‘Green living’ projects that didn’t work

SECOND THOUGHTS

Waterwall

The Waterwall is an Australian product that is exactly what its name implies: It’s a wall that catches and stores water. Water channeled from the roof and gutter drains into a tank shaped like a thick concrete-block wall. It operates similarly to a rain barrel but holds six times as much water and is better looking. It’s also modular, allowing water to flow freely from one wall into another in series, to create a sort of waterlogged fence.

The Waterwall was expensive, and installation was, to be blunt, a nightmare. It’s an excellent idea that simply wasn’t worth the money for a person of my means. If California’s drought persists and water prices start going through the roof, I’m likely to change my attitude. But so far, the $4,078 I’ve spent to store 634 gallons of water I could have bought from the city for about $3 is an embarrassment, particularly when there are other ways to conserve.

Even worse, it’s been annoying to use. I put my Waterwall near a trio of stone-fruit trees that would happily drink in the water. Unfortunately, the water pressure drops along with the level of water in the wall, and running the water through a relatively short, 15-foot length of hose or even lifting the hose above the spigot decreases its flow rate.

I love the Waterwall in theory, and I still think I would’ve ringed my backyard with Waterwalls if I’d known about them 10 years ago, when I installed an appallingly expensive redwood fence. But Waterwalls are an investment that won’t pay off for decades.

Cost: $4,078 ($2,300 for two walls, plus $944 for shipping and taxes, plus $834 for installation).

If I had to do it over again: I’d go with a cistern or a large, agricultural above-ground tank.

Edible landscaping

When the economy was freefalling two years ago, I couldn’t shake the fear that the entire American infrastructure was about to crumble and that I should start growing my own food. Thus began an incredibly long, expensive and back-breaking journey. It’s difficult to grow one’s own food in this city, I’ve learned. Not only did I have soil that was high in lead, but I also had critters that liked to dig and destroy. Then there’s the water issue. It takes a lot of the wet stuff to grow most fruit and vegetables.

Having transitioned my low-water ornamental landscape to edibles, I’d say this is a project for people with time, money and a love of gardening and cooking. It isn’t a job for single mothers with high-stress jobs who’d rather not spend their precious down time watering, pulling weeds and bringing in their harvest.

I’ve resigned myself to the fact that there is an enormous amount to learn and that I won’t likely learn as much as I should to maximize my yields. At this point, I’m just hoping this whole project won’t end up being a high-cost intellectual exercise that bears little fruit. Passion fruit and tomatoes have had the biggest payoff so far. Beans, corn and kale? Not so much. I’ll keep trying, but it’s difficult when it’s so easy to get high-quality produce from a CSA, or community supported agriculture group, which is what I’ve been doing for the last year: spending $18 a week for organic, locally grown produce conveniently delivered to my son’s school.

Cost: outrageous.

If I had to do it over again: I wouldn’t switch my entire landscape to edibles but would install one or two planter boxes. I’d buy the rest of my produce from a community-supported agriculture group such as Equitable Roots.

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Composting toilet

Water is a precious resource, and we flush an awful lot if it away. At my house, my low-flow toilet uses 1.6 gallons per flush. If it’s flushed 10 times a day, that’s 16 gallons of imported drinking water that’s pooh-poohed and sent 23 miles to a wastewater treatment plant that not only uses precious electricity to process it but also has to dispose of the leftovers.

The final frontier of green living, the composting toilet is a low-tech option for water conservation. There are a surprising number of commercial composting toilets on the market that look nice, cost a fortune and can’t handle heavy use, which is why I went with something called a Separett. Developed in Sweden, it’s a molded piece of plastic foam that looks like a toilet seat except it’s outfitted with two holes — yes, No. 1 and No. 2. Each empties into its own 5-gallon bucket that I access through a trap door on the side of my house.

I’ll admit, as committed as I am to living green, this is not a system I use all the time. In fact, I use it rarely. And when I do use it, I do so for urine only.

As much as I agree with the theory of the composting toilet, I’m far more devoted to the traditional porcelain god. I just flush it a lot less frequently.

Cost: $627 ($127 for Separett, $500 for construction labor and materials to convert built-in cabinet to toilet).

If I had to do it over again: I might need more clearance under my house, but I’d go with a commercial composting toilet from Clivus Multrum.

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Chickens

This is one of the projects I was most excited about and one that’s turned out to be among my biggest failures. After spending hundreds on a chicken coop, chicken feed and hens I procured through L.A. Animal Services, I got only four eggs.

L.A. may be a sprawling metropolis, but it isn’t devoid of wild animals. Some people have coyotes. I’ve got possums and raccoons, which breached my chicken coop and gobbled down my ladies.

A forensic investigation revealed the intruder had dug under its edges, so I fixed the problem by driving stakes deep into the ground and nailing pieces of wood to other possible areas of entry. Although I wasn’t 100% confident that these beady-eyed villains wouldn’t return to the scene of the crime, I nevertheless journeyed back to the animal shelter to purchase two more chicks, only to be woken up at 1 in the morning to the sound of distress. Running outside, I found a lady bird dangling from the mouth of a shiny-eyed raccoon. The other chicken was missing.

I’ve been buying store-bought eggs ever since, but I was recently hipped to my local egg underground. Last week, I got my first dozen eggs from a neighbor who’s more game for the challenge of raising chickens than I am.

Cost: $530 for coop, feed and chickens.

If I had to do it over again: I would’ve skipped the coop and found a local alternative earlier.

The entire Realist Idealist series can be found at latimes.com/realist. Comments: susan.carpenter@latimes.com.