Building A House With Found Materials

I can’t recall who sent me this link. Self-identify in the comments if you like.

It’s a testament to the extant groupthink that these are called “recycled” materials. Doesn’t look it to me.

Recycling generally picks up raw materials in finished but discarded forms and turns it back into new finished materials. It’s a colossal waste of time and energy in almost all its forms. I’ve done more recycling than forty-five Ed Begleys, so I’ll clue you in on a little secret: after you sort through your trash like a raccoon and put it on the curb to try to resurrect Bambi’s mom through clean living, it all gets thrown in a landfill when you’re not looking. It’s a kabuki theater, not a real process.

Lots of stuff is worth recycling. It’s very simple: if someone will pay you to take it, or at the very least defray the cost of disposal with the value of the material, it’s worth recycling. Almost all metals fall into this category, for instance. No fair cheating with government funds.

The house here is not recycled. It is made from found materials. That’s different. To take that which others are not interested in and make it useful is an interesting and challenging thing. But others only think many things are useless because they have no imagination. They conversely value worthless things because of a kind of groupthink — the kind of groupthink that unironicly touts $28 per square foot backsplash tile as: “Green.” The general public will go along with any scheme to require uneconomic recycling, while simultaneously passing five hundred laws that make building a house like the one in the pictures illegal. It’s a form of intellectual delirium tremens.


Useful things should not be discarded. Everyone focuses on the discarding part. Maybe we should concentrate on the useful part, instead.

Every home and garden show pretty much proselytizes 24/7 that everything they’re doing is “green,” whatever the hell that means. But I guarantee every thing they are installing today will be ripped out inside of a decade, usually much faster, because it’s faddish. They go to great lengths to trumpet their use of recycled glass backsplashes, for instance, as if we’re going to run out of sand to make glass anytime soon. In two years, they’ll be wandering into people’s kitchens with a camera and looking horrified to find all the stuff they recommended to homeowners, and telling them to rip it out. They call it “updating.” It’s all waste.


Try to build a house that others would hesitate to demolish or “update.” Now try doing it cheaply. I’ve repaired many, many houses that are pushing three hundred years old, and they were all made with found materials, more or less. No matter how crazy the “We’re running out of everything” crowd gets, a tree is, and always will be, a found material — even if you mill it into a rectangular shape and sell it as a 2 x4. There will never be a three hundred year old house that was built with vinyl siding and bamboo laminate flooring, never mind recycled vinyl siding and bamboo laminate flooring. And the only rare commodity in this world is useful imagination.

(Update: I’ve answered some questions about this essay here: Sippican The Rag Man

Have A Pleasant Thanksgiving (Yer Mother!)

[Editor’s Note: From 2006. I was Thankful I could run it again instead of being original]
{Author’s Note: Happy Thanksgiving. And there is no editor}

There are lots of news stories available –the majority of them, I think– expounding on the horrors of Thanksgiving. “Send us your dysfunctional family Thanksgiving disaster stories” is the lede on every radio program I can find that hasn’t jumped the gun entirely and started with “Tell us your Christmas horror stories.”

I’m not having it. Thanksgiving is lovely. Or it should be.

Thanksgiving doesn’t beat around the bush; right in the name it tells you it’s a day to be grateful. Complaining about it seems to me to be like going to the art museum and complaining that the paintings are obscuring your view of the walls.

Hmm. Perhaps that’s a bad simile. I’ve been to many museums where the dropcloth daubs they hang on the walls aren’t as interesting as the off-white paint, now that I consider it. So please insert “Uffizi Gallery in Florence, Italy” in the preceding paragraph where “art museum” appears. Thanks.

Anyway, it’s not about you. For one day, at least, I don’t want to hear about your crabby attitude towards your assembled family and your overcooked turkey. I don’t want to hear about the lousy TV you’ve got to watch the football game on. I don’t care if you don’t like the floats that drift by Macy’s like garish barrage balloons. Put a sock in it. It’s not about you.

It’s not about any one of us. It’s about remembering that everything all of us have is a gift, and we could lose it, and we should take time out from our lives for one day a year and acknowledge that.

Have you ever been in a soup kitchen on Thanksgiving? I hate the preening socialites and politicians that visit there on Thanksgiving to get face time on TV. I think much more kindly about the people that feed those poor souls on November 25th and November 27th, when the cameras aren’t interested.

There’s a look on a person’s face, when someone gives them something they need that they might not have otherwise. It’s the look on the face of the man in line at the soup kitchen. It’s gratitude.

I’m going to give it a try today, that look. It looks like Thanksgiving.

Can You Love People?

Real, live people. I’m afraid I do. It makes me lonely to love people.

Not people as an abstraction. I’m talking about persons. When people start talking about their ideas for “the people,” I know some “persons” are going in the proverbial oven. Can you love your fellow man? Not the ones just like you. All sorts of other people. Everyone seems interested in fixing all the other people in the world. It’s not a new idea, but everyone thinks they’ve just invented the wheel or fire or something every time they try it. Persons always suffer when ideas about perfecting people get going. It’s an iron law, like gravity or the 1040 form.

People are raucous and noisy and they jostle and fight. They smell. Occasionally they smell good. They have ambition where you wish they’d lie still. They are somnolent when you’d prefer they push your cart. They are rotund and jolly and easygoing whether you think everyone should be a humorless ectomorph scold or not.

An ideal human’s behavior is being laid out with plumb bob and ruler right now, by people for whom I have no regard. The persons they are trying to make from the magnificent clay of humanity would be contemptible, if it was possible to produce them, which it isn’t. They wear the authenticity of real people like a cannibal wears the skin of his victim.

Above all, they hate the sight of children. They’re all still potential persons. Can’t have that, can we? Me? That’s why I love them.

好むペーパーかプラスチックをか。

I’m ashamed of myself. No; really.

I kept waiting for some kind of commotion. Wild stunts to break out. The grocery bags would be placed and filled in some Lucy-workin’-at-the-chocolate-factory-at- warp-speed gymnastic exercise.

I thought the contestants would be insane. Mannerless monomaniac weirdos who had dedicated their lives to acting the fool to cadge attention at any cost. Face painters. Balloon boys.

At the end, I figured there’d be some battle royale with everyone going like Kalis on crack, smashing strange items into paper sacks and hurling every third one at each other. Then a congregation of nitpicking semi-celebrities, culled from a kind of gutter filled with the vomit of barely-know-their-name fame, would choose a winner based on which one was least likely to take their jobs.

I apologize unreservedly. I forgot there are places still left in the world where honest effort and manners is neither sneered at when displayed nor held back as a pointless posture of rebellion.

We should consider going back to humiliating entertainers for our amusement and exalting productive citizens for our edification. The approach built our world, and everything in it, once.

The Naked City


A while back I had a kinda corporate job. After a time, they made me a manager, and a while after that, they made me the managers’ manager. I had to travel from office to office, firing people, mostly. It made me a kind of tethered vagabond, expected to see everything in an instant and to be mean without malice. I found out that to be really lonely in this world, you have to be included but feared; and I was certainly that. A city is like that, writ large. In a city everyone is included, but feared. It’s not lonesome in the woods. It’s lonesome hanging on a strap in a tube full of people trying not to look at one another much.

The company was based in New York, and I had to start going to their… my… the office out on the island from time to time. When they canceled the plane from Providence to Lawn Guyland, I had to drive it a lot. I remember the first time I drove into The City as part of my job. I’d driven through it before, but to be a part of it, a participant in its affairs, is an entirely different thing. I was accordioning into one of its many tunnels, the cars jostling and pushing their way into the maw of the underpass, and I can still recall the feeling of immense power invested in the place. When London was the center of the world, they called that feeling The Hum. I’d read that, but until The City digested me and I passed into its bloodstream instead of passing right through, I didn’t really understand The Hum.

If you don’t have a skin in the game, and visit it as a tourist, you might miss that. If you’re a denizen, you might become inured to it and miss it too. But someone that’s in it, but used to observing his surroundings with a bit of a detached eye, now that’s a valuable guy to have around. My friend Gerard of American Digest is such a man. Bookmark the Tumblr stream of photos of the city he called home, taken right after the foundations of that city were rocked to the granite ledge beneath them. He left it after that, but he was smart enough to make an impression of the key to the city in the wax of his camera before he made his escape. Feel The Hum.

Tag: life

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