Tuesday, 6 August 2013 | 51 comments
Things seem pretty good for seasonal, local food, if you take a look at my dining room table. I don’t have a ton of disposable income, but I chose to spend a lot of it on tomatoes last week. And from the numbers, you might believe this reflects national consensus. Back in 2011, the USDA projected that local food would bring in $7 billion in sales.
A lot of you who read this site would probably consider yourself “locavores”. It’s a group with which I also identify, but uneasily. The movement is one under which people with very different priorities gather, united by a single objective: buy food grown or produced nearby.
Locavorism alternately emphasizes that local food takes fewer fossil fuels to produce and transport, supports the local economy, promotes biodiversity, preserves rurality, mitigates environmental damage, is grown more naturally and seasonally, and is generally healthier. It seems so simple, really. How can buying local agricultural products be panacea for so many of society’s ills?
The short answer is that it cannot.
Wednesday, 10 July 2013 | 47 comments
Everyone thinks his or her family is special or original (whether they think that’s a good thing or a bad thing is another matter). This makes it difficult to discern, I think, when a family story is worth telling.
On face, it’s a story of a young man of unusual perception and sense of adventure. During high school, my grandfather, an Indiana farmer’s son, worked his way over to Europe on a cattle boat (he had been too young to have been drafted during World War II). He came back and graduated, valedictorian of his class, in 1947.
We can only speculate that young Grandpa wanted to see the world a little more. He enlisted in the army in 1951, working in Berlin as military police. Many years later, going through boxes of old letters, we’d find beautiful sketches he’d made of the view from his balcony and sent home to Grandma. He would marry her, a pretty, local girl, in 1955.
I’ve asked several people, over the years, why Grandpa decided, out of everything, to become a farmer. There is little doubt that he could have gotten into a university or pursued a more white collar job. He was a rare breed, extraordinarily well-read and self-taught for a farmer’s kid. In “Grandpa’s workshop”, the room in the basement where many of his tools were kept, the built in shelves were equally as full of books as of rasps, adzes and saws.
But he did become a farmer, joining his father while he lived, and then continuing to farm with Grandma until he retired in 1993. The story of the intervening years is relatively uneventful—minus those seventeen kids (Six sons! Eleven daughters!) I told you about. The narrative is, perhaps, predictable.
There are a lot of stories about weather. Worries about too much rain, worries about not enough rain, devastation by hail, devastation by drought. The chicken coop catching on fire. 4H. Feet rolled over by tractors. Hand-me-down prom dresses. Getting paid a nickel for every rat exterminated.
By all accounts, a large farming family from a middle America town should not be as successful as this one has been. But somehow, a wooden-shingled, rusty house in the middle of acres of corn and soy has pushed out nurses, engineers, teachers, social workers, and CEOs, among a bunch of other productive human beings whose scope of vocation doesn’t fit neatly into one category: mothers, activists, foster parents.
There is no reason, demographically and socially speaking, that these kids should have been so mobile and so empowered. Economists attribute these anomalies to “intangibles”, unquantifiable elements that make certain people “succeed” and others not.
Maybe it’s those intangibles that make this story worth telling.
Six sons, eleven daughters. I’m sure Grandpa never considered it during his life, but few people are granted the exact amount of sons needed to be pallbearers. We watched them, last month, lift a coffin from church to hearse, from hearse to cemetery.
A priest said the words; a military representative played taps and folded the flag.
It was finished, but we lingered. Someone began to sing, a cappella, not particularly beautifully (we’re not much known for musical talent), a song that we had kept close, sung through Grandpa’s sickness and death.
Maybe you’ve heard this song. It can’t even be called a hymn—it’s a folk song that’s been recorded by the likes of Nat King Cole, Vince Gill, Johnny Mathis, Bing Crosby, Placido Domingo, Mary Tyler Moore. It was, coincidentally, written the year Grandma and Grandpa got married. We all joined:
Let peace begin with me,
Let this be the moment now;
With every step I take,
Let this be my solemn vow:
To take each moment and live each moment
In peace eternally.
Let there be peace on earth
And let it begin with me.
I think about my own life—split between country and city—and know that this is part of the legacy my grandfather left me: hard work, a thirst for knowledge, but a grounding in dirt.
We lost a guiding force of nature: prudent, earthy, loyal, witty, smart. The saddest thing about loss, of course, is just that: not the living without someone—of course, we can carry on—but knowing what life was like with them, and knowing it is gone.
Let it begin (again) with me.
Monday, 6 May 2013 | 21 comments
I’ve assembled quite the little family around me these days. Ben is here, of course, and our brown tabby—those have been my dependable household for awhile now. Louise, my sister (of whom I don’t write very much, but who is between all these lines), recently moved in for the next few months, her own little brown-striped tabby in tow. Then, these little guys hatched. I feel like an old, cantankerous grandma, having raised their momma and poppa from babies just last year. » Click to read more
Monday, 1 April 2013 | 47 comments
A woman in graduate school for broadcast journalism contacted me. She was developing a piece, she said, which would be pitched to major media outlets, about female writers, bloggers, and businesswomen in their twenties who were taking advantage of the “recent trend of millennial women’s return to domesticity.” Many young women, she wrote, are creating brands and making money as experts on the domestic arts and “a return to traditional living.” Essentially, her piece would explore cultural and economic factors that have made this sort of content appealing to the public. I would love the chance to interview you about your journey and why you find a return to traditional living to be so appealing to many of today’s young women, she closed.I should have just offered to get coffee with this woman (who I’m sure is very nice and for whom I harbor no ill will!). Regardless of the subject, give me a latte and we can talk about esoteric cultural and economic factors until the cows come home. It’s, like, what I do for fun. The whole email just felt a little weird to me, though. So I wrote back, trying to better understand what she was seeking for content. I thanked her, of course, because it’s flattering (in that terrifying sort of way) to be asked for an interview. But I wasn’t sure, I told her, that I was really the right candidate.
Sunday, 24 March 2013 | 16 comments
I went on vacation. For an eternity, really: two whole weeks and three whole weekends. I highly recommend dropping off the face of the earth for awhile if you get the chance. (Inevitably, you will think the chance does not exist. But it does.) My sister and I flew to Phoenix for some sunshine, a family wedding, and hiking the Grand Canyon. Dropping some photos here, mostly for myself. I am obsessed with this desert palette now: jade, pink, sand, sienna, deeper browns, warm greys and violets. Baja, Mexico road trip photos + copious notes on fish tacos to follow soon. Until then, I’m beginning this dubious business of getting back to the real world.