SB: More cement, cars, buildings, and stuff

[Mark Piepkorn <duckchow@greenbuilder.com>]

         Bits of some feedback/responses about cement, fidobe/padobe & 
papercrete, and more from TLS about clumping people. (Note I posted the 
original message to two lists, and am posting this message to the same ones.)

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         Got a nice offlist response from lime guy Harry Francis with some 
additional info on the cement-production part of my rant. (Though he 
doesn't ever brag about it, he was Technical Manager of the National Lime 
Association for over seven years, among other impressive related things 
before and since.)

         Building lime's readsorbtion of C02 is something I know and like 
(and probably learned from Harry in the first place), and I figured that 
the lime portion of cement did the same thing. He verifies my assumption, 
and then takes it further. Sadly, he isn't able to supply a number for net 
C02 releases from cement production. (I say this realizing that the number 
would vary widely from plant to plant and fuel to fuel, as would the 
embodied energies of extraction, pre- and post-delivery, etc.)

         Given Harry's comments, does anybody have ideas about why cement 
production is given such a big portion of the blame for atmospheric C02? Is 
it simply because we use so darned much of it?

-----

(Excerpts from Harry; ellipses indicate snips)

I really enjoyed your comments on small is beautiful with love....

... I want to comment on the cement mfg thing. It is true that in the 
production of cement and lime, one drives off almost 1/2 the limestone 
weight in CO2... 2 pounds of limestone to make one pound of lime. In 
cement, it is less limestone per pound of cement as the mixture is 2/5 
parts limestone to 3/5 parts silica. The production of cement does require 
more fuel... thus produces more CO2 from fuel burning.

However, when lime and cements cure, they re-adsorb much of the CO2 released
in production in reverting to limestone... Cement is a little more complex 
in that it is a mixture of lime and silica/alumina, in a ratio of about 1 
part lime and 3 parts silica/alimina... However it , too, re-adsorbs some 
of its CO2 to reduce the pH of the mixture causing the calcium silicate gel 
to harden (cure) as the pH drops.

I don't know what the net CO2 releases are, but I do think the lime and 
cement industry needs to be recognized for re-ad-sorbing some of the CO2 
given off in production, as the materials cure.

-----

Snip of a response about fidobe/padobe:

"The 50/50 mix is for the ceiling and roofs only! You are right, fidobe is 
clay and paper only, as was stated in the original message. The 6 inches on 
the outside and the 8 inches on the inside are strictly fidobe."


         I dug into the archives, and while the original message actually 
doesn't say anything about fidobe using clay as a binder, I'll grant that I 
didn't read the sentence closely enough, and missed the intended meaning. 
Fidobe/padobe I'm OK with, but papercrete gives me the willies. (Yes, I 
have seen the stuff in action. I've been to Mike McCain's and Sean Sand's 
at City Of The Sun, and seen Mike Patterson's work in Silver City. I 
haven't been to Radium Springs or Crestone. I dislike papercrete for the 
same reasons I dislike Rastra - but I have a lot more faith in the 
longevity of Rastra. That's my own opinion; fortunately for both of us we 
ain't the same person or we'd be mighty schizo... grin...)


 From the original message:

"Fidobe, [some call it padobe] can be used to fill the walls and the 
ceiling can be formed from paper/portland cement 50/50. Both hold paint and 
stains well. Put a coat [6"] on the outside as well to have a prettier 
building."
( http://groups.yahoo.com/group/organic_architecture/message/452 )

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 > And why on earth do we duplicate all the support systems?
 > If we share a laundry facility, all of us can immediately
 > delete one room and some expensive equipment from our
 > houses. If we share a library, or a dance space, PRESTO!
 > Our houses shrink with no loss (in fact a gain) of comforts.

A response:

"Imagine if we could walk to this library, and to the dance space, a 
theater, a nice park and community gardens, a few restaurants, cafes, 
shops, art galleries, a bar or two, an inn, a school...  Just think if we 
could share all these resources without hauling around a ton of steel, we 
would be living in... a city!  And hey, if our smaller homes shared other 
resources like walls and those bugaboos of resource intensity, foundations 
and roofs, we would be living in... apartments!"


         *laughing*... Yes! The book that was referenced in the article the 
initial quote came from (A Pattern Language) addresses all scales of 
habitation, from single-family homes, to multi-family dwellings, to 
villages, to regions... it's creepy how comprehensive it is. And of course, 
by being so comprehensive it leaves out more than it covers. (That made 
sense to me, which perhaps is a clue to the problems some of you may have 
making sense of what I'm saying... grin...)

         David Wagner, I'd love it if you'd post more about what you're up to.

         Here's a couple more articles from TLS http://www.strawhomes.com , 
from the very same Small Houses issue, that touch on just what you're 
talking about (and more), and gives some more exposition to the book A 
Pattern Language. The first one is by Bob Theis, who besides being *way* 
smart is probably the weirdest normal person I've ever met... or maybe the 
normalest weird person. The second one is by equity-for-all-champion Rob 
Bolman, who may or may not still be on this list, and in this article 
writes briefly about his natural home in Eugene, Oregon.

-----

Small Is What You Make Of It
by Bob Theis

It's nice to see the current attention being paid to smaller houses. The 
racks at bookstores have half a dozen titles devoted to the topic. It's 
probably more important, however, to take seriously that this impetus 
carries no weight at all in our culture at large. The wife of another 
architect put it very succinctly to me: "small houses are for small people."

Those of us immersed in natural building risk preaching to the choir by 
dwelling on the energy efficiency, affordability, etc. of small houses: 
Nobody else is listening. They might nod, and even agree - but then they go 
out and buy SUVs. In American culture, we want our possessions to proclaim 
that we matter; that we're a Big Deal.

Unless the people that you're talking to have experienced rattling around 
in a too-large house, you won't be speaking to their desires to talk about 
efficiency. What we really want to communicate is not that a large house is 
wasteful or evil, but that it's an unnecessary burden: there are better 
ways to satisfy this desire to be somebody.

So how can a house which doesn't posses a commanding physical presence 
announce that you have significance? By being embedded in a place where 
neighbors announce your importance; when people on the street greet you by 
name, you know you belong. Everybody needs this, but few of us actually 
obtain our recommended daily dose of casual social interaction. So we rely 
on laborious, artificial substitutes: ever notice how many people at your 
natural building workshops are more interested in chatting than actually 
building? They're trying to correct this deficiency.

When we recognize that the human need for social connection is as strong as 
the need for connection to natural processes, we will be able to 
dramatically increase the ability of working people to reduce their 
ecological footprint in the everyday acts of sharing a built 
infrastructure. The simplest place to live in a very small house, after 
all, is within walking distance of a store, bus stop, laundromat, etc.

Much of the wonderful research and development in natural building and 
living that has been accomplished "out in the woods." We now need to be 
adapted to the people who choose (or have to choose) the benefits of living 
in proximity to others. The movement's dirty secret has been its tacit 
support of the Great American myth that "you've got to be rural to be 
natural."

Deny it all you want; it walks into our architecture office almost every 
month, the couples who've bought their 40 acres for a natural house out in 
the country, where they need to be. As we get into their visions, we 
generally ask, how big a vegetable garden are you planning? And the general 
response is, "Umm.... Garden?"

It's not really about access to land. They are buying scenery and privacy. 
And driving to everything else.

Don't get the wrong impression; there's nothing particularly selfish or 
evil in this impulse. The United States consists mostly of four landscapes: 
depressed inner cities, sterile suburbs and strips, rural countrysides and 
bits of wilderness.

But you, gentle reader, know that these are not the only four landscapes. 
You've been in neighborhoods that feel good; you've walked down streets 
lined with houses that delight you. Now, where do you know a 
down-at-the-heels streetscape with that kind of potential? Your commitment 
to natural building is just not as out needed out on a gorgeous rural 
parcel as it is in bringing the delight of the natural back to 
neighborhoods that have lost it.

It's a daunting realm to enter. Fortunately, you can get a sense of what 
makes a great neighborhood from a book that should already be on your shelf 
- A Pattern Language by Christopher Alexander et. al. (Oxford University 
Press, 1977).

For those who aren't familiar with it, the work is a compilation of design 
principles for creating nurturing human environments at all scales. By 
defining "patterns" which respond to our social and psychological needs, 
the book helps us to create better environments for living. Definitely get 
yourself a copy. If you have a copy, turn back and read the patterns 
related to neighborhoods.

While we've got the book out, let's have a quick look at some of the 
patterns that I have seen help people draw their homes closer in to themselves.

The pattern identified as "Positive Outdoor Space" affirms that good 
exterior spaces are well defined - far better defined than the dreary 
concrete terraces and windswept raised decks we see around us. Through the 
book, in related patterns like "Outdoor Room", "Courtyards Which Live" and 
"Indoor-Outdoor Connection", you begin to see the incredibly rich language 
of possibilities our culture has ignored.

As we say in the office, the cheapest room you can build is a wonderful 
porch. One of our approaches to small houses, in fact, is to put the 
impress-your-visitors grandeur into a lofty, generous front porch with 
fountains and lounging benches and closets; this way the heated spaces 
behind can be the intimate, modest scale that is all most people need 
day-to-day. So give at least as much attention to shaping outdoor spaces as 
you do to interior ones. After all, isn't that where you'd rather be?

The pattern "Farmhouse Kitchen" preceded the rediscovery by the design 
profession of the kitchen as social center of the house. If you're going to 
reduce the house to one central focus, the kitchen is probably it; sleeping 
in the kitchen is easier to envision than preparing a meal in the bedroom. 
This pattern argues that social relations shouldn't have to squeeze in at 
the door to the kitchen, but should be central to its conception. This 
means more than just adding a lunch counter; why not throw in a big easy 
chair you can nap in.

In recent years, however, I've come to realize that the pattern "Sitting 
Circle" is of equal importance to the essence of home. In climates where 
the fire doesn't pull people to it, the urge to gather and converse remains 
a primary forum-giver. In a small house, paring a sitting circle to its 
smallest possible size most likely means using built-in furniture. In our 
first straw-bale house, a bay window that is also one big raised mattress 
is everyone's favorite gathering place. I would suggest a raised floor you 
can sit on would eliminate a lot of furniture as well as the space required 
to get around it.

"House For One Person" lays out the basic premise of a small house; to have 
one or two foci to the place, then wrap the subsidiary elements - entries, 
bed alcove, etc. - around them, as thick borders that are themselves 
elements contributing to the central focus. The patterns "Alcoves", "Bed 
Alcoves", "Window Place" and "Closets Between Rooms" are all examples of 
this basic premise of replacing strings of separate rooms with miniaturized 
ones that borrow visual space from the one or two foci and contribute to 
their life.

The most powerful force that fights the creation of really compact floor 
plans (and neighborhoods, for that matter) is the strongly-felt need (in 
our culture) to separate from others. In my experience, our need to get 
away from the neighbors, and close the door on the people we live with, is 
a primary reason for our low density neighborhoods and houses. Once this is 
recognized, one becomes attuned to space-saving ways to achieve a sense of 
separation.

A basic rule of thumb in design is that one foot of vertical separation 
between levels is perceptually equivalent to ten feet of horizontal 
separation. So level changes,
even small ones, are very effective in pulling spaces apart.

The pattern "Long Thin House" points out that stretching a house in plan 
increases the distinction of the rooms. If rooms are only linked along a 
porch they open onto, even more separation results. To stretch a house 
vertically as a tower creates entirely separate realms on each floor.

You know how effectively those thick bale walls separate inside from 
outside? If you 'fatten up' the important thresholds between spaces, they 
separate realms within the house more effectively (see the pattern "Closets 
Between Rooms").

Which brings up the issue of storage. The pattern "Bulk Storage" emphasizes 
that you must design more than just closets, because you've got more than 
just closet-shaped items. Of all the apartments of my student days, I 
remember most fondly one with a heated crawl space where I set up miles of 
shelving. All our stuff was close by and convenient, and our tiny rooms 
could be completely clutter free.

The most striking use of this is actually not in the book: "Kitchen 
Pantries." Do what it takes to get a storage area with floor-to-ceiling 
shelving adjacent to the kitchen. Bulk food, seldom used equipment, even 
the refrigerator, can all go in there, and you only need store the 
day-to-day items in the kitchen's work area. This eliminates the need for 
at least 50% of your typical kitchen's cabinets and drawers, especially 
those awful, in-your-face wall cabinets.

A Pattern Language is actually one volume of a pair. Its mate, The Timeless 
Way
of Building, points out that the difference between wonderful and leaden 
buildings is comparable to the difference between prose and poetry. Houses 
generally get laid out like prose, stringing together separate rooms for 
each function. A very small house requires that the spaces function like 
poetry, nesting and overlapping, each contributing to the whole in many 
ways. This requires a lot more attention and skill, but it virtually 
guarantees a depth, richness and intimacy uncommon in big houses.

This is not to say that a small house will automatically function well. Far 
from it; where a poorly planned large house may cause inconvenience, a 
poorly designed small house can be sheer torture because there is so much 
less leeway. Full size mock-ups, with as much real furniture as possible, 
are highly recommended prior to construction.

A successful small house will wrap itself closely but comfortably around 
the activities of life, the way good clothing wraps the body - enhancing 
it, not restricting it.

(As a college freshman Bob Theis thought he'd like to design neighborhoods. 
Since then, he has renovated historic buildings in New York City, worked 
with Christopher
Alexander, and got in early [1993!] on the strawbale revival. Several 
decades later, he's now quite certain about his interest in neighborhoods. 
He can be reached at Daniel Smith & Associates Architects; 1107 Virginia 
St, Berkeley CA 94702; ph 510-526-1935, fax 510-526-1961; 
<info@dsaarch.com>, http://www.dsaarch.com )

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Mud Luscious In The City
by Robert Bolman

After well over three years of (spare time) work, I just moved into Mud 
Luscious, my 400-sf (interior) straw-bale and earthen house in Eugene, 
Oregon. The foundation is made of reused concrete chunks with a reinforced 
concrete bond beam on top. The truss-bent post & beam framing system uses 
about 2000 board feet of framing lumber and requires no plywood. There is 
an earthen plaster inside and out, cob thermal mass details and an earthen 
floor.

Mud Luscious is substantially smaller than an average house. It's basically 
one big room - a studio. I wanted it that way for a number of reasons. I'm 
an artist, I'm single, part of my spirituality yearns for an austere living 
space, but mostly, I felt a moral obligation to consume fewer resources 
based on what I've come to understand of the world economic order. I'll be 
brief & blunt: It is my opinion that, to a certain extent, the wealth & 
prosperity that we in the industrialized world (U.S. in particular) enjoy 
is directly related to poverty & suffering often imposed at gunpoint 
elsewhere in the world.

I see the voluntary simplicity movement as an important step toward 
addressing the extremely poor distribution of the world's resources. It's 
also a morally imperative step if we're ever to be the good people that we 
want (and claim) to be. That's where my lifestyle comes in. Rather than 
eating strawberries flown here from Chile, I want to eat black & blue 
berries grown on my property in the hopes that Chile will use its land and 
resources to grow food for its own people. Rather than buy a walk-in closet 
filled with inexpensive clothing made by exploited sweat shop workers, I 
would rather have a modest wardrobe of clothing that is either secondhand 
or made by better-paid union workers. Rather than live in a 5000 square 
foot, 3/4 million dollar sport utility house, I live in a much smaller 
house made of earth, wood and straw.

The materials to build this house came (as much as possible) from Nature. 
The labor to build the house wasn't paid for by money resulting from being 
any more entrenched than necessary in an unjust world economic order 
(subject to debate, of course). The labor was provided by myself and my 
friends.

Sited as it is on the grounds of the (still very much under development) 
Eco-Village of Eugene (EVE), life in Mud Luscious will be an exercise in 
community, sharing, permaculture and appropriate technology. I'll be 
cooking meals and bathing in a community kitchen & bath facility located 
nearby. This facility is used by others living in even smaller houses: two 
1960s travel trailers, a school bus and a cob house recently completed by 
Mark Lamberth. All living spaces will be expanded upon through development 
of outdoor amenities such as solar showers; a "rocket stove" [which is a 
cheap, efficient, home-made woodstove] kitchen; outdoor fireplace; and 
perhaps even a straw-bale hot tub.

Life in Mud Luscious will reflect an environmentally and socially 
responsible lifestyle... and it should be lots of fun, too.

Robert Bolman <robtb@efn.org>, http://www.robertbolman.com/

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