have met. I decide to let the young lady part go by. “It’s an original idea, sounds like it will work. But,” he says, pausing, holding onto the hard
t,
“first you’ll have to get it past Conservation.” He breathes extra emphasis into the last word in the sentence, slowing on the third syllable.
Con-sahh-vayy-shun.
I notice his smile has vanished and that when he wishes me good luck, he says it in a way that suggests I will need it.*
* DARCY IN CONSERVATION is pleasant and helpful. She looks at my site map, takes out her ruler, and measures the distance from my house to the bog. “All depends on where the edge of the wetlands actually is,” she says as she lays her ruler on the counter between us. “It could go either way. If you go sixteen feet out from your existing dwelling—”
“Twenty with the hallway. I need a hallway to connect the two buildings.”
“Twenty,” she repeats. “At twenty, you’ll probably land in the buffer zone.” She explains to me that building in the first fifty feet from any certified wetland is prohibited by town ordinance. “You’ll have to make a full filing and go before the Commission to request a variance for the part of the structure that will be in the no-disturb zone.”
This is not surprising news. Erika’s engineering father, Dave, has already told me that locating the exact edge of the wetland is essential. That how much or how little of the buffer zone we would disturb could make or break the project.
“I can’t shrink the building,” I say. “It already exists. And there isn’t another spot to put it on the property. It’s all hills and trees. Doing it this way makes much less disturbance than building from scratch. Will they take that into consideration?”
“Possibly. But that’s up to our commissioners. I can’t speak for them. Do you have an engineer?” I mention Dave’s name, and she nods in what seems like pleasant recognition. “Good. He’ll represent you at the hearing.”
Represent me? At a hearing?
“Can’t I represent myself?” I ask Darcy, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
“Well, generally, the engineer represents the homeowner.” She says this kindly but firmly. I sense I have made a
faux pas
, a municipal mistake that she is willing, because I am a beginner, to overlook. Darcy continues. “You’ll need a survey and a plan drawn up. Dave will locate the edge of the wetland and make the filing.” She hands me a thick packet of forms. “Then, we’ll schedule a hearing. You’re in luck now. At this time of year, it only takes four or five weeks to get on the calendar.”
Four or five weeks!
“Can I put my name in now?”
“Not unless you can complete your paperwork within the next five days. We won’t schedule a hearing until your application is ready to be submitted. As part of your filing, you’ll have to notify abutters within three hundred feet. They need a minimum of ten days’ notice before the hearing date, and a notice has to go into the paper. And before you submit your application, you have to post and stake the property, so the commissioners can visit the site. The Commission meets every other Thursday.” She pauses; perhaps she notices I am having some trouble taking all this in.
I begin to understand the sense of foreboding I’d heard in Ralph Crossen’s elongation of
Conservation.
It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the need for conservation, even with a capital C, Conservation. I do care about the environment. I don’t drive an SUV. I reuse tin foil, and I don’t buy zip-lock bags. I recycle, even though that means I have to pay Macomber’s Sanitary Refuse an extra four dollars every time they pick up my carefully rinsed and sorted glass, tin, plastic, and paper. I belong to Co-op America. I truly consider the impact of my actions, my purchases, my footsteps on the earth. I try to tread lightly. Moving a cottage appeals to me in part because it is a form of recycling, a way to
t,
“first you’ll have to get it past Conservation.” He breathes extra emphasis into the last word in the sentence, slowing on the third syllable.
Con-sahh-vayy-shun.
I notice his smile has vanished and that when he wishes me good luck, he says it in a way that suggests I will need it.*
* DARCY IN CONSERVATION is pleasant and helpful. She looks at my site map, takes out her ruler, and measures the distance from my house to the bog. “All depends on where the edge of the wetlands actually is,” she says as she lays her ruler on the counter between us. “It could go either way. If you go sixteen feet out from your existing dwelling—”
“Twenty with the hallway. I need a hallway to connect the two buildings.”
“Twenty,” she repeats. “At twenty, you’ll probably land in the buffer zone.” She explains to me that building in the first fifty feet from any certified wetland is prohibited by town ordinance. “You’ll have to make a full filing and go before the Commission to request a variance for the part of the structure that will be in the no-disturb zone.”
This is not surprising news. Erika’s engineering father, Dave, has already told me that locating the exact edge of the wetland is essential. That how much or how little of the buffer zone we would disturb could make or break the project.
“I can’t shrink the building,” I say. “It already exists. And there isn’t another spot to put it on the property. It’s all hills and trees. Doing it this way makes much less disturbance than building from scratch. Will they take that into consideration?”
“Possibly. But that’s up to our commissioners. I can’t speak for them. Do you have an engineer?” I mention Dave’s name, and she nods in what seems like pleasant recognition. “Good. He’ll represent you at the hearing.”
Represent me? At a hearing?
“Can’t I represent myself?” I ask Darcy, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
“Well, generally, the engineer represents the homeowner.” She says this kindly but firmly. I sense I have made a
faux pas
, a municipal mistake that she is willing, because I am a beginner, to overlook. Darcy continues. “You’ll need a survey and a plan drawn up. Dave will locate the edge of the wetland and make the filing.” She hands me a thick packet of forms. “Then, we’ll schedule a hearing. You’re in luck now. At this time of year, it only takes four or five weeks to get on the calendar.”
Four or five weeks!
“Can I put my name in now?”
“Not unless you can complete your paperwork within the next five days. We won’t schedule a hearing until your application is ready to be submitted. As part of your filing, you’ll have to notify abutters within three hundred feet. They need a minimum of ten days’ notice before the hearing date, and a notice has to go into the paper. And before you submit your application, you have to post and stake the property, so the commissioners can visit the site. The Commission meets every other Thursday.” She pauses; perhaps she notices I am having some trouble taking all this in.
I begin to understand the sense of foreboding I’d heard in Ralph Crossen’s elongation of
Conservation.
It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the need for conservation, even with a capital C, Conservation. I do care about the environment. I don’t drive an SUV. I reuse tin foil, and I don’t buy zip-lock bags. I recycle, even though that means I have to pay Macomber’s Sanitary Refuse an extra four dollars every time they pick up my carefully rinsed and sorted glass, tin, plastic, and paper. I belong to Co-op America. I truly consider the impact of my actions, my purchases, my footsteps on the earth. I try to tread lightly. Moving a cottage appeals to me in part because it is a form of recycling, a way to
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