmed, she would turn over with her back facing the fire. Unlike many dogs camping, Hershey is quiet. To that very moment, I could never recall her barking while camping. All that changed in an instant.

As we talked, drank, and laughed, Hershey slept, snoring quietly. Outside the perimeter of the campfire light the night was pitch black, even the nearby mountains were merely a deeper black in the darkness. Suddenly, Hershey’s head popped up, her eyes brightly alert. From deep in her throat came a low warning growl unlike any noise I had ever heard from her. She stared across the road deep into the darkness to something we could not see, hear, or smell. Our conversation and laughter stopped instantly and we all stared at the dog. We could tell this was serious.

Hershey stood up and I grabbed her to hook up her leash. Steve, a gunsmith by trade, moved to his truck and took out a pair of handguns. Handing one to me, he moved deeper into the darkness saying “I’m going to sweep around behind whatever that is.” With the leashed growling dog, the rest of us moved away from the fire into the darkness behind one of the vehicles.

We knew about where Steve was located, but he was moving quietly, so we could not hear him at all. Time seemed to drag, and Hershey’s growls grew more ominous and louder. Kelli turned to me and said, “I’m getting a little nervous about this.” Her friend, Bill, just nodded. Hershey who dropped to a sitting position next to me while still growling suddenly leapt to her feet and increased the growl volume. From the darkness we heard Steve’s voice shouting, “Identify yourself! I have a gun and I’m not afraid to use it!” He repeated the warning in Spanish. Only the quiet of the desert night answered him.

It was silent again and after waiting what seemed a lifetime, I shouted, “Steve, are you OK?” He responded by shouting, “I can see you! Stand and identify yourself! We just want to know who you are and you can go on your way!” He repeated it firmly in Spanish. Nothing but darkness and quiet. In the darkness, we could clearly hear Steve pull the action on his pistol. The three of us looked at each, other our faces showing something between concern and fear. Hershey continued her incessant growling.

From a new position, Steve shouted one more time, “I can see all of you well enough to aim; identify yourself, now!” This time we heard a rustling in the underbrush; braced for whatever would come next, we froze as the night’s quiet was slashed with a long, baleful, “Mooooo.”

Hershey immediately barked three times, wagged her tail against my leg, sat down, and looked at me with her, “Did I earn a treat?” expression. Our laughter echoed from both sides of the road against the nearby mountain. Tension relieved, it was back to the campfire, the beer, the chips and the salsa. For Hershey, it was back to the sleeping pad with a treat to chew.

Camping for the computer-inclined

The quiet of the desert night wavers with the bay of a coyote at the rising moon. In the clear mountain air, the stars are sprinkled across the night sky. Every so often a shooting star creases the night. There’s quiet in the air with just a hint of breeze rustling through the pines. You could be sitting there toasting toes at the campfire, glass of wine or bottle of beer in hand, watching the night sky and just relaxing. Stretch a little, snuggle down in the chair, take your honey’s hand and gaze upon each other with affection. A perfect camping night, except you’re inside your tent, staring at the laptop screen plugged into the outlet located on your tent wall. Outlet in a tent might be the next thing, according to a report in PC World Online. This geek-oriented tent is just part of a slide show of camping gear for the computer nerd. The tent with built-in power—obviously from a generator—is big enough for a pair of gamers to set up shop with all their friends. It supposedly sleeps ten, which in real life terms means about seven.

 

As an avid camper, I believe the height of luxury is the solar shower. REI took it a step higher with the camp kitchen French coffee press, freshly made, of course with beans ground in a hand-powered grinder. For after dinner, a campfire espresso maker is also available. Now technology comes to the campsite with a Coleman high powered 18-LED light with high speed fan for cooling—and a hidden compartment with connections to fit all smart and mobile phones. Cool the tent, light up the night like day, and recharge the iPhone, all in one. The slide show depicts real and prototype high tech camping gear. Ah, for the days that high tech camping gear meant a lighter and stronger tent.