It took a snowstorm to make us realize just how much was within walking distance. We’re lazy by nature – or at least we used to be. We drive to the store, even when it’s just a half mile down the street. We drive to the bank, to the post office, to the neighborhood farmers’ market.

Then, last January, we were hit with a brutal blanket of white that didn’t quit for days. Our minivan’s old tires and lack of chains meant we weren’t driving anywhere at all — not even two blocks — till the Great Snowpocalypse of 2009 was replaced by the Great Meltdown.

Meanwhile, we needed to buy groceries. We needed to get to the bank. We needed to go places we’d always just driven before. And we needed to do all of this with over a foot of snow on the ground.

(I know, I know. We’re wimps in the Northwest. I know this because I spent two winters of my life in Boston and I learned how to travel in snow. Learned and apparently forgot — just like all the transplanted Californians in Portland forget how to drive in the rain year after year.)

So, we bundled up, dug out our hiking boots (yes, they were buried somewhere in the basement), and walked.

And we loved it.

We even added extra, unnecessary trips, freezing our toes and slipping on patches of ice.

And then the snow melted and for a while, we forgot… again… and drove, again.

Until this past August when something clicked and we both discovered just how far we could walk again. Down the road and into Milwaukie to the credit union. Through Westmoreland, Oaks Bottom, along the bike trails, past the railroad tracks, beside the river, near the roller rink… So many places, all within walking distance!

Now that the weather is turning again, we have to remind ourselves it’s okay to get a little soggy. It’s not the end of the world if we wake up to pouring rain. The walk is still worth it.

In fact, I hate to admit it, but I’ve been secretly hoping for another snowstorm.

“I am not attached to this car. I am not attached to this car.”
– Detective Charlie Crews, Life

It didn’t happen quite how we would have planned, but I had previously considered the notion that with Dave walking to work, we weren’t in need of two cars.

It was a bit of an accident that we became a two car couple in the first place. See, when Dad died, Mom inherited his old minivan. Trouble is, Mom doesn’t drive. Naturally, the state stepped in and said, ahem, if she doesn’t drive and therefore doesn’t have auto insurance, she can’t own a car.

So, because I was there and driving it anyway, the minivan became mine.

And a very good thing this was too because last week Dave had a rather abrupt meeting with a Ford Bronco, just a block from our house. He’s fine, the Bronco (go figure) is fine, but Vlad, poor Vlad, my ten-year-old Civic, is not.

Vlad ended up with body damage equal to the cost of, well, Vlad.

So, today we drove to the body shop, removed all our stray belongings, and said goodbye to the car that’s been my bestest most wonderful, reliable vehicle for the last ten years. I almost cried a little. Vlad was a good car, and tomorrow he’s off to the junkyard. I am attempting to be Zen about it, but I’m not doing a very good job.

I become attached to things. Cars, books, ancient and torn articles of clothing; our house is filled with things that make me go awww, or hmmm, or hey, remember when? I know I have a bad memory for details, but do I really need physical reminders of every single semi-important moment in my life? Wouldn’t a photograph do the job just as well?

I have pictures of Vlad. Not just crunched-in post-accident pictures, but dozens of pictures of Vlad at the beach, Vlad in the mountains, Vlad packed to the gills ready for a trip down I-5. And, since Vlad’s junkyard bound, those pictures will have to do.

Which brings up an odd thought: if Vlad were small – say, small enough to fit into a corner of my basement – would I hang onto him for sentimental reasons, just like I’ve hung on to every broken antique, every torn band t-shirt, every action figure with a limb missing? And if I’m forced to say goodbye to my favorite 10-year-old car, and I can live through it without being a complete mess, what’s stopping me from downsizing all the clutter in our basement as well?

Declutter your life, Vlad says to me before I say goodbye. I may have been your favorite, but you can haul a lot of stuff away in that minivan.

Today, on OneWebDay, I did something extraordinarily local and not at all related to the web: Today, on this beautiful, crisp fall day, I walked my sweetie to work.

A week ago, Dave’s transfer kicked in and with it, the end of forty bucks a month in the gas tank and thirty minute commutes across town. Now it’s ten minutes by foot through our favorite neighborhood in all of Portland. A great excuse for more exercise and a further reduction of that thing everyone’s been talking about: our “carbon footprint.”

It’s not just all fads and catch-phrases, not in these parts. (Certainly not for us old timer Oregonians who were all over the Bottle Bill from day one.) For us, it’s a necessity. With our tiny house and our tiny budget, simplicity and conservation are survival tactics. Not that we’re always good at it. Sometimes we’re terrible. We have bad habits to break, years of learning to unlearn, and we’re not even remotely perfect. (And no, we’re not going to be giving up Dr. Who in order to reduce our electric bill by a few more pennies. The line does have to be drawn somewhere!)

On the other hand, we are all about finding slightly less miserable ways to cut our utility bills and ideally save the environment a little along with our bank account.

Sometimes, when we write for the web, what gets lost in the shuffle is what’s closest to home. We talk about the great food to be had halfway across the world and forget about our favorite little joint right up the street. We scope out the latest books on Amazon and forget about the indie bookseller a half mile away. When I think about living a simple life, I think about living a “local” life. True, it’s not always the frugal choice, but there’s a balance to be had somewhere in there, and if it’s possible for us to support the small business owner up the street without breaking the budget, we’ll do it. And, oh is it nice to make that shopping trip without gassing up or getting mired in rush hour traffic!

Over on Belly Timber, for OneWebDay, I challenged myself with a list of nine things. Starting this blog was number four on the list. I may not get through all nine, but this one is the one that matters to me most. I’m excited to share it all: our crazy, money-saving projects, our urban homesteading disasters and triumphs, and our beautiful, eclectic neighborhood. All of it, within walking distance.