On the last weekend in January, a small crowd of onlookers gathers at the edge of Brookfield Pond in central Vermont for what is – these days – a most unusual spectacle. An odd contraption of wooden beams and iron hardware stands on a patch of ice surrounded by rusted old saws and oversized tongs. A local historian narrates as two men move to the center of the ice and begin sawing. After a few minutes they use a strange fork to pry loose a block more than a foot thick. An ingenious lever system easily lifts this 300-pound block of ice off the water and lands it safely on the surface, frozen before it hits the ground.

Welcome to the Brookfield Ice Harvest. It’s one of the last of its kind - an event that’s essentially a relic, carried out by small northern towns to celebrate history and liven up the long, frozen winter.

Until WWII, harvesting ice was a necessary part of life. Before refrigerators, this was the only way that families and general stores could keep food products cold in the warmer months. The mammoth blocks of ice were stored between layers of sawdust until they melted, at which point people were out of luck until the next winter.

My husband, daughter and I watched the spectacle last weekend until our toes numbed. As we headed back toward the car my husband shook his head. “Sure seems like a lot of work when you can just open up the fridge.”

That’s for sure. But there are also consequences to opening up the fridge – and a thousand other modern conveniences – that we don’t think about. We’re so used to having things exactly when, where and how we want them that we rarely give thought to whether we could do without, or perhaps even do better without. I’m not about to ditch my appliances and head for the river with a saw and pitchfork, but the ice harvest did get me thinking about how we could embrace more of that old time ethic in our home lives and our communities, and why we should.

My Yankee ancestors have been touting a phrase for generations: “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.” I was excited to run across a new blog built on that concept, by blogger and writer Meg Hourihan. She’s challenged herself to buy nothing in 2012 except for what she’s used up or worn out. A great mantra and one that seems relatively easy to adopt until you’re faced with saying no to your niece’s request to buy girl scout cookies, or passing up that 90% off sale at your favorite store. But if we could all move in that direction, there’s no question our wallets, our closets, and especially the planet would be better for it.

If you’re intrigued but not quite ready to go whole hog, there are plenty of ways to start down this path. Closest Closet – one of last year’s CommunityMatters Strong Communities Competition applicants – is a unique project in Southern Maine that aims to help neighbors recycle and share, turning to each other rather than buying new. If you don’t happen to live in Southern Maine, check out the Freecycling Network – a similar concept, nationwide.

Communities often seem to do better than consumers at embracing this ethic, albeit by necessity. We’ve yet to hear about a town in the U.S. that isn’t facing budget shortfalls and cutbacks, and most places are pretty creative at making do and doing without when it comes to rec funds and school supplies. But the Minnesota non-profit Strong Towns has helped communities reexamine their decisions concerning land use and infrastructure improvements. Strong Towns’ “Curbside Chat” program and a companion booklet helps communities see why some “growth” and “progress” is actually setting us back.

Just as we want ice in July, we want bigger, smoother, nicer roads. We want new developments with views of the countryside. We want more growth, period. The problem is, the things that communities and consumers believe will make them stronger and wealthier often don’t.

I’m not a Luddite, and the message here isn’t that growth and conveniences are bad. But there are tradeoffs and there are alternatives – ones that people don’t often think about in today’s world. It is possible to harvest ice from a pond rather than pulling it out of the freezer. It’s possible to borrow that thingamajig from your neighbor’s garage rather than buying it online. It is possible to build our communities differently.

And it’s quite possible that using up, wearing out, and making do in some aspects of our lives and communities will prevent the very real possibility that we’ll have to do without in others.

Last winter I gained a new appreciation for speed limits. During a month-long internship at the New York City Department of Transportation, I spent a lot of time working on safety initiatives to reduce speeding. I learned that 30 mph, the speed limit in most cities, is not arbitrary. A pedestrian hit by a vehicle going 40 mph is 3.5 times more likely to die than one hit at 30 mph. An entire campaign, “That’s Why It’s 30,” is built around this fact.

Coming from rural New England, speed limits have always been more of a nuisance than anything else. Slowing to 25 mph through an empty town, on a wide road with no crosswalks or sidewalks, sometimes feels silly. We do it to avoid a ticket, but I don’t often think about the real implications of speeding in these areas.

As I race around this holiday season, pulling late nights wrapping and boxing up countless gifts to friends and relatives far and wide, then lugging said packages in great heaps to the post office for ground or priority or rush shipping, depending on the day and my state of mind, I have to take a moment to acknowledge the efficiency and simple industry of the cardboard box.

So basic. So useful. So ubiquitous. So kind of boring. But what would we do without them? Really. They come in all sizes. They’re pretty sturdy. They’re basic in that clean, no frills, Dwell Magazine sort of way. They come equipped with various flaps, slits and tucks for easy transformation into the squares and rectangles that we fill with stuff.

I taught a class on the American Dream while student teaching last year. I gave students markers and giant pieces of paper and asked them to draw whatever popped into their minds when they thought of the “American Dream”.

Nearly every student’s paper included a simple drawing of a house—a square with a triangle roof attached, four little windows and a front door. This should not have surprised me; my drawing also had a house. But this caused me to wonder: is single-family home ownership the ultimate expression of the American Dream?

Photo: Workshop participants take advantage of Belfast’s public art chairs while doing fieldwork.

Heart & Soul Community Planning is rooted in the idea that people share common values when it comes to what makes their cities and towns unique. Although the language people use may be similar across communities, the specifics of what people mean by that language can be quite different from place to place.

So how do you get beyond nebulous conversations about “sense of community” to a shared understanding of the specifics of your town? You get on the ground and figure it out.

Photo: Pincurbia, the Pop-up Park

The Atlantic Magazine recently printed an article titled “Temporary is the New Permanent.” It explains that in our current economic climate, with cities low on cash and an abundance of empty lots and abandoned buildings, temporary projects are taking off. Why?

Because land owners and bureaucracies are often more willing to sign off on non-permanent creative projects that can be easily adapted or scrapped than long-term, infrastructure-heavy projects, which tend to be more expensive and less easily altered. It’s a matter of practicality. Another huge plus is that grassroots organizations, architects, designers and volunteers who want to impact their communities can take a much more active role in such projects.

Much More than an Eco-Bachelor Pad
 

After spending ten days competing in the Department of Energy’s Solar Decathlon competition in Washington D.C. with the Middlebury College team, I’m convinced that the family unit remains the strongest force in our communities today.

Nineteen international collegiate teams participated in the competition, designing, building, and operating houses completely powered by the sun. These houses were displayed for ten days in a public exhibit at the West Potomac Park, educating people about solar energy, while exhibiting that highly efficient, livable homes are sensible and affordable in the domestic realm.

There is no shortage of artists using the tools of their trade to create social change. But each time I run across a story about Lily Yeh, acclaimed visual artist and founder of Barefoot Artists, I am humbled and inspired by her work, using the power of art to revitalize impoverished communities.

As Lily describes in a recent interview with David Kupfer, “Making art in destitute situations is like making fire in the darkness of a winter’s night. It gives out warmth and light; it beckons and rekindles hope. It does not directly solve problems but it creates a fresh, nurturing environment in which new possibilities and methodology can emerge.”

“My work engages people, whose participation ensures its sustainability. This is why I call my art living social sculpture. It usually begins with making art with people; it then expands to include other activities such as storytelling, education, construction and economic initiatives. The living fabrics of communities become the canvas of my work, creativity its fuel, people’s talent and imagination its palette and tools. In the poor communities where I have worked, this process often leads to an improved environment, a better quality life, and a sense of joy and hope for the future.”