I’m starting to see the disconnect. Those of my peers who will one day have the power to redefine agriculture, couldn’t care less. They send away plates full of half-eaten food, talk over the state legislator who is making a plea for local organic business support, and trip over themselves to shake a hand or make a “connection.” I understand. I do. I’m looking for work in a rough economy as well, but there are far more important things to do in the meantime.
If this is illegal, please don’t bother telling me now. What’s done is done, readers. I am not proud.
The most rewarding aspect of composting is knowing that you’re reducing the amount of waste sent to landfills, returning nutrients to the soil, and stemming the flow of greenhouse gases which decaying, shipped and buried garbage creates. So once you’ve started composting, it is your right to bask in the glory of your sustainable awesomeness.
This Saturday morning, we volunteers at Clagett Farm did our best to get legitimate work done without being blown into the next county on a wind that could flash-freeze a cow. Because it’s almost time to set the Spring seeds in the ground, we busied ourselves with mixing soil and arranging seedlings… in the comfort of the greenhouse.
The sun was entirely hidden by pale cloud cover, and the dirt was full of dormant bugs and spiders, desperate for warmth and fetal just an inch below the surface. I tried my hardest not to kill too many spiders, but when my digging and weeding woke black widows the size of quarters, I couldn’t help it; they got troweled.
I’m going to have faith that there are people out there who know something isn’t quite right about how they live. I’m going to assume that intelligent people everywhere will be looking for ways to improve themselves and better their surroundings. Rather than trying to ensnare unsuspecting victims by throwing organic, sustainably farmed hemp nets over their heads, I’ll just work hard to provide as much information and dialogue about the important issues as I possibly can… and hope that they’ll find us here when they come looking.
The Haute House is now closed for off-season work. I’m going back to school to grab a quick minor, paying off the last of my collegiate debts, and taking a big fat winter’s nap before picking the site up again in February. When that glorious day of reawakening comes, you may find that The Haute House has metamorphosed into something a little… bigger. I’d love to stay and explain, but Bovine Endocrinology waits for no man (or blogger.)
Consider it an investment in good eating, progressive farming, active education, health, and your local economy. If you know of a simpler way to make such a huge impact, I’m all ears.
Could a bill such as this silence the next Upton Sinclair? Is it a crafty way to manipulate our freedom of speech? Or is it a reasonable maneuver that can protect a wobbling economy, upon which the nation depends?
Sometimes the gritty, messy and tangled bits of living can wrap around our ankles and trip us up. What was once forward motion becomes another force acting downward on our bodies… hurdling us to the ground. Sometimes when bad news finds you, all of the good things you might have used as defenses against unhappiness become, instead, the very things that make you feel hopeless and overwhelmed. Such is life. I just hate that The Haute House and its readers had to be effected by what must be summed up as a personal crisis.
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