Epitome of hubris

After Milt

2009-03-26T21:48:00.000-07:00

Aunt Kathryn’s house is half empty
three weeks after Uncle Milt left for good.
She meets us at the door
as if nothing has changed.
In the bedroom where he lay,
the hospital bed is made, its sheets
drawn tight.
She has his shoes out, lined up on the floor
in pairs, stiff and curled. Tennis shoes. Black and brown dress
shoes. A pair of work boots
she hands to my father. “You take these,” she says.
“I can’t,” he says. “They’re expensive. Ask David first.”
She considers, then sets them down on the floor again.
In the bathroom, one sink is wet, one towel is rumpled,
one soap has orange bubbles clinging to it, popping.
There is a smell.
There is half a smell.
I wander outside. I do not want any of them
to see me.
At the rabbit cage, I look for a telltale fluff of white.
But it is cold; he is not moving. He has no name
anyway; he will not come if I call.
The chickens are gone, the garden is soaked through
and frozen.
I slide open a shed door
and stand staring at the riding lawn mower,
the tractor, reeking of gasoline.
Silent as cattle in a field
beneath fog.
I remember the last time I saw him,
this quiet man quieted, his lips barely moving,
faintly wincing, eyes closed,
apologizing for not having gassed up the leaf-blower.
I held his hand until he pulled away.
I remember coming here a few weeks before,
after the snow piled up in the backyard,
my father digging a narrow path to the shed,
to the rabbit,
watching him work silently, slowly,
the green grass beneath his boots
as he moved away and out of sight.

Jason Miller
3.26.09

Bring back the Concrete Herald at www.concrete-herald.com

2009-02-09T14:44:00.000-08:00

Looks like I'm overdue to post SOMEthing here. Very well.

My latest project is an attempt to bring back the Concrete Herald, my small town's newspaper from 1901 to 1991. It folded because the guy who bought it from its attentive and careful former owners was, apparently, a crook. What a shame.

So now, having been laid off from my full-time job, I figure I can do this. We have a monthly "shopper" at the moment, serving as our community newspaper, but it's... well, it's not a newspaper. Not really.

With more expertise and imagination than money, I've launched a fundraising drive that lives at www.concrete-herald.com. I've gotten some sweet press so far, including an awesome Seattle Times article posted at http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/localnews/2008717626_concrete07m.html, and a live, on-air interview with Ichabod Caine and the Waking Team at KMPS 94.1 FM in Seattle (listen to the interview at www.kmps.com; look for my name and the "play" icon just below the "Listen Live" link on the home page).

Anyway, that's the scoop. Tell everyone you know to check out the Web site and, if they're so inclined, to donate a little something-something. $1, $5, $10 ... every little bit helps. Interested folks can donate online or by sending a check payable to Concrete Herald:

Concrete Herald
P.O. Box 682
Concrete, WA 98237

Onward!

Warszawa 1992

2008-12-20T07:40:00.000-08:00

Here's one of the better poems I've written.

Warszawa 1992

The sun is setting the same
as it does in St. Paul, lining
itself up with the spaces
between the bleached buildings.
I sit in a hotel restaurant,
unwashed, with a beer whose name
I can’t pronounce in front of me and two
women whose names I haven’t heard
sitting at my table, their lips
moving soundlessly against trembling
cigarettes. I jaywalked across
twelve lanes of traffic to get here,
sit at this table and try to get
the waiter to understand I want
water only. Six million zlotys
in my pocket and all I want is water.
The woman waiting for me on
the steps of the supermarket six
blocks away runs her hands over bristly
shins and squints. The white-haired
woman across from me asks where I am
from. I lie. In the Stare Miasto district,
the vendors have closed.
Cheap leather and silver stare
back through the front glass at sweating
tourists. I tell the woman how
on the bus I was almost robbed today, show
the bruise, how I pushed past the man,
the bus groaning on in the wrong direction,
the eyes of the driver in his
mirror, watching. We don’t move, we
three. The sun is down but the light
is not gone. Later, I will try
to remember their faces -- the white-haired
one, the one with the wig -- I will try
to bring them up again and their faces
will vanish like smoke.

Jason Miller
St. Paul, 2002

Christmas poem for "A Very Concrete Christmas," Dec. 13, 2008

2008-12-19T16:44:00.000-08:00

How about a little "poetry" today? I wrote this for my hometown's Christmas celebration, "A Very Concrete Christmas." Granted, I blurred the lines between poetry and prose with this one, but the thing is, I don't care. Enjoy.

Christmas Potluck

I am in the basement of Central Baptist Church in University Place, Washington, and I am surrounded by people who know more than I.

They have old names, these men and women sitting at round tables: Ted, Doris, Eleanor, Lois, Adelaide, Leonard, Wendell. Four of them have just turned 93 and we sing to them. Happy Birthday. Four times.

They all remember me and are startled by my appearance. I don’t look like the Jason they remember, this man before them with a thick face. Balding. I joke with the women, ask them how it is that they have the same amount of hair as they did when I was four, and I… I apparently didn’t fare as well. Why is that?

They laugh with a disconnected sound. Other memories are snarled in their minds. “Remember when you ran naked through the evening service?” they ask me. “Remember when your father took you downstairs and spanked you, and you screamed so loud you drowned out the choir?”

They don’t wait for an answer. They are hungry and the room smells of a smorgasbord. This lunch is for them alone, the “Golden Heirs,” as in, “heirs to the throne of God.” Most of them expect to take their places in heaven very soon. They are weary and impatient, eager for the reunion. For now, the feast awaits, tucked into colorful wreaths of holly and cedar boughs, resting among plastic leaves and a cornucopia -- the remnants of their fall potluck decorations.

Everyone brings something, but some try harder than others. There is my mother’s celebrated scalloped potatoes. Baked beans. Potato salad. A veggie plate. Jell-O salad with sliced bananas. Something that smells like fish. Kentucky Fried Chicken.

They eat earnestly, silently. They are survivors of the Great Depression; they finish what is on their plates and go back for seconds—because you never know. Doris drinks her juice quickly and begins stuffing forkfuls of Tater Tot casserole into her cup. She adds macaroni & cheese, then a layer of something with ham in it. She lids the cup with a powdered bun.

Ted appears at my elbow and stands quietly, staring into the milky darkness. Nearly blind, he has forgotten why he made the trek to our table. He fishes through his memories, recalling something from long ago. “Is this an open casket thing?” he asks. “Will they serve food later?” Doris calls him over and gives him her cup of food. “Take this home,” she says with wisdom and warmth. He accepts it and wanders back to his table. “Go help him,” my mom says to me, and launches into a speech about why retail employees should wish customers “Merry Christmas” rather than “Happy Holidays.” Everyone at our table nods in agreement.

Later, after we’ve oohed and aahed sufficiently over the Christmas decorations, which Carol does for every Golden Heirs potluck, we make our way to an adjoining room to watch a slide show of Ron and Nancy’s recent trip to France. “Ron and Nancy are in their early 60s, you know,” Sally whispers to Doris as we take our seats. Doris clutches a cupful of rapidly melting Jell-O and nods as the lights dim.

And the show begins, images of the Eiffel Tower and Versailles and beautiful streets already decorated for Christmas. And Normandy. Wendell leans forward and sinks his fingers like white roots into my shoulder. “I broke the Atlantic Wall,” he whispers. “I was there. Omaha Beach.”

He sits back in his chair, blending into the decades around him, and I realize I am crazy about this roomful of old, old people. I imagine them huddled together against the cold, passing a Thermos of hot, caffeinated coffee amongst them, gathered around a manger, glimpsing for the first time their final destination.

Jason Miller
12.13.08

Snow day

2008-12-18T13:32:00.000-08:00

It's snowing like crazy here in Concrete, Washington. We reported 22 inches at 7 a.m. this morning, with another 6 inches coming today. I'm tired. I've had to shovel my driveway four times in the past 24 hours. Whew. Here's a pic of one of my fence post-top birdhouses with an odd little cap of snow on it. Plus a couple other pix...

Debunking the TND ROI myth

2008-12-05T12:24:00.000-08:00

I used to work for a home plans publisher that regularly shipped me off to The International Builders’ Show, where I rubbed shoulders with mainstream developers and tried to sell them on the merits of traditional neighborhood development (TND). Inevitably, most of the developers would scoff at the idea, claiming their market wouldn’t support it and, therefore, their efforts and investment wouldn’t pay off—a view I continue to hear from developers who have never waded into the waters of TND.

Obviously, there is no foolproof way to challenge the assertion that TND delivers a lower ROI than conventional suburban development (CSD)—unless, of course, some enterprising developer/physicist manages to build examples of each in exactly the same market and exactly the same space at exactly the same time. Further complicating the argument is the fact that development returns are contingent on their individual financial structures, which are always tailored to unique circumstances; this frustrates any attempt at meaningful comparison.

But it’s not like there’s no evidence pointing toward TND’s investment potential. In 1995, American Lives, Inc., conducted a study on consumers’ attitudes toward elements of TND (e.g., pedestrian-oriented town centers, smaller private lots with larger public spaces, narrow streets). The study concluded that one-fifth of Americans accept most or all of the features of TND, and half like the image while harboring some concern over increased density.

In their 1999 housing study, Valuing the New Urbanism, authors Charles Tu and Mark Eppli reported that properties in Kentlands, a TND in Gaithersburg, Md., were selling for $30,000 to $40,000 more, on average, than those in the neighboring CSDs. And while developers, investors, and lenders are typically tight-lipped about their ROI numbers, many have experienced annual lot appreciation rates from 20 to 40 percent, versus less than 10 percent for CSDs.

Above-average appreciation is a story I’ve heard from virtually every developer in the dozens of TNDs I’ve visited over the past decade. Several have reported significant appreciation during the earliest phases of construction—some even before construction began. This doesn’t surprise me. Once the elusive “market” sees what it wants, it is relentless in its pursuit, rapidly driving up property values. The numbers don’t lie; they point toward a significant number of families who want to live in a neighborhood, rather than a typical subdivision. And they are willing to pay more for the opportunity.
So why aren’t more developers building TNDs? With each new report of the popularity of neotraditional neighborhoods, why do these communities still comprise only around five percent of the total construction efforts in the U.S.? The answer lies in part with the simple fact that it will always be easier, and often lucrative, to subdivide greenfield sites into single-use housing developments, then throw up houses that are often built to last for 30 years and one day. There’s a fear factor, too, associated with venturing into unknown development territory.

But developers’ fears are mostly unfounded, since, with the proper market study and execution, a TND can deliver the kinds of numbers to which a mainstream developer has become accustomed. According to market analysis firm Zimmerman/Volk Associates, Inc., in Clinton, N.J., abundant factors support TND development—all of which can favorably affect a developer’s bottom line:

Relatively higher densities in TNDs enable a lower land cost per unit. Public spaces created by traditional neighborhood planning—the trade-off that allows higher densities—also serve as substantial amenities for the community.
Lower up-front infrastructure costs are required prior to building and selling the first units, compared with a conventional subdivision. The first construction phase in a TND can offer the full range of housing types in one area, rather than in separate “pods” for each housing type, each with its own associated infrastructure.
Greater product flexibility throughout the neighborhood enables quick response to changing market demand.
The market can be deeper than just “new home buyers.” TNDs offer a new construction alternative that conveys the diversity and pedestrian orientation of typically highly valued older neighborhoods. Many resale buyers find these aspects of community lacking in conventional subdivisions and master-planned communities.

Amidst the good news comes a word of caution, however. Developers who choose to pursue TND must make their attempt a whole-hearted one. Many don’t know how to use the principles of TND to their financial benefit; many include only selected elements and end up with a “hybrid” that is neither TND nor CSD, only an awkward mishmash of parts that have no chance of contributing to a whole. And buyers, whether they’re consciously aware of it or not, can tell the difference—and they think about those differences as they’re sprinting away.

Those developers who manage to build successful TNDs, however, should be able to claim their share of an enormous untapped market of American families who are seeking a better place to live. Admittedly, more comprehensive and targeted research is necessary to learn more about the depth of the TND market and its potential ROI—research that is currently under way (I've completed a white paper that relates to this; I'll post some info from that as soon as I get the go-ahead from my client). But initial results show that the market for traditionally planned communities is real, and that families are willing to pay more to live there.

Blogs: The epitome of hubris

2008-12-03T09:18:00.000-08:00

For me, the only appropriate way to begin this blog is with a post explaining why I hate blogs. The biggest reason, of course, is that nobody cares what I think. At least, that's my perception. And yet, even with this fact staring them in the face, several friends have told me I should blog.

The second reason to hate blogs is because they are the epitome of hubris. Given reason number 1, how can a blog be anything but an exercise in pride and self-importance? Most of them are little more than a diary that everyone, their brother, AND their pet iguana can read. Do you really want impressionable iguanas reading your innermost thoughts and ponderings? Do you really want that on your conscience?

I know, I know. So why am I even blogging? Well, I just got handed one month of unpaid leave from my full-time employer, so I figure I have the time. Besides, I'm getting tired of everyone asking me for my blog URL. So here it is: http://epitomeofhubris.blogspot.com. Bookmark it. Then forget it.