"Once People Realize I'm Not Going to Blow Up Their Zamboni or Butcher Their Ballerinas . . ." (Harry's Journey with Two Turtles in a Smart Car)

So there's this guy named Harry Hurt III. He would do things, like be a stand-up comedian or sportscaster, or learn to figure skate, or work in a chocolate factory, or become a doorman for a day at a Washington, D.C. hotel during Obama's inauguration, and then he'd write about his experiences in the New York Times in his weekly column titled Executive Pursuits.

Well, one week he wrote at the end of his column, as simple as pie, that his column was over. Downsizing at the Times, like everywhere else, I supposed. I was crestfallen. I hadn't realized how much Harry Hurt III punctuated my Saturdays.

So I emailed him, set up an interview and we've talked and emailed a number of times. I'm even following him on Twitter. You know why? Because of what Harry's doing next.

Award-winning journalist Harry Hurt III is driving across the United States with two turtles in a Smart Car, observing 'a world of hurt,' as he calls it, and writing about it.

First stop? Kennebunkport, Maine, home to the first President Bush (photo courtesy of World of Hurt). The footage of former President Bush getting in Harry's Smart Car and proclaiming, "You have turtles! Are they gonna' go all the way with you?" is priceless, if you ask me.

When Harry and I talked, our interview went something like this:

Me: "Harry, why do you do the things you do?"
Harry: "Because I'm stark raving mad."

Me: "What advice would you give others who might want to follow in your footsteps?"

Harry: "Take two aspirin and quit."

So he's a bit of a salty dog who clearly likes to be the one interviewing and writing, not being interviewed and written about. Or, perhaps he just doesn't like me. Yet, he did manage to share these couple tips:

Me: "How easy is it for you gain access to these pursuits?"

Harry: "Once people realize I'm not going to blow up their zamboni or butcher their ballerinas, they're open to letting me participate. If you show respect and humility, then you can do a lot of interesting things."

Me: "What was your reaction to losing the New York Times column?"

Harry: "My reaction was my action."

My reaction was my action. Great line. Great advice.

Harry lost his stable weekly gig. Within weeks, he launched a website, bought a Smart Car, got the turtles, gained sponsors, pointed his compass in a new direction, and set out.

Here's what Harry has to say (on his website) about his situation:

America is literally in a world of hurt not seen since the Great Depression. The stock market and the housing market are in the pits, the banks are teetering on collapse, and corporate icons like AIG, GM, and Chrysler are either in bankruptcy or on the verge. Four million people across the country have lost their jobs.

I’m no exception. In fact, I’m the Everyman. The New York Times has just dropped my “Executive Pursuits” column after 98 consecutive installments spanning almost four years. Although I still write a book review column once a month, my chances of finding equivalent employment are bleak since the print media look like toast and the network TV outlets for which I’ve done sideline gigs are melting like butter in the face of competition from the Internet.

But hey, when the going gets tough, the pros get wired and hit the road with a populist vengeance. That’s what WORLD OF HURT: Working Across America in a Smart Car is all about. You might think of it as a tech savvy Studs Terkel meets Dennis Hopper, Jack Kerouac, and John Steinbeck on a non-fiction road trip inspired by a tradition that dates back to Alexis de Toqueville.

And here are the jobs Harry is planning to work as he crosses the country:

* Maine lobster boat worker
* NYC hair dresser at the Carlyle Hotel
* Pennsylvania Amish country fake fireplace maker
* Washington, DC doorman at the Four Seasons Hotel

Pit Stop: Eastern Tennessee: My 1858 Immigrant Ancestor

* Atlanta janitor at Baptist church
* Palm Beach male escort service
* Miami cigar roller in Little Havana
* Birmingham, Alabama chef at Benihana
* Pit Stop: New Orleans: My Harvard Thesis on the Mardi Gras
* Tunica, Mississippi casino black jack dealer
* South Louisiana oil field roughneck
* South Texas wild boar hunter
* Amarillo, Texas fast food worker on Route 66

Pit Stop: Heaven, Hell, and Houston, My Home Town

* Santa Fe, New Mexico commune handyman
* Vail, Colorado ski slope snowcat driver
* Southern, Utah outdoor survival guide trainee
* Irvine, California video game creator
* Northern, California medical marijuana farmer

The Ultimate Pit Stop: Driving a Cab in New York City

I love things like this, because, as you know, I'm a "journey" kind of person, and I'm never quite sure where we're going on this FoodShed Planet. Oh, sure, we may have an itinerary to follow, at least superficially, and Harry certainly has one of those. But where, truly where is Harry going? I suspect that although Harry will travel the country, the greatest ground he'll cover will be in his heart and soul. (Did I just make you gag, Harry?!)

So Harry Hurt III, his Smart Car and his turtles are coming to Atlanta. Will I get to meet Harry? Nothing in any of our conversations or emails leads me to think that Harry has the slightest fondness for me. Yet, something tells me Harry and I are meant to cross paths, for reasons I (and he) don't yet know.

(See you soon, Harry!)

"Come and Get Some Food"

Here is Rashid Nuri, one of the biggest names in organic agriculture in the state of Georgia, if not the country, if not the world. As it says on the About Us tab on the Truly Living Well Natural Urban Farm website:

Rashid managed public, private and community-based food and agriculture businesses in over 30 countries around the world. Travel has enabled Rashid to observe local food economies in the countries he has visited. He now lends his experience to urban areas where good health and nutrition are lacking. Rashid also served four years as a Senior Executive in the Clinton administration including Deputy Administrator of the Farm Service Agency and Foreign Agricultural Service, U.S. Department of Agriculture. He is a graduate of Harvard University, where he studied Political Science and has a M.S. in Plant and Soil Science from the University of Massachusetts.

Way back in March, in the middle of the Georgia Organics conference, I got an email from Rashid. He told me to come to his urban farm right in the city of Atlanta. It is about 40 minutes away from me, just a little ways off a major highway. I planned a morning to go, and then our unending yet very welcome rains this spring (so abundant that the state of Georgia announced our 3-year drought is over and relaxed all watering restrictions, even though now, in July, it hasn't rained for weeks) foiled my plans.

Rashid wrote back, "Peace, Pattie. Hope to see you soon."

I planned to go again a week later, and again torrential downpours grounded me. I canceled. Rashid wrote back, "Sorry you do not get along with rain."

Don't get along with rain? I love rain. What gardener doesn't? I had that van that broke down all the time, I'm not a strong highway driver . . .

Blah, blah, blah, excuse, excuse, excuse. I'm not an excuse kind of person, yet there I was, making excuses. Throwing away what was clearly an opportunity that was placed in my path.

For some reason, I was too embarrassed to contact Rashid again and reschedule. Months passed. I asked numerous people if they would drive me there but it never seemed to work out. My husband said he'd bring me there one upcoming weekend but you know how life goes, how something always comes up with the kids or someone gets sick, and weekends keep drifting away.

I was getting Rashid's enewsletter each week. "Come and Get Some Food!" it announced, along with the list of all the CSA box contents from that week, and more and more each week those words kept resounding in my head.

Come and get some food. Come and get some food. What food for my soul was I missing by not going? What nourishment had I forsaken? Something about the whole situation nagged at me.

And then, as life's journey would have it, out of the blue, I got an email from Rashid about two weeks ago, a full three months after the original email.

"You remain invited to see our work," he said, as simply as that.

At this point, my goodness, I think I saw the sky light up a bit and heard a voice shout down to me, "What do I need to do, Pattie, hit you over the head with a hammer? GO to Rashid's!"

And just then, of course (there are no coincidences), the phone rang. It was my friend Ashley. I don't think I've told you about Ashley. Ashley and I have become very close friends in the last year or two. She is the salt of the earth and a blessing to the world. Additionally, as Vice Chair on our new city's Sustainability Commission, she provides the perfect complement to my strengths and personality, and I barely make a move anymore in our city without discussing it with Ashley.

So I told Ashley about Rashid and said, "I don't know why, Ashley, but I just can't seem to get there." I knew it wasn't about the car or the rain or the distance or the schedule of my family. I was stuck somehow, for some reason.

And Ashley said, without a second's pause, "I will bring you there." And within the next ten minutes, that amazing woman (the kind of person who left a vase of hydrangeas from her garden by my door with a beautiful note after I posted that hydrangeas blooming again each year reminded me of my friend who died) proceeded to arrange to have her children sleep over someone else's house so they could get to swimming practice the next day without her and she was ready to go at 7 AM for as long as our outing would take. Now, that is a friend.

The second Ashley and I met Rashid at his gorgeous oasis of urban food, we all knew it. We were meant to meet, all three of us, not just Rashid and me, for reasons we don't yet know. The intensity of the feeling permeated the entire visit, from that piece of land to another one that Rashid farms, and beyond as the depth and breadth of our conversation dipped and danced through our minds for the next day and weeks.

I'm still trying to figure it all out, yet I realize I'm not yet supposed to know the answers. To why Rashid wanted me to come. To why I couldn't come until Ashley came, too. To why the three of us connected so completely. To why this meeting needed to happen in exactly the way it happened. To why it will one day make sense.

All I know is the one thing that Rashid says so simply and eloquently:

"Peace."

Here. Take a look at Truly Living Well Natural Urban Farms. Maybe you are meant to be part of this story, too. Maybe you are meant to meet Rashid. Maybe we are all meant to be part of a bigger story.

Truly Living Well Natural Urban Farm from Pattie Baker on Vimeo.

From Amaranth to Worms

So I finally figured out why I was having so much trouble with the FoodShed Planet Summer Reading Pick of the Week this year. It goes back a couple months, to when I decided to transfer all my FoodShed Planet posts into a Word document so that I had it all, to save for my kids. Blogger gives you no easy way to do this, so I had to cut and paste every single one of my 552 articles individually, starting from the first one (which was three years ago yesterday, if you can believe it!). You can only imagine how much time this took.

However, as I got to reading it all, re-experiencing the journey I've been on and how helpful, inspiring, funny, or perhaps even touching, others might find the information, I started thinking that maybe it might be worthwhile to see if I could turn this thing into a book. I started becoming way more interested in sharing the book within me, rather than the books around me. The FoodShed Planet Summer Reading Book of the Week was transforming, little by little, into the FoodShed Planet book.

So I had the whole magilla printed at Kinkos one day. Over 1200 pages (more than 350,000 words!), at a cost of about 100 bucks. When I went to pick it up, the guy behind the counter handed me a huge box that I could barely carry.

"What on earth do I do with this monster now?" I wondered.

Well, I did what any good gardener would do. I weeded, ruthlessly. Anything that was too local or too time-sensitive got put aside. That included some of my personal favorite titles such as Loony Bin Organic Milk Momma and Danny Devito on a Segway and a Baby Llama with Roses on Its Head.

As I was doing this, I tried to find some inherit structure in what the thing would become, and I felt as if a title would emerge naturally. For awhile I thought, "Is it A Year on FoodShed Planet, organized seasonally?" No, no,no (although I love books organized that way). But not this one. Too sequential. Too rooted in "place." A Tale of Two Wormbins, and Other Stories made it sound like an Edgar Allen Poe knock-off. And that wormbin photo I took is particularly disgusting.

A whole pile of posts seemed to be natural sidebars in a book--recipes, quick tips, even a bunch that gave "the woes, the wows, and what you can do now." I separated those to add in at the end, and kept culling. I started jotting down topics, and an A-Z list developed. Well, actually an A-W list (I never wrote a zucchini post, if you can believe it!). In truth, it was an Amaranth to Worms list.

Amaranth to Worms. From Amaranth to Worms.

"How completely stupid that sounds," I thought. "After 350,000 words, written from the very depths of my heart and soul, this is what I'm left with as a title? From Amaranth to Worms?" Something else may reveal itself, but in the meantime, I keep imagining the fun a talented designer could have with that as a cover title!

And so that's where I was, as of a couple days ago. Dragging my bag (yes, it is down from a box to a bag) of "finalist" articles around with me, from coffee shops to lunch spots, toiling alone, knowing I now had the hard task of putting things in the final order and ending up, by summer's conclusion (I'm big on setting arbitrary deadlines for myself), with a bona fide manuscript to try to sell during the world's biggest economic downturn in decades (do I officially earn the eternal optimist award if I say I have already fantasized about a book launch party at the 2010 Kitchen Gardeners International meetup planned in Australia?) (and yes, I'm still waiting for the answers to reveal themselves to me about the South of France for this year's meetup, Kate!), when I realized, "Hey, why do it alone when you can put it out there for the world's energy to get involved?"

As you know, this is probably the number one thing I've learned during these last three years on our FoodShed Planet. If I continually work on asking more meaningful questions in life, and then open myself up fully to the journey that follows, I have discovered the simple universal truth that the answers always, always, always reveal themselves. (Not always on my timeframe, however.)

So, here we go. Here is my intro: From Amaranth to Worms: Food for Thought to Help You Live More Sustainably. I'm adding a new "chapter" every single day, starting with Worms and ending with Amaranth (so that it is in correct order when I'm done). You can follow along by subscribing here. And you can do me a very nice favor by sending this to all the literary agents you know :) If I ever sell this thing, you can be sure I will dedicate a portion of proceeds to do something positive in the world.

Oh, and for those of you who have stuck with me these three whole years (big, fat thanks, by the way, and don't you think it's funny that in my very first post I apologized for it being long? Little did I know how long my posts would grow to be over time!), I'll be adding updates and lots of fresh info to the chapters as I go along. The journey has changed. I have changed. And with hope, perhaps, with the oddly titled From Amaranth to Worms on your local bookstore shelf, the world will change for the better just a little bit as well.

Neighbors-No-Longer-Strangers Connected by the Call of Something Beautiful

This unloved, unused space under the power lines has been calling to me for years now, like the Sirens on the rocks in Greek mythology. I stop on my bike almost every time I pass and wander beyond the opening in the brush, the glorious break of dawn or glow of late day cascading down the valley before me.

















The obsession has grown greater over time. I dragged a teenage neighbor with me there in the dead of winter and told her my secret thought, "Couldn't you just see a community garden here?"

















My younger daughter and I peek beyond the honeysuckle and wild blackberry bushes every time we walk by on our way to school. And yes, even Richard of the Worms helped me pick muscadines there.








I researched gardens under power lines for definitive links between cancer and the electromagnetic field (there is some loose connection between EMFs and childhood leukemia, but this appears to be for constant daily exposure, not the once or twice a week exposure a community garden would yield, plus I found no indication of any weird effects on the veggies).

I talked, rather obsessively, with several city council members about it, yet the land is not owned by the city so the city's potential involvement would come in the future, if somehow the use of power lines became part of the 20-year Comprehensive Plan (a plan on which we are currently working as a community, and on which I serve as part of the steering committee).

I had squelched the burning desire for awhile, until last week when my friend Robin in the nearby community of Peachtree Corners took me to their brand new community garden--under the power lines. Here it is:

And so my thoughts started bubbling over the edges of my mind again, the soft and seductive sounds of the Sirens ringing in my ears, the pull of a place covered with kudzu, filled with the promise of food and friends and family, growing stronger and stronger.

And wouldn't you know it, right about then, I got an email from a young mother of small children whom I had never met, saying she wanted to start a community garden in Dunwoody. I told her where to meet me and I told her everything I could about the "secret garden" in my mind. I connected her with the Peachtree Corners folks. And I have found her to be the kind of take-charge, can-do person who I know for sure can move mountains.

And then I took another step, a step I wouldn't have thought to have taken six months ago, before my city involvement. I contacted the man who was the number one objector to the farmers market (well, not the market, per se, but its proposed location), a man I actually had coffee with a couple weeks ago, a meeting that lasted three solid hours and revealed to me a smart, experienced, positive person who, dare I say, is the salt of the earth. I asked him to meet us in the kudzu.

And he did.

He is a zoning expert. He knows things about lawyers and liability and insurance and leasing land from homeowners (we'd need participation from about three).

"I'm anticipating resistance," I said. I live in an area with a big "not in my backyard" attitude, and my city involvement has revealed that a long list of all the reasons why we can't do something often leads to "analysis paralysis" here.

"Let's just get the details together first, and see if it is even feasible," he advised. "And then, of course, we'll involve the homeowners."

"Okay, good idea," the other woman and I agreed.

"And, wait, when did I become part of the we?" he laughed.

"You're in this thing now, you know," I said, his feet buried in the kudzu, his heart not far behind.

We left with our research tasks divided, three citizens (born in three different decades) of one of the newest cities in the United States of America, now sharing a small mission that might just change the world, or at least our little 12-square-mile world.

But wouldn't you know it, just a day later, as I was getting out of my car at the pool, a woman I barely know said to me, "I saw you standing under the power lines. What were you doing? That is my property."

I felt sweat start to form on my forehead.

"Um, well, yes, we know that is your land. We were thinking, um, wouldn't it be nice to grow some veggies there?"

Silence.

"Perhaps a little community garden?" I went on, sheepishly.

She looked at me blankly a moment . . .

And then . . .

Then . . .

"I LOVE the idea!" she bellowed.


I breathed an audible sigh of relief and we smiled at each other broadly, neighbors-no-longer-strangers connected by the call of something beautiful on the rocks of possibility.

This whole idea may still crash, like the sailors in search of the Sirens.

Or, perhaps, maybe not.

Teachable Moments

When I had my older daughter, I was working at the global headquarters of a Fortune 500 company. After a three-month maternity leave, I went back to my job for six of the most difficult weeks of my life, when, as luck would have it, the company offered a voluntary "retirement" package to all employees and I took it, which gave me the opportunity to launch my marketing writing business, and that's what I've been doing ever since.

Launching a business isn't easy, but I was fortunate to be very busy right away. However, please remember I had a four-month old baby! I kept her in the full-time daycare where she had already started, yet I lived only a mile away and had more flexibility about when to bring her in, pick her up and how to handle sick days, etc. so it was actually quite a good situation.

What I didn't realize was that my daughter would meet four other girls in that class of infants who would go on to be the best friends of her life, or that all of us parents of those babies would become, over time, like relatives to each other. In fact, my friend-who-gave-me-the-magic-camera who died three years ago last month, if you can believe it (and yes, the hydrangeas are blooming again) was the mother of one of those girls.

So I've known these girls forever. Teenagers now, they work as junior counselors for a month each summer at a camp at the community center where they had been babies together. After they finish work, they usually like to stop by the whirlpool to relax and chat a bit. The rules that had been posted for years said you had to be over 13 to go in the whirlpool without an adult, and these girls adhered to the rules to the letter.

So this year comes, and this new sign is posted that limits any user of the whirlpool to 18 years old and older (you used to be able to go in with an adult if you were over the age of five, for a time limit of ten minutes. My kids would dip their feet when they were younger and we spent much time talking about how the whirlpool can help people and how we must be respectful of others who are using it). I ran into the girls when I rode my bike over to pick up my younger daughter and they were very upset. Long story short (although when people say that, it means the story is already too long!), I told them I'd find out some background info and then if they wanted to go further with it (and perhaps try to change the rule back), I'd help them.

Initially, I was told me that the Department of Health required the new rule. Easy research on my part revealed a 61-page document in our county code that did not, in fact, specify the age of 18 as a requirement. After several conversations, I was finally told, "Well, we made this decision because of liability and insurance risk because kids were roughhousing in the whirlpool." It appears as if the kids who were mostly causing the problems were younger children whose parents weren't supervising them appropriately and non-members from a high school swim team who rented the pool one night a week. I suggested possible solutions that would not penalize those who had followed the rules, but I could see I wasn't going to get anywhere.

I had a talk with the head of the center about the "teachable moment" here for a group of girls who felt as if an injustice was done and that they were being denied access to a community benefit for which they had previously had access, at no fault of their own. I told him they would like to present their case to him, and he told me pretty much that there was no chance of change but he would listen to them or reply to a letter from them.

So I saw the girls and I shared what I had discovered, especially how important it is in life to "go to the source" of information and not rely on what you are being told for facts (particularly when the facts just don't sound right).

The girls were upset and explored numerous directions that they could argue. One of them did recognize the chance for change was slim to none, and the fact that they were only going to be working here for another two weeks.

And then I added the lesson I've learned from all my advocacy work for local food, sustainability and the other issues close to my heart:

"Okay, listen, this issue is probably not a big one in the realm of things for which to fight. But one day, there will be something that truly matters to you. Something for which you will be willing to go to the mat. And what you learn now about building a case and presenting a point of view will help you then. So, no, you may not change any thing this time. But if you embrace this opportunity to express yourself persuasively, I can guarantee you one thing for sure. You will change. And that will make a difference in your life."

"Oh, no, Mrs. Baker is going to cry," one girl said, and they all laughed, because that's what I always do at moments like these. Teachable moments. Life moments. Moments when I look into the faces of emerging adults and see the babies they were just yesterday, it seems, and the leaders in our society, with strong voices and confident actions, that they will be tomorrow.

When Pigs Fly

So I'm at my friend Farmer Sue's Art Barn at Morning Glory Farm yesterday on a little hay ride around her field when she swings the 50-year-old tractor into the woods and then stops suddenly. She turns around and leans over the flatbed and says:

"Ya' know, I believe that if you do the right things and you trust, then when you ask God or whoever or whatever you believe in for something, you will get it. It may be in a different package than you were expecting, however. The trick is to be able to recognize it."

She said that not long ago, she wanted to expand the farm to the remaining twelve acres that surrounded her current six acres but the price for land where she is (where land is getting snapped up for subdivisions) was $75,000 per acre, way beyond anything she could dream of affording.

Sue then went on to point out the gorgeous house next to the woods, on the piece of land that a couple from Atlanta bought. Turns out this couple fell in love with Sue's animals. They now allow them to graze on their field of grass every single day.

Next, Sue pointed out an elegant new horse barn behind the woods. The owner of this barn keeps her show horse there. Turns out she lets Sue keep her filly with the show horse for company, and she lets Sue board her other horses inside the barn during the winter.

So, no, Sue didn't get to buy that land. But her land use ability grew in a very different way, a way she couldn't have imagined, a way that cost her nothing and enriches her life immensely with relationships she never anticipated.

At about this point, with the way Sue was telling the story, so raw and pure and heartfelt, I started to choke up a bit. In fact, I thought I was going to let out an audible sob, when I heard one 11-year-old say to another, "I thought she broke down," meaning the tractor. Little did they realize that someone was about to break down, in the back. Me.

Back by the barn, where many of the sweet seemingly-straight-from-Central-Casting animals were mingling freely and happily, I kept thinking about Sue and how she allows herself to free-fall into the world's hands. How she left her city life nine years ago and built this place from nothing, animal by animal, art party by art party. How the impossible has become possible for her, little by little, in ways that couldn't even be predicted, and how she is currently perched on the precipice of unbridled opportunity, with several provocative directions readying themselves for her.

It was about then that I saw it. This pig with wings (okay, it was two chickens in just the right position to suggest wings, but still!) and I thought of that saying, When Pigs Fly, that usually means never, that something isn't possible.

Well, folks, this pig is flying. And anything, apparently, is potentially an option.



(Don't worry about the goat stuck in the hay--that's silly Larry and he worked it out!)

(And the lamb in the second picture is Cecil--he was shaved because he just had surgery. He is Farmer Sue's bottle-fed baby and he may be the cutest little guy in the world. And he smells like Heaven.)

Conspiring with the World's Energy

This only-writing-to-you-once-a-week thing is starting to catch up with me--the backlog of things to tell you, that is! Do you realize I never even told you that I passed my two-year anniversary as a vegetarian? Back in March! My kids (who both decided to join me after we volunteered on Team Chicken to help take care of the coop at the Oakhurst Community Garden) have passed the one-year mark (my husband is a once-a-month bacon kind of guy).




(cue the chicken)







So, it's easy in our house. Eating out has gotten easier, too, although we don't eat out that much. And for anyone who cares, I may be the only vegetarian who didn't lose an ounce of weight through the process. The chocolate is a little bit of a problem :)





And speaking of cooking at home, here are a couple highlights from this week (with a special shout-out to Maggie because she loves seeing the pizzas!):















Here is the solar cooker at work (today I'm trying a quiche) (oh, and you can use a glass bowl over the pot instead of the plastic but I have to get that yet):


Yesterday, I put stuff in it before chaperoning my teenager at the semi-annual trip to the mall with her friends, and I came home to a delicious meal. I will admit that I kept peeking through the mall skylights to check the sun!


Speaking of the mall, the only bright spot I found yesterday was a company named Lush that makes all natural, vegan body care products. I was particularly excited about this little pot of perfume (I don't wear perfume, but this had a very faint smell of walking out of a forest carrying a bowl of oranges) specifically because of the marketing of it. It is being pitched to eco-commuters! Called Go Green, it is designed for those who don't feel so fresh after bike riding or riding a crowded train! I love, love, love that a company is giving thought to this, and look forward to more helpful aids for our changing lifestyle.






















What I don't love is this (which I found at Target):

















What I do love is this (which I received from Charlotte as the first CSA delivery of the year!)

















Talk about driving to pick up my CSA box reminds me to tell you how I feel about the Prius. I NEVER KNEW I COULD FEEL THIS WAY ABOUT A CAR! I am deeply in love. Honestly. I can't say enough good things. If the folks at Toyota are looking for a testimonial, send them my way!

As for my city (the newest city in the United States of America, just started this past December 1), so much good is happening. If you are interested, please tap in to my other blog, Sustainable Dunwoody. Our Sustainability Commission is a well-oiled machine already (or, should I say, well solar-powered!). The farmers market is up and running. And, oh, the big news I mentioned a few weeks ago but forgot to tell you! We have embarked on our 20-year Comprehensive Plan and each City Council member got to appoint one person to the steering committee. And guess what?! Yes! I got appointed! I'm in there talking and writing about best practices from other cities and countries, post-peak oil, local food security, multimodal transportation options, triple-bottom-line sustainability, demographic shifts, Smart Growth and Complete Streets and aging in place and greenspace and all the stuff that keeps my mind twirling while I mow the lawn!

The lawn! Oh, yes, the lawn. In fact, that's where I'm heading after I write this. I'm fighting it this year, folks. My head is fighting it. I am trying to remind myself that something good happens every single time I use that manual push reel mower (and it does!). I'm trying to get over this mental "I don't want to mow the lawn" barrier. Is this mowing thing sustainable long-term? I don't know. Lawn reduction is definitely the answer.

In the meantime, I do have other big lawn news for you. Alan of the Appalachian Trail, who is also the homeowner association president, arranged for a consolidated buying group for lawncare services for anyone in the neighborhood who wanted to participate, and in order to reduce costs and reduce environmental and safety impacts of constant lawn companies every single day in our 'hood. More than half the homeowners signed up. This means that these lawns will all be mowed on the same day. This means I may be able to WORK again without getting headaches from all the power tool noise! The bad news? Alan did try to find a company that offered eco-options but came up empty. And I believe most of these homeowners are on board with all the chemical treatments. We still clearly have a long way to go with that one . :(

On the other hand, my mailbox garden has daily visitors, usually of the short, diapered variety! The latest visitors are the luckiest yet. They get to reach down, grab the green stalk firmly, pull it up and walk off with their very own fat onion! I always turn the onion upside down so that the roots look like hair, and then I wiggle out the greens so they look like arms and say, "An octopus!" and then I watch the smile break across the faces like the way the sun rose across that deck when I took a ship from Brindisi, Italy to Corfu, Greece so many years ago after college (when I traipsed around ten countries of Europe with my friend Julie from Portland, Maine).

Speaking of traipsing around Europe, I have other big news. Well, it's not big news, really. It's more of an intention that I am putting out there in the world so that the world's energy can conspire in my favor. Ian of A Kitchen Garden in France is hosting the first global meetup of kitchen gardeners this September. Kate from Australia will be there, as will Roger from Maine (Roger, do you know Julie? Wouldn't that be a kick).

When I first heard about it, I thought, "Gosh, I'd love to do that," but then of course, I thought of how I can't afford it, the kids are in school and that is always a logistics juggling act, who am I to go traipsiing off to the South of France . . .

The South of France. Ian. Kate. Maggie. Roger. Lavender. Sunflowers. Cheese . . .

I tried putting it out of my head, but I found myself thinking things like, "I wonder what the weather is like in September in the South of France . . . I wonder if you can catch the high-speed train right there at the airport in Paris . . ."

So, finally, one day, nonchalantly, I said to my husband, "I was invited to the South of France."

And he said, immediately, "Go."

God love that man.

Yet the twelve-years-of-Catholic-school, granddaughter of immigrants, daughter of Depression-era parents, and current participant in a down economy person that I am needs to justify the thing. So I've decided that if I can get some paid writing assignments from the trip, I can do it as a business trip. I have a few fresh angles in mind and have already started pitching. I just need you to send out positive vibes for me. Okay?

And if I do decide to go, I can leave here on foot, walk up that hill, catch the bus to the train to the plane and somehow end up in the South of France.

Okay, full confession. I bought little airline-regulation three-ounce toiletry bottles yesterday at the mall. Hey, doesn't hurt to be positive, huh?

Now, what book should I read on the plane?!

(How did that work as a segue to the FoodShed Planet Summer Reading Pick of the Week?) As for the summer reading albatross I've somehow created for myself (not that I need to be persuaded to read; it's the reporting about it that's starting to feel forced), I'm simplifying this thing, folks. I'm going to do this in the sidebar, and I'm going to give Bakers Caps (1 to 4)--4 Bakers Caps is for something comparable to Paul Hawken's Blessed Unrest. Plus, I'll give you one of my favorite lines from the book. Well, okay, I'll do the first one here:




Three Baker's Caps (yes, I know I need a cute graphic here)

This Common Ground: Seasons on an Organic Farm, by Scott Chaskey (farmer/poet!)

This book is mostly about a farm on the east end of Long Island (New York). Since I am originally from a town on Long Island (but 16 miles from New York City--an hour and a half away from this farm), I loved smelling the salt in the air as I read this (here in land-locked Atlanta). Here's a line that keeps knocking in my head like sneakers in a dryer (not that I do that!) It is supposedly about earthworms:

"We provide the living space. They arrive."

And so I leave you with this. For what in your life are you providing the living space? What are you conspiring with the world's energy to help arrive?