Happy Thanksgiving!

Last week, Debbie and I helped our host farmer harvest his turkey crop. Over the course of four days, we processed 800 turkeys. I was a feather inspector, never got involved in the killing... killing that was necessary to get the birds to the table. I do know that no birds were mishandled, and the process used is the same as responsible farmers practice.

I learned, through this process, how polarized we have become as a consumer society. It seems few want to admit that the meat they eat came from a living animal.

Debbie's family couldn't understand how she could get involved in such a seemingly barbaric act, even though, if they had asked, she was there to place a plastic tie on the drumsticks to hold them together. In the end, nobody really understood that we simply wanted to say "Thanks" to Farmer Brown for lending me a field, exposing me to a new interest in life. We were there along with about twenty other family members and friends of his... all volunteers... who in some way have been positively affected by the farmer and his farm.

I guess it's o.k. when people want to come to a farm to pick flowers and vegetables, but when it comes to living animals, well, that's something left for the likes of Tyson or Perdue!

Well. after four days at Wychwood, it was time to go home, and Farmer Brown asked me how big a turkey I'd like.

"I'm happy to pay," I said.

"You helped a lot," he insisted.

"Fifteen or twenty pounds," I told him. This year, we're not expecting a big crowd.

Right now, I can smell the turkey, and it's at 170 degrees.... ready to come out of the oven in a little bit.

Thanks for all of the great comments.... and for following my first season. Hopefully I'll be back when I have something fun to report.

Happy Thanksgiving, Friends and Family!

Day 157, October 22, 2010

Sunset means moonrise on a late October Friday evening at UCONN. Halloween is still a little over a week away, but I feel a shiver, and I have to pull over to catch this shot. There it is: a perfectly crested hill, bare trees and a small contingent of grazing Holsteins. A band of pink sky and a full moon frames UCONN's version of Farming 101. Course completed, and this image is my diploma.

Debbie has just treated Elizabeth and me to our first visit to The UCONN Dairy Bar. This is a place that makes direct use of its dairy cattle. They collect the milk, return it to the Dairy Bar, where it is homogenized, pasteurized, and processed in various vats, kettles and mixers into 400 gallon batches of ultra-fresh ice cream mix.

At the UCONN Dairy Bar, the manufacturing side is larger in area than the selling side. Tow-headed co-eds serve an endless stream of loyal customers, while others manage flatbed roller carts loaded with dozens of half-gallon containers of honest ice cream. We're here a little before six-p.m., the Dairy Bar's closing time, and so we decide to have our desert before dinner. The product is perfect, in every way, and we leave knowing that this is not our last visit.

It seems to me that every time I visit a legendary place, like The UCONN Dairy Bar, or Clyde's Cider Factory... Or Jones Family Farm, and their winery, Christmas tree, pumpkin or berry operations that there is keen inspiration to continue the traditions of excellence and passion for product perfection. I want to do something as well as these leaders do, but I don't want to copy or follow them.

At the same time, I may be getting closer to an opportunity. I'm finally getting emails and phone calls from people with land and ideas, and that is a good Karma to take into the autumn. One thing for certain, in farm country, there is no easy gain, but there are sure some decent people.

Day 154, October 19, 2010

Weeks ago, we cut the heads from our sunflowers, left long stems, and sold them as Bird/Squirrel Feeders. Of course, the squirrels took the lion's share of the sunflower seeds, popping them, one after another, thousands of seeds, into their greedy gullets.

When all was said and done, the squirrels won, but I never forgot the wisdom of Farmer Brown... words of advice when planting:

"One for the Blackbird, two for the crow... three for the cutworm, and four to grow.

As the sunflower heads vanished into the squirrels, little diamond mouth marks began to appear on our pumpkins. I suspect, the squirrels look for seeds, pop their teeth into the tough pumpkin skin, and move onto the next. Well, Farmer Brown's principles seem to have applied to pumpkins. Looks like we have enough for our Halloween customers, enough for rodent teething, and those who don't mind imperfection get a bargain as the agricultural farming season draws to a chilly close!

Day 152, October 17, 2010

We need a new vision for saving our old farms

By BEN GREENFIELD

Publication: The Day

Published 10/17/2010 12:00 AM

Updated 10/17/2010 02:03 AM

COMMENTS ( 0 )

Last spring, as business became bleaker than a grizzly bear's stare, I learned to stare back. Seeking greener pastures, I borrowed a field from a farmer, planted crops, learned to tell time by the sun, and feel the rhythm of the field. As the plants flourished, I started a blog, and wrote about my love for this new field of farming.

I've had the good fortune to meet many farmers, folks who live in the same homes their grandparents built, who grew up working in barns with the occasional lowing of 150 milking cows. Their barns are now mostly empty, assets faded to liabilities. That grizzly bear's been staring at many farming families for a long time. For some, their only hope is to sell the farm so a developer can transform it into two-acre subdivisions.

It's now autumn and my field is anything but still. About 150 Brandywine, Beefsteak, Roma and cherry tomatoes are still producing fruit. As the days grow shorter, and the sun's angle shifts, the honey and bumblebees are frantic, impatient with barren blooms. Soon the air will be dry and cold; snow will cover the newly-harrowed field. I wonder why the people, who for generations have fed us, must sacrifice their sacred land to simply retire?

Perhaps they don't.

I propose the formation of a "Farming Community Foundation of Eastern Connecticut."

The experience that I enjoyed in my host farmer's field should not be limited to entrepreneurs and those who inherit farms. Everyone should have access to this honest life, connected to their food, environment and community.

Three essential goals should guide any foundation farming project undertaken:

• Save a farm.

• Create a farming community.

• Grow a business.

Lately, I have shared this vision with experienced farmers and scholars. Forming friendships and relationships with organizations and institutions, including the American Farmland Trust, Yale School of Forestry and Environmental Studies, and Stone Barns Center for Food & Agriculture, has provided greater insight into the problems, and opportunities, that await us in farm country.

The days of multi-generational farming families are mostly gone, with a few brilliant exceptions, such as the Jones Family Farm in Shelton, Lyman Orchards, and Bishops Orchards.

The not-for-profit foundation I propose would seek out medium-sized to large farms. Farms, or adjoining farms with 250 acres to 600 acres, provide adequate land to create a small, village-setting of about 40 acres to 60 acres.

In this manner, we can defray the cost of land acquisition and improvements, while being able to provide affordable homes for the folks who will then perform the bulk of the work on the farm. After all, over one-half of the occupations tracked by the Connecticut Department of Labor cannot afford a typical two-bedroom apartment. We'd like our professional farm workers to have the option of living where they work. Farm products would be marketed within the region.

Building should keep with the farm's historic origins, placing 85 percent to 90 percent of farmland into trust and possibly reselling the remaining development rights to ensure the land stays agricultural.

People will want to visit these farm communities, which could offer internships, volunteer, educational and social opportunities, weddings and authentic farm dinners.

This is, indeed, an ambitious agenda. For those of us who enjoy a close community, good neighbors, and fast sledding hills, farming communities could become popular options over suburban sprawl and starter castles.

Of course, this is a dream or, maybe, a genuine vision. It will not happen at once, and when it does happen, it may take a somewhat different direction.

But in the post-bailout economy, when so many who depended on the accelerating expansion of our economy are now adrift, it feels like the right approach at the right time. So I will keep talking to experts and interested supporters and doubters, hopefully learning from all of them and moving forward into a novel sense of place and community.

Feel free to get involved. As I've learned over the season, a simple seed sown can change a life.

Ben Greenfield has worked in food product development and marketing for more than 30 years. His fascination with farms sparked in 1992, while visiting potato growers during the creation and birth of the company he founded, Mystic Chips. Greenfield turned his interest to the idea of creating farming communities after he sold his potato chip brand. Contact Greenfield atBengreenfield@Mac.com or follow his progress atwww.Somecountryforoldben.blogspot.com.

Day 146, October 11, 2010

Seems like this Blog's post frequency's fading faster than the colors of our zinnias. Just yesterday, we pull all of our tomatillo plants, ending up with two Milk crates filled with around fifty pounds of fat, green tomatillos. We drive the tomatillos, along with twenty pounds of jalapenos to Martine at Milagro Mexican Restaurant in Stonington Borough. Of course, Martine is busy - families are waiting for a table out on the sidewalk - but appreciative that we'd worked so hard in our field, had chosen him for our harvest. "Well," I think, "It's Deb's birthday on Wednesday... maybe we'll come enjoy our harvest, and we can sample Martine's talents then."

It is amazing, nearly mid-October, and we're still harvesting tomatoes, and the flavors are quite good. I realize that a frost could come at any time, so we're pulling stakes, gathering hoses, and thinking about a future from all of this. Most folks seem to to be embracing the concept of "The Farming Community Foundation of Eastern Connecticut." I was asked to write an op-ed article for our local newspaper, and I'm hoping they'll run it next Sunday, October 17th.

Amazingly, I am starting to see opportunities coming from my farming experience. I have met different farmers, and an occasional opportunity comes along... like raising livestock... how can I help use my marketing background to sell it better, raise it humanely, and market it with integrity.

Of course, I always seem to get the tougher, more controversial assignments, like raising veal. That is until I learned more about the direction other farmers have taken it. Marian Burros wrote a story in The New York Times called "Veal to Love, Without the Guilt:"

( http://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/18/dining/18veal.html ). After reading this, and after studying approaches to humane raising of veal calves, I believe that the male calves should be allowed to grow humanely, that if they are to give their lives, to feed those who wish to eat meat, then it must be with dignity, and hopefully on a smaller farm where someone actually likes animals. Clearly, 45% of dairy offspring are male. A baby bull is doomed at birth, as all but a lucky few are suitable for breeding.

I have decided that every experience is a chance to do better, and that if I summarily abrogate a category, before learning about it, then I am not being objective. There is plenty of room for activism, but I do not believe in taking a whole category of food off the table, this early in the game. At the same time, I am not yet certain how I feel about raising another creature, knowing that I am planning to kill it. I have always enjoyed the warmth of a cow's sour, silage breath on my hands, the chewing on my shirttail... but I also realize that there is a right and a wrong way to raise and process all that comes from a farm, and I am not ready to let go of any possibilities, just yet.

Day 131, September 26, 2010

A simple vision - to save a farm by creating a small community and building a relevant business on a tired or struggling farm - is becoming a quest for consensus. About a week, or so, ago I call Cris Coffin, who heads The American Farmland Trust's efforts in the New England region. It is her job to promote farmland protection, farm viability and farm conservation practices. She listens, suggests that I might have a unique idea, and recommends that I talk with the Connecticut Farmland Trust, as well as Brad Gentry at the Yale School of Forestry and Environmental Studies. This past Friday, I travel to New Haven to meet with Brad at Kroon Hall, the award-winning home of the Forestry School.

Aside from learning that environmental professors at Yale do not wear neckties to work ("This is a forestry school, Ben,") I learn that I have a lot of people to meet, and a lot of naive notions to shed. Brad explains that he does not typically get directly involved with projects, but that he enjoys facilitating, pairing people, and opening doors in specialized communities, so to speak. He explains that Yale School of Forestry has talented students who are actively involved in projects both as extracurricular volunteers and sometimes as part of their coursework. New names, hastily scratched on my yellow pad, will hopefully reappear, in life. These could be the folks who will be key to interpreting and helping to promote our not-for-profit sustainable farming community concept.

Later in the day, I write Brad to thank him for the meeting, and to ask if a sustainable model for our idea exists... one that we can personally embrace and take to others. He promptly writes back with three examples, and I decide to try his first recommendation, The Jones Family Farm (http://www.jonesfamilyfarms.com/farm), in Shelton , CT

Since I can't get through to the Jones Farm on the phone, I decide to drive there, anyway. Debbie is annoyed that she has to work, cannot come. I arrive there at noon, and as I walk up

from the large, shady parking lot, I can see why Brad wants me to know these guys. This is a 150-year old farm, about twenty miles north of New Haven. It's a paradise, thoughtfully maintained, built in scale with the surrounding, rolling hills, nooks and crannies and corners, like a village... but really a multigenerational family farming compound.

I look for someone who can help me meet Terry Jones. Terry agrees to come down to the winery to meet for a brief introduction.

"Terry, I know this is a weekend. I'd love to say hello, if you have time, or maybe set a time for later."

"That's fine. I'm watching my grandchild... see you at the winery, about 1:30." There are tents set up for a cheese cake company, for sampling wine, a produce stand, a demo of a potato, squash salad, and a soup company. Jones Family Farm is the largest, most successful family farming operation I have seen. Sure, there are the Lymans and the Bishops, but there is an aesthetic sense of history and place to the farm. The fact that Terry Jones meets with me and spends nearly an hour trying to share his contacts and ideas is a simple testament to his wisdom and integrity.

"Ben, I think your idea is ambitious and very interesting." He thinks a minute, and says, "Farming is difficult, and it is a lifetime of experience. You have to respect the land, work with everything that comes your way."

"Terry, I think I know what you mean." I proceed to tell him about the 150 tomato plants I planted last

May, how there was no water available, that it had gotten dry, and how the plants were wilting. I explain how I drove to Stop & Shop to buy 47 gallons of spring water, then drove back at sunset and gave each plant a little drink.

"That's expensive," he laughs.

"Yeah, about forty cents a gallon, but we saved the plants, and next day, Farmer Brown installed a faucet in the basement of the barn so we could water the field."

As we get up to leave, we shake hands, and Terry says, "I want to see you succeed."

As I leave, I think about the contacts, the encouragement, and the model I've witnessed. I realize that there is no way I cannot succeed!

Day 125, September 20, 2010

Slowly but surely, this initiative is becoming more than just a Farmer Ben vision thing. We now have a graphic artist willing to help out and enhance our writing and Power Point presentations. Kevin is taking the time to pitch in and add stylistic and strategic improvements to our presentation piece. In fact, it seems that wherever I go, whenever I tell folks about what I'm up to, people ask great questions. They normally always end up saying, "Great idea." They often send me names of new contacts, and some offer to help out once we really need them. Although we have the beginnings of a world-class board of directors, we're not quite ready to have meetings... but soon.

Today, curiosity leads me to two interesting new friends. Every day, I drive past a bright, beautiful public garden in Stonington. Today, however, I decide to investigate, thinking that it's a community garden.

"Can we help you?" a woman asks, with her friendly voice.

"Is this a community garden?" I ask her.

Sue Bove and Alejandra Welch, who turn out to be co-chairs of the Stonington Community Center's wildly successful kids-enrichment venture explain that it's a children's garden, for kids from nursery school through grammar school. The garden is laid out in raised beds, each representing a different theme, such as urban gardening in the picture here.

I tell them about my experience on the farm this past season, about the blog, and about the Save-a-Farm, Build-a-Community initiative. They seem fascinated, then ask really good questions. Then they tell me about their own experiences. It turns out that Sue's family runs a 2,500 acre potato farm in Hatfield, Massachusetts. Alejandra and her husband, Josh own a beautiful farm on Al Harvey Road in Stonington where they are raising beef cattle. When I ask Debbie what breed they are, she says she believes they're Black Angus cattle.

After a while, both women separate. I walk around the rectangular property and find Sue working by a patch of sunflowers. "Fantastic idea! We gotta get back to basics," she exclaims.

"Thanks," I tell her. "You may get a call some day, once we're rolling." She smiles, and gives me a web address for the potato farm.

I walk over to a tiny demonstration pond where Alejandra is skimming a green, granular vegetation from the surface. A half dozen pairs of Kermit eyes peer from the pond as Alejandra stresses the need for farming education. "Many kids have never eaten a cucumber," she tells me. We talk a while about her farm, and a little more about my idea. "That's a very good idea," she says. "You should speak with my husband," she insists as she takes my pad and writes his name and number on the yellow lined paper.

As we're talking, a medium-size green frog pokes its head out of the pond and looks up at me. "When I was eight, I was the champion frog catcher at summer camp," I whisper as I scoop the smooth green and bronze jumper into my hands.

"Well, you haven't lost your touch," Alejandra offers. I fold my palm flat, low to the ground. The frog breathes a liberating breath, its yellow throat gulping, as it leaps to freedom.

Day 122, September 17, 2010

My sources of inspiration are really quite simple. Take, for example the view from my living room. When I sit in an arm chair... writing , or dreaming... I often get the sense that Debbie, my kids and I live in a perfect village. We have narrow streets, old trees and stone walls. The homes around us are modest but impeccable in their design and craftsmanship. In Noank, most of our houses are close together, but there is a feeling of space.

When I look out of the left window, I see a corner of our neighbor's soft-yellow house across the street. Although I do not know Peter and and his wife very well, I know them enough to talk about gardening. Alan's house is visible out the right-hand window. It's an active place with two of Elizabeth's friends buzzing in and out of the place on electric scooters.

For me, it's mostly about clean perspectives, familiar places and great light. Although I am far from a luddite, I believe in authenticity, respect for mechanical, architectural and social traditions. Scale and proportion must count when it comes to enjoying a quality of life. To this end, I am starting to garner support, or at least interest in my hybrid farm-saving concept. In fact, a key executive from a major New England history attraction admits that the appeal of such a project is powerful. He warns me, over lunch, however, to:

• Control the idea... don't be undercut by other participants;
• Control deferred maintenance;
• Find the right people to realize the vision.

Before we go back to our day, he offers to make his organizational resources available to help ascertain that our concept and execution is accurate from an authentic, historical perspective. I certainly wasn't expecting a grant, and I am heartened to have simply made a new friend who can likely help us as we move ahead.

Earlier in the day, I speak with the New England Director for the American Farmland Trust. She affirms the uniqueness of our concept, and suggests two new contacts. I write to one of them, a Senior Lecturer in Sustainable Investments and the Environment, and a Research Scholar at Yale University. He writes back in a little over three hours. "Interesting..." he says, and invites me to

meet with him on September 24th.

This is probably the first time that I have worn a pair of slacks, a belt, and an oxford shirt in five months. I miss the field, even if it is one day, but I still feel like I'm cultivating. It's like sowing magic seeds in our community.

Days like these: Imagination... Consensus and promise... Days of energy!

Day 119, September 14, 2010

Most Tuesdays, I deliver an order of Mystic Chips brand potato chips to the Sysco Food Service Distribution Center in Rocky Hill, Connecticut. These are not, by any means, large orders, so my little 14' box truck works just fine. I used to have an employee who did this, but ever since the economic apocalypse I've been doing everything myself. It's humbling, at first, but this all must have been for a good reason. I see it as a manner of winding down, making space for a new opportunity,

After checking in at the main gate, I normally drive out back and wait for a dock assignment. While waiting, I call a fundraising and public relations consultant. During the brief conversation, I explain the three step premise behind our new farming community concept:

1. Save a Farm;
2. Build a Farming Community;
3. Grow a Business.

I explain to Joe, the consultant, that my preferred structure is a non-profit foundation. One in which all forms of positive revenue can flow back into repeating the three-step process, one in which people can volunteer, buy in, participate in a common cause. He thinks I'm on to something good, and after a few minutes he offers to help, and asks me to keep him posted. "Call a meeting of interested advisors as soon as you're ready," he suggests.

As we're saying our goodbyes, my call waiting starts beeping and the woman on the other end tells me, "You need to go to door 28."

"What should I do when I get there?" I ask.

Pause. Sigh. "Why, Mystic Chips, I think you unload," she laughs. Apparently she's not used to my poor, but painfully necessary, wit-starved attempt at humor.

Once at the dock, I back down, pull four boards from the back of the truck. Two boards to a side, stacked, and offset so that they form a primitive dock leveling ramp.

"Nice rig," a driver of a 53' tractor trailer laughs as I square up the leveling boards.

"Thanks," I say.

He scratches his gut, hikes his overalls, sucks his cigarette, and declares, "Gonna be a helluva truck when it grows up!"

We share a laugh in the enormous parking lot and I ask the friendly, smokey trucker, "When you gonna run a seventy-five-footer?"

"Soon as they make one." Next, I'm in the truck, backing down, and up onto my makeshift ramp.

I like Tuesdays. They get me out on the road. I get to see a good, albeit repetitive, portion, of Connecticut. There's time to find and speak with people I need to speak with. In a way, Sysco is an example of a business that has grown from the strategic acquisition of a couple of hundred, often, mom and pop food service distributors. Today, Sysco covers all of North America and serves over 400,000 customers. I love the way they blend old-fashioned shoe leather customer service with amazing technology, from the buyers, to the salesmen, to the laptops and infrared scanners mounted to their speedy fleet of electric thirty foot pallet handlers.

As I leave Sysco, I receive an e-mail lunch invitation from another very talented development professional. This guy's had experience with large history-based attractions. I'm looking forward to hashing out my concept with a person with experience building constituencies and raising funds for good causes.

By the time I get done with deliveries and chores, it is four-o-clock and I want to go out to the farm. As I pull up to the barn, the phone rings. It's Elizabeth, "Daddy, can we go to the picnic at school tonight?"

"What time?"

"Five-o-clock."

I stare out at the ocean of weeds that has overtaken the dying plants. It's overwhelming, so I decide to inspect the pumpkins and pick a box of tomatoes. There will be time on Wednesday to finish up. "Sure, Elizabeth... that'd be fun," I tell her. "Just get your homework done, and I'll be back a little after five."

"Don't be late."

Day 116, September 11, 2010: A Day For Donzo

September 11th. A glimpse back to an earlier time in this dark decade. Like most September 11ths, it is clear, blue, and breezy... a day not unlike last Saturday, when we lost Donzo.

This is a day to recognize the large amounts of love and grieving, even introspection that has been flowing into Noank from all around the world. Because of this, I believe that September 11th can become an example of the power of a close community. In this case, it represents friends helping friends make sense of, and bring closure to unfathomable loss. Friends pitching in to say goodbye. It is also a perfect time to prepare for happier days, a good future for a wonderful family... to whom none of this should have happened.

This past week profoundly affected my son, Jay, and his fellow crew members, who were at Donzo's side when he crossed over. This entire affair has been devastating for me, as well. Therefore, I'm dedicating this post in memory of a very cool guy. This is a prayer for smooth sailing and peaceful healing for his wife, Anne, and for Ben & Sarah, his kids.

Of course, this has little to do with farming, other than the farm-grown tomato salad we brought, and the fact that Donzo was a master cultivator of friends. I am stricken by the passion and caring of a sailing community, much in the same way farming communities look after and care for one another.

I begin to understand the magnetism of Donzo as Debbie and I arrive at the plain, white, Congregational church about an hour before the service. Practically every pew is full. It feels like a Parrothead convention.

Nearly everyone is wearing a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops. Donzo was a big fan of Jimmy Buffet, and Anne has already spread the word that the best way to honor her husband is through informality.

"It's how he dressed... This will be a real celebration," explains his friend, Lizzie Carlson.

Soon the church cannot hold another soul, and the overflow is accommodated next door in the church library. A video feed has been established for this purpose, and rumor has it that a watering hole in Stonington is playing the service at the bar. Some say that it is being broadcast world-wide.

It seems that among the hundred or so middle-aged men in attendance that there must a fair share of reflection on personal mortality. I'm seeing friends I've not spoken with since college days. We're a softer, grayer group, for sure. As our children are viewing their "Sail On Donzo" bed sheet bridge banner, we're shaking hands. We console and we pat backs.

Sam and Jay and a few friends have strung a Banner (SAIL ON, DONZO) from the Mystic River highway bridge so that when it opens, the banner will appear to all waiting on

the East Main Street side. This is small town stuff, but it takes imagination, guts, and a shallow-draft boat. The boys don't seem to mind that the left top corner has failed and folded. Sam (who took the picture on the right) is upset, though that the bridge operator has removed the banner during the service. He learns this when he calls the bridge tender, on a VHF, and asks for an immediate opening.

"The family is approaching the bridge." he tells the tender.

"I am so sorry," I believe he tells Sam. "We took it down."

"Damn..." Sam sighs. He'd wanted the bridge to open just as Donzo's family drove towards the bridge.

"Sorry, but if I had known, I'd have kept the banner up and opened the bridge, just for your friend," The bridge tender allegedly tells Sam.

On the way to the reception, I have to stop at Mystic Market West. Yesterday, I picked over twenty pounds of Brandywine, Beefsteak and

yellow tomatoes. I brought them all, along with some Basil to Chef Jimmy Blair, and Market co-owner Christine because they'd

agreed to add some ingredients and make the salad, free of charge. Jimmy hands me two large trays containing thirty pounds of delicious tomato salad. "I should help you carry these out," he offers.

Over the course of the afternoon, a massive crowd devours one cold cut and salad platter after another. There must be a direct tap line to Barbados to keep up with the demand for Mount Gay Rum. The tomato salad platters are inhaled within seconds, while a calypso band plays on a deck above the patio. The reception is held at tiny, beautiful Ram Island Yacht Club. All of my kids have learned to sail at Ram, along with children of most of the original Mystic River Mudhead members. In fact, Donzo, along with other Mudhead founders formed the Mudheads because they were not able, or did not originally want to become members of traditional yacht clubs. They wanted to Race in the Wednesday night series, and a paper club would work just fine.

The genesis of, and success of The Mystic River Mudhead Sailing Club has been well documented. The club was founded, in 1976, by a handful of mostly early 20's sailing friends, including Donzo. Today, the club has over 300 members and about 40 boats compete, in different fleets in the Wednesday Night Series. Every summer, The Mudheads sponsor The Hospice Regatta which attracts over seventy boats and raises hundreds of thousands of dollars for the cause.

As the party winds down, I run into Carl Fast (left foreground) sitting on his boat, Looney Tunes with a friend. Carl was a close friend of Donzo's, and there's nothing I can say, other than to nod, and acknowledge the pain. As Deb and I decide to head home, I am stricken by a simple thought. Donzo would have enjoyed the day, would have loved seeing so many old friends. I am also struck by the fact that I was never a great sailor, and sometimes did not feel as welcome in sailing situations as a more seasoned waterman. With Donzo, though, we always found something to talk about and enjoy a laugh.

As I leave, I try to find Anne. I reason, one can never have too many hugs, too many friends. She's nowhere to be found, so I leave with Deb, realizing that now the grieving begins.

Godspeed, Good Sailor!

Benjamin "Nick" Greenfield

Day 114, September 9, 2010

Over the weekend, Debbie and I attended one of Connecticut's agricultural gems: The Haddam Neck Fair. It's a fair that is big enough to include just about everything you'd find at a mega fair. In fact, this is a small fair, but it is grand in its scale and simplicity. I spent the better part of an hour in the poultry building, learning about standards of perfection in judging rabbits.

A group of three people, seated at a table, took me through the process of judging rabbits. Afterwards, I watched two chicks learn to stand and breathe, having just hatched a half hour ago. No Yolk! I couldn't believe it. The antique steam engines were beautifully preserved, and I thought about Clyde's Cider Mill, and their steam apple cider press. How do they keep those relics rolling?

Best of all, I had a visitor at the farm today. Kevin Fiftal is among the most unassuming, down-to-earth, supremely intelligent people I've ever known. When I started this blog, he was the first to post a supportive note on my Facebook wall. At one point, he told me that

my content and style were different from the hundreds of blogs he reads. Kevin should know because he has spent years in the information industry, has seen most major changes in computing from concept to phenomenon. And through it all, Kevin is a country boy at heart. "Don't change a thing in your blog," he tells me. That's Kevin, on the right!

I'm a little embarrassed at the condition of the field. The weeds are high and most of our plantings have faded and are dying. We walk around the field, sidestepping the lifeless, bloated and pale cucumbers. Some have liquified, and I'm concerned about Kevin's shoes.

"Kev," I say. "I have our mission down to three simple goals."

"Let's hear it."

"Save a Farm. Build a Community. Start a Business."

I like it," he says. We decide to grab a sandwich at Subway. On the way out, Kevin tells me that he remembers being chased by a bull in the field we're driving by. We both agree that Wychwood Farm is a magnificent place.

At Subway we decide that we need to formalize our constituency. We need:

• A land use lawyer to guide us up to the point where we can become an important client;
• A lead investor;
• Public Private sector specialist who can uncover federal and state programs that will faciliate our vision;
• A grantwriter;
• An architectural historian;
• An environmental biologist.

Interestingly, we are slowly and steadily assembling a team that will become a board of directors. Out of this will come a work plan, and the first order of business will be to identify property candidates. We will need a feasibility study.

It seems to me that every aspect of this journey has simply fallen into place. Each time, when the time is right. I am, learning that you cannot set your heart on one dream or one property. Yet, if the idea is compelling, if it has the potential to benefit many, then it is worth the attention and efforts of others.

Day 109, September 4, 2010

The Day After Yesterday. Yep, I was right. Home Depot was the prime sponsor, I believe for Hurricane Earl. Ready, we were. Apparently, though, Earl's handlers decided our economy could not handle the rigors of a virile Earl. Instead he postured, playing for the cameras and the commentators... right up to the last minute.

Which leads us to the morning. Cool and pre-autumn. Deb and I have decided to sell our pumpkins from the front yard of the house, which means most of this windy Saturday is dedicated to harvesting pumpkins.

We load about thirty-five pumpkins into the back of the truck. We pick tomatoes, tomatillos, and the last of the melons. Harvesting pumpkins is really difficult. Apart from their weight, there's the constant anxiety of trampling an intricate network of vines which have become brittle, and are still capable of generating new pumpkins. I believe that once the pumpkin has grown out, and has reached maturity, it is less dependent on the vine, than on natural ripening: the fascinating journey to orange. It likely no longer needs its umbilical cord, but the more I step on the vine, the less likely I am to see new pumpkins this late in the season.

Neither of my sons have ever spent much time in the garden, mostly because they are dedicated sailors. In fact, Jay, my eighteen-year-old has never been to the farm. This morning, though, he wakes up, excited about a sailboat race around Fishers Island. He steps outside, stretches his arms, admiring the post-Earl morning. He feels the strong breeze, and says, "This is going to be an amazing race."

"Really. Why?" I ask.

"We're going to go so fast."

"Whatcha sailing?"

"A Mumm 30."

A Mumm 30 is an amazing boat. Trust me.

"Is the wind out of the west," he asks.

"Yep. Just look at the boats in the river," I tell him. "See their bows pointing west?"

"Is that how you do it, Dad?" he asks, sarcastically.

On the other hand, Debbie and I spend the entire afternoon racing around the garden, dealing with dying plants, brittle vines, and reminiscences of an amazing season. Every now and then, I hear muffled curses because Deb's Purple Cherokee Tomatoes have been chosen by a ground hog as his favorite fruit snack. The rain has caused hundreds of tomatoes to swell and split, and many pumpkin stems have to be picked soft, to hopefully dry. Our garden has matured. It is now going to seed. The sunflowers, some ten-feet tall, now bow, faded, and battered by birds.

Back home, I'm unloading pumpkins when my friend, Tim, walks by, stops, and says, "Deb was remarking it's too early for pumpkins." Then he tells me his wife decided, 'Maybe not if Ben has them for sale in his yard.'

We laugh, then Tim tells me that his yacht club lost a member, a few hours ago, in the Fishers Island Race. Instantly, I ask who? thinking about my two sons who were out there.

"Wilkinson... Don Wilkinson," he tells me without any detail.

"I think Jay was on board with him," and suddenly I am unable to speak, and the fun I'm having with my pumpkins feels trivial, a bit cavalier.

Later, I hear that Jay acted calm and that he helped bring focus to the panicked boat as the accident unfolded. I heard he spent the rest of the day with Don's son. This is a family I have always liked, and my heart is sad thinking about them and the grief this day has caused. At the same time, Don was a fantastic sailor, and I am sure it will not be lost on those who knew him, that he went away doing what he loved to do best.

In the end, I am glad that the pumpkins are all around me. As the day turns to evening, Lilly Hinckley appears on the scene, inspecting each pumpkin. Eventually she decides to gnaw on a moist stem, a wonderful distraction. Comic relief when I most need it. My friend Kersten stops by to buy a few pumpkins, and she, Debbie and I have fun talking and unloading the truck. At the same time, my stomach has a dull feeling, and we never bother to make dinner.

Before we watch a movie, though, I notice a person in the front yard, and she wants to buy three pumpkins in the dark.

After she leaves, Deb and I count up our day's proceeds. We made $41.00 on our first day. Sam stops by, hears us giggling over our ill-got gains, and reminds us that we earned a small fortune.

"That's four meals, where I come from."

Indeed, Sam is right. Yet, I cannot help thinking, on this otherwise beautiful and blustery day after Earl's no show... that he ended up making it here with a vengeance.

With a gasp of a dying storm, I lost a friend.

Day 108, September 3, 2010

They say, "Red sky at night, sailor's delight, and red sky at morning, sailors take warning." There is certainly an eerily still sky of blotchy red this morn. Once again, though, I believe that this will have been a hurricane largely sponsored by Home Depot and WCBS 880 News Radio.

It's been nearly 30 years, actually a quarter-century, since Hurricane Gloria... She was a mid-morning hurricane, not terribly powerful, more of a spectator storm. At least in Noank, Connecticut. At the beginning, folks quaffed one bloody mary after another, and donned foul weather gear. We toured the village and the boat yards. Heartier fools, including I, shambled out on the docks at the shipyard. I played seagull, leaning into the wind, and it almost held me up. I decided that there wasn't much of a lifeline for me, 100 yards out on a rickety dock, the Mystic River boiling below, and so I retreated. As I did, I could hear a ghostly rattling, a warbling sound. I watched my brother-in-law as he ran screaming from the storm, followed by what seemed to be a 30 x 10-foot sheet of corrugated metal roofing. As it wobbled, it lifted, like a kite, and it took flight. This was the same kind of sharp metal material that killed a news reporter, years later, during the opening sequence of "The Day After Tomorrow."

Gloria blew about 85 mph, so I am glad that we're likely in for a "tropical treat" today. Sure, I have my Briggs & Stratton generator in the back of the truck, a couple of flash lights, but we do not need a hurricane. I've been to one hurricane, and five days without power is plenty.

As part of my preparations, I pulled as many tomatoes as I could. The cucumbers are finished, as are the beans, and I got about a bushel of each. The cantaloupes are just about done, too, and so it is all about pumpkins and a diminishing tomato crop. The bees are fighting harder for the remaining pollen, and I am noticing a stronger presence of slugs and tomato worms. The worms are really amusing. Normally, they work on one fruit, leaving the rest for me. Recently, though, I met up with one who sampled a whole cluster... like a raccoon in a lobster tank!

I heard Farmer Brown drive in in his utility cart. He has a large generator which he runs off of a tractor. "Water's important around here, and it takes quite a kick to start the well pump," he explains.

"How are the turkeys?" I ask.

"They're fine," he tells me. "Had to change feed... that's a big deal, but they seem fine." He explains that he goes through thousands of pounds of feed, that it takes several pounds to grow a turkey one pound. I think he said three pounds, but it might be six. In the end, it's all about oil and gasoline. The production of ethanol has made it nearly impossible for small farmers to buy corn-based feeds. Too much money to be made feeding the fuel supply.

We talk a bit, and he's thinking about where to store the hay wagons, how to secure the barn. I go back to my field, pick the last of the beans... the ones that remain are going to seed, and the pods are soft.

I realize the season is coming to an end. I need to expand my thinking about what I can do with my farming experience. I know there is a movement afoot that is creating opportunity to do some good, and so I am excited, and anxious to find people to help. I do not believe that everyone has become so jaded and cynical that original thinking is gone with our nation's innocence.

There are pockets of opportunity. I just need to pick one.

But right now, guess I need to finish preparing for the storm.

Coffee?

Day 105, August 31, 2010

One-hundred-and-five days. That's nearly four months. What did I do? I found a farm. I borrowed some land, planted plants, and sowed seeds. At times, it rained. We also had weeks of dry sunshine. I remember, in the beginning, watering my tomato seedlings with gallons of bottled spring water, just to keep them sturdy. I met real farmers, came to admire many, and harvested, enjoyed eating, and sold crops to restaurants, Innes and spas. And now, with the beans and cucumbers fading, the pumpkins maturing, and autumn stirring, I have decided to continue this blog. Yes, I should have started farming years ago, but there is a reason I have followed the path I have taken, and perhaps it is why I see so much of a future on the land.

From this point forward, Some Country for Old Ben will be a discussion of my dreams, concepts and thoughts born out of the time I have spent as a guest of George and Anne Brown at Wychwood Farm. The dialogue will be both emotional and practical. It will invite debate and action on my belief that a farm can become a working agricultural community. It can become a place to raise a family, or retire. A place to work, and grow the prominence of Connecticut-grown agricultural products... a place to flourish and a concept to be replicated as often as possible.

Over the past few weeks, I have discussed my initial vision with professionals in Real Estate, Planning and Zoning, Land Use Law, Clergy, and several others. The people I have spoken with are unanimous in their enthusiasm and have offered to help where possible. Although there is likely several years of hard work even before we clear our first road, including finding and optioning a candidate farm, I believe this concept is feasible... simply because it makes so much sense. Simply because it has the potential to help people who deserve to be helped. Simply because it takes us back to a time and place where neighbors were valued over privacy.

I know that there are lots of interesting, intelligent people who have been following this blog. I invite each and every one of you to spread the word about the blog, its important new direction, and about my need to have feedback about this farm community concept. In return, I promise to provide a lively forum, as well as real time discussion of the efforts going into it.

Please show your support by becoming more visible, sharing your interest, experiences, and passion.

Day 101, August 27, 2010

The most promising prospects for the future of our communities mostly lie fallow. They rest before their forgotten fields, peeling, rotting hollow shells. These once-prominent farm homes are often the step children of bitter disputes between ambitious developers and local zoning boards. Eventually, these farms fall, one-by-one, and often like children of thoughtless, irrational divorce, the results are long-lasting and difficult to cure.

Quite often, the only ones able to pay for intact farms are big developers with big box tenants. It seems that every time a new Stop & Shop opens on virgin land, another one down the road simply closes, becomes a Home Depot or Lowes. The new stores get bigger, and yet the cost of groceries never seems to go down with these ostensibly new efficiencies. I believe that store development is a predatory practice which weakens the entire market over time.

It's been the same way with housing. We have become a land of sub divisions and cul de sacs....

Everyone wants land and privacy, and the result is miles and miles of roads and utilities, and expenses to municipalities... All in the name of two acre zoning, and higher taxes. Each and every family must now tame the wilderness around them. They wonder why there are bears in their beds, and bucks on their blossoms, and why they must drive everywhere... in a vehicle sufficient to transport their woodland beasts to a distant park.

It seems that the places we best remember living and playing in as kids are the traditional neighborhoods. These are simple villages or towns. Places like Noank or Mystic Connecticut, or Upper Montclair, New Jersey. There are narrower streets with single and two family homes, with neighbors living closer together. There are parks and places of worship, and stores in scale with the community. When we were children, octogenarians lived next door to starter families. Today, these are the most desirable communities, but as the authors of Suburban Nation point out in their treatise on new urbanism, it is mostly illegal to build the communities that seem to make the most sense to an enduring quality of life. Our present system of zoning encourages, unintentionally, it would seem, the consumption of vast amounts of land for relatively small, select, groups of homeowners.

Four months in the field, on a farm, have brought back challenge, peace and quiet, and reflection to my life. Soon, my crops will return to the ground, but I hope to take from my experience a purpose and a passion to preserve farms, bring awareness to their value. I believe that there are forces in motion that respect and reward a local way of life. Yet, if the answers were all apparent, then everyone would be doing it. There are options to traditional development, and it is our responsibility as a region to serve a common good.

We still need supermarkets, and Walmart is not going away. Nor should it! Yet with the decline in property values to more realistic levels, and with the unfortunate, but necessary diminishment of our immediate expectations, it may be possible to change the term, "Highest and Best Use" to simply "Best Use." And who better to put valuable property to use for, than the needs of an entire community?

In the end, we have engaged in an experiment in whiz-kid thinking since the end of World War II. This experiment has led to a consumption society, where our value as humans has been measured by the size of our homes, and the depth of our soft drinks. We drink "Tanks" of Iced Coffee, and the only way to afford the Suburban and the Food Service Gas Grill in the back of a raised ranch is to convince more of us to buy one, too.

There is something about a farm and a living community that is exciting. There's something appealing about being able to count on our neighbors, or simply walking, breathing... and living again.

Day 95, August 21, 2010

This garden is full. There is not an inch to spare. The tomatoes are so heavy with fruit, the support strings that I tied to the stakes have snapped. The only way to check the romas and cherries for ripe fruit is to lift matted sections of vine from the ground. I often find large red masses, and the dirty tomatoes are fine with a quick rinse.

I have to admit that I have been very busy taking care of my customers, basically harvesting, delivering and eating my share. Weeding has been ignored. Today, however, I intend to weed whack the borders and weed the cucumber and flower patches. The cucumber area is, I believe, a premonition of autumn. O.K., there are still yellow flowers, and the cukes, bless their evil seed, are quite robust. At the same time, the patches, especially with the weeds removed, are thinning, and the leaves and vines are whitening, and becoming thin and brittle. Except for the edges, where new growth pushes forward. Onward, and into the Jalapeno garden.

Sometimes I am temped to just end the cucumber patches. I fantasize standing in the middle of the pickling cukes, ripping up each hill, swinging the three plants in lasso fashion up, up and over the ten-foot sunflowers. On the other hand, I love all life, even invasive vegetables. Although many of the cucumbers are swelling to seed, and flying over the wall, I am committed to caring for them, and getting as many as possible to customers or friends. All this, in spite of the fact that cukes are now fetching between thirty five and fifty cents per pound. Erg!

On the other hand, the tomatillos look like a festive Cinco de Mayo party, each fruit with its own protective lantern. The bees are drunk and seemingly unsteady from the thousands of blossoms in our tomatillo hedge. I wonder if there is mescal in the pollen, the bees so love these plants.

We'd like to harvest the tomatillos, and we have a Mexican restaurant who will take them, but they are slow to ripen. I want to make a batch of salsa with some of the tomatillos, but I am still afraid of this fruit. Debbie said to cook them under the broiler, but I also hear of some cutting them up raw and adding to a salsa. Eventually, I'll figure it out. If not this season, perhaps next.

I have to admit, this is a very beautiful time of the season. I worked my butt off today, and my hands feel a little rougher and I am tired. In my garden weeds are more than little patches of chickweed. Within weeks, entire saplings can grow as fast as sunflowers, and often as tall if left unattended. Sadly, I have been unable to identify most of the weeds that grow at Wychwood Farm, but I know they gotta go!

Perhaps, however, the most invasive species in my garden, are the plants I have planted. For example, the pumpkins continue to stretch their vines, marching over whatever gets in their way. Today I decide to take a walk through the corn rows, and as I pass by each one, I can see where the pumpkins have toppled entire corn stalks in their alien invasion.

Amazing, it is, how the early view of our grandest visions is so much clearer than August 21st with sweat in your eyes.

Day 94, August 20, 2010

There it is! It appears to me to be fluorescent orange, like a maritime safety marker. A welcome apparition glinting in a sea of fading green.

Black-green stem tight to the vine, an umbilical cord, of sorts. This baby's been growing outside, on mother earth, all summer. She's been basking in rain and haze. Thriving in dousings and dry spells. Giant leaves are still guarding her from the late August sun, and I cannot wait to cut the cord.

It's a symbolic harvest. Honestly , it's all about wanting to be the first in Noank to put out a pumpkin.

I cut the pumpkin free. It's unceremonious, but it feels good to this hunter- gatherer to be gathering a new crop in the garden. We tried our first cantaloupe yesterday, and today I will leave our second for Farmer Brown and his wife. Nevertheless, I am certain that I'll be bitching about harvesting pumpkins, before long.

For the first time, I am able to see evidence of her brothers and sisters in the pumpkin patch. Most of the young pumpkins are military green, growing rapidly. I believe that as the leaves become brittle, the gourds grow faster. There are a variety of sizes, and since I am growing "Jack-o-lantern" and "Howell" cultivers, there will be a

wonderful variety of sizes and shapes. I have a feeling we're about to have a pumpkin boom, as the entire patch is about 1/8 of an acre. The vines have run into, and trampled some of the cosmos and bean plants, and on the other side, they have infiltrated the corn rows.

My red-handled garden shears cut through the stem easily. It's a wet stem, looks like a unique fiber. It'll dry quickly, and like human cord, it should eventually fall off. I inspect the pumkin, and it looks pretty good for being field-grown. No pesticides. No fertilizer. A 30-pounder... A Great Pumpkin in August? Good Grief!