Day Twelve, 5/30/2010

Today we planted eight sets of yellow onions. That's about five hundred plants. Each onion has to be gently pulled from a tangled mass of tiny roots. Each shoot is then spaced approximately four inches apart, planted and covered. Afterwards, I learn that onions are an early-plant crop, that they thrive in cool weather. I also learn that they will grow into green onions if kept planted in a tight pack. And now that our onions are planted in a four inch grid, I have also learned that they don't compete well with weeds. Urgh!

Debbie spends the better part of the day raking out a new section of the garden, which is where we decide to bed down the onions for the summer. While Deb rakes the top stones off of a 70 x 20 area, I start planting the onions. "There must be a better way to do this," I moan, trying to envision the machinery that big onion producers use to supply the world.

At the same time, we're becoming aware, if not appreciative of the people who toil at these tasks... but with no alternative. We talked a little bit about the farmers we saw in Nicaragua, armed with steel rakes and shovels, transporting their crops to market in wooden horse carts.

Earlier in the day, I find my stone hammer, and so now I can shape the stones a little better. I actually like building the walls better than planting the onions. The garden is taking shape, and still the priority is to get crop into the ground, keep it healthy, and deal with aesthetics when possible.

By 7:00 PM, we're both exhausted, and as Debbie plants the last onion, I plant two packs of Nasturtium seeds along the perimeter of the little walls that are already in place.

Day Eleven 5/29/2010

Today I learned a lot about Wychwood Farms. Ann showed me the turkey processing facility. I was impressed at how immaculate and current it is, although I am not sure I'm yet man enough to "process" a Thanksgiving gobbler. The old barn may be old, but they take their turkey seriously. I'd been a customer long before I decided to farm their land.

After the tour, I planted twenty hills of pickling cucumbers. There are three plants in each hill. I am not sure why three plants per hill. Perhaps it has to do with pollination. Could be simple survival odds. At this stage, I'm a student. I follow directions, ask questions along the way. Before planting the picklers, I planted the remainder of thirty six dill weed plants.

Debbie finished planting a flat of Zinnias. When they are grown, each plant will be five feet tall, and covered in colorful, paper-like blossoms. Zinnias

are my favorite flower. My mother, who is the well-known painter, Audrey Heard, introduced me to zinnias through several of her Zinnia oil painting series. I even bought "Zinnia #4, a 30 x 24 canvas" at a local show, and it is still one of my favorite paintings. I found this image to the right on line. It is her November Zinnias II. I hope she doesn't mind me sharing it.

I keep trying to convince her to paint some of our produce, when it is ready. I'm thinking the right images might be great to use on product labels, in a recipe booklet, or even note paper and cards, which we could offer when we open our stand. But I've learned not to push too hard. Good painters are very personal in their interests, and one cannot tell a true artist what to paint, or so it seems. Debbie reminds me about the time I ate one of Audrey's subject pears from her refrigerator, and hell broke loose. Being the philistine I am, I offered to buy her another pear. It just didn't go over well.

As we plant to the south, we water to the north. The tomatoes and peppers are taking root, and are no longer fragile seedlings. I think they're doing beautifully. All of this is going a little slower than I'd like, but I am having fun with the process. Something is telling me to do it a little differently. For example, I have always loved building stone walls. Although I am not a

professional, I've decided to used the thousands of rocks and stones in the garden. I am building short bed divider walls, and once the planting is done, I'll be able to finish these.

Likely, once all of the plants come in, the walls will be invisible. But I'll know they're there.

Day Ten, 5/28/2010

Today is beautifully bright and breezy. There's a slight haze, and when clouds try to form, they lack definition. Then the clouds die, twisting and pulling like scraps of ribbon above.

I'm home today. Elizabeth, my ten-year-old, is too. She's been sick, spiking 103 degree fever for three days. Missing a lot of school. This is as good a time as any to think about the business side of my farming incarnation. I'm looking at the immediate tasks, the things I know we can easily accomplish. The things I've learned. Stuff I can already do well... without turning my life, and the lives around me, upside down.

Beyond the vegetables and pumpkins we're growing, we can cultivate hops and make decorative wreaths. Of course, it will take three years for the Rhizomes to mature into twenty- foot-tall plants. If we want to brew barn beer, we can find a spot and do it easily. Perhaps Farmer Brown will let us harrow a hay field and replant it in two row barley. For show. As far as livestock is concerned, barley makes for great eating, just like traditional bale hay.

We can also start a pretty cool farm stand. We can pickle cucumbers, green tomatoes, and beans. We can make a variety of salsas. Above it all, we can start looking at everything we grow, and even the things we want to grow through the eyes of experienced innovators. Of course, our friends, whom we've never met, at Stonewall Kitchens, have set a great standard from which wannabes, like me, need to move forward.

My experiment, eccentric as it might seem at first, is helping me think clearly about what it means to farm. It is helping me to dream and think of creative possibilities while I work. I realize that at some point, I will have to spend more time on the big picture and attend dreaded trade shows. Things won't be so simple any more. Now I understand where the saying, "You're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy," comes from. A farm, I am finding, even as a guest (sharecropper, perhaps), has a protective quality about it.

I suspect that even in the worst years, the sense of promise, season to season, must be powerful.

If we are successful... and I think we will be.... it will mean that my

concepts and whimsical thoughts, and those of my kids, Debbie, George and Ann will have germinated.. not unlike the seeds we're planting behind the old barn, in the photo just above.

Our ideas will blossom! This old farm will have proven to be the best business incubator yet.

Day Nine, 5/27/2010

It is a full moon. A Full Flower Moon, to be exact. On this day, Debbie planted a flat of zinnias. Benary's Giant Mix, to be exact. We have a ton of planting left, but today, it seems we were concerned with aesthetics, perhaps as a way to give definition to the space we've been tilling, shaping and populating with hundreds of plants.

This is bony soil, as Farmer Brown likes to call it. There are thousands of rocks and stones. I've decided to use the stones to encircle each plant. I imagine that this will help contain water, but in reality, I just like the way it looks. I imagine that it gives each plant a feeling of importance. I imagine that each plant needs a sense of security. I imagine that I am slowly losing my mind, and then I laugh. After all, this is my garden. My experiment. Debbie says it's my Zen Garden. I think of Zen as a sense of feeling, like Karma... but when we look it up, we learn that a Zen Garden is a Japanese Rock Garden. A living work of art.

Our garden is certainly a living work of art, one that I know will never be finished.

Today, I finished planting the green and jalapeno peppers. I planted close to fifty basil plants, and then started planting a flat of dill before light faded around 8:30.

Tomorrow I will try to finish planting the dill, cucumbers and onions. I'm expecting a package of seeds from Michigan, and then it will be time to sow the pumpkin, ornamental and popping corn seeds. As soon as we finish planting and sowing, we can finish the stone wall and we'll clean up the area around the barn. It's a beautiful place, so stop by!

Day Eight, 5/26/2010

I am convinced, after a short week, that the best definition for the word, "farmer," is one who has an unconditional love and respect for all life. I see a farm as life unplugged. Life unvarnished. Whether it be a baby being born in a farm house, or animals having animals in a paddock or stall. Of course, there is the simple, yet incredibly complex, rooting of plants to the earth.

After two days of hay bailer problems, Farmer Brown tells me he's coasting. We meet mid-morning when he catches me inspecting my tomato and pepper plants. Most of them look pretty good, thanks to last night's bottled spring water bath.

"Hi, Ben!"

"Hi." I say little because I'm still afraid he's going to tell me about "second thoughts." That it's not working. Of course, there's no rational reason to fear this scenario. I just think that the past few years of dealing with iffy business situations has shaken my faith. I've become used to expecting bad, hoping for good.

"I think your plants are going to need a watering."

"I did last night... bought about forty gallons of spring water at Stop & Shop."

"Why would you do that?"

"They were drooping... had to do something. Desperate."

"We're having record heat today. I think they need watering. They're too small to survive this heat. Roots aren't strong enough to branch out and pull moisture in."

"Hmmm..."

He motions to the lower level of the old dairy barn that runs the length of my field. They now use it for the slaughter, storage and sale of their seasonal turkey crop. Of course, I'm thinking about deer ticks and nettles as we march through waist-high brush to get to the basement.

"I think we can hook up a hose here," he tells me, as he makes a mental list of bushings and valves as I try to adjust my eyes to the near-darkness.

When I return to the farm, three hours later, with bushings, hoses, and bulk plant food, I find a hose already connected. I realize that Farmer Brown is as concerned about my plants as I am. I realize that my fears are unfounded. I feel welcome.

Once the hoses are hooked up, I start to water the plants, just as Farmer Brown motors down the path in his utility cart.

"You just about done?"

I look at him deer-in-headlights-like. "Just starting."

"My wife says there's no water pressure in the house." The well and pump at their house, it appears, feeds the barn, as well. He drives off to check the barn, and while he's away, the pressure on the hose increases a hundred-fold. "Every faucet in the barn was open from when we drained everything last fall.... should be good now."

"It's great," I tell him and thank him several times.

"Good luck," he calls as he drives off.

It takes about an hour to thoroughly water all of the plants, and about ten minutes to shut off the water, clean up and store stuff. My glasses are dusty, a little smudged... but I can see what looks like water droplets falling silently in front of me. I walk up to the big barn and when I get inside, I hear a snapping noise on the roof. It intensifies, and I turn around and there is hail falling all around outside. It pings on the sixty-foot blue metal silo, and it bounces off my car as the clouds decide to break open in a downpour.

Still glad to have a plan "B," as are my plants.

Day Seven, 5/25/2010

This day begins well before my alarm. Tuesday can be that way, often involving a round trip delivery to to a RockyHill-based food service distribution center. This morning, however, dawns with a greater sense of urgency. I have to see the field before I can do anything else.

I drive to Wychwood Farm, on tenterhooks, imagining 100 virgin tomato plants reduced to Bambi toothpicks. When I arrive, it is six a.m. The tractor, the hay wagon, and the bailing machine are in the field next to mine in a wagon train formation. They stand still and silent, dewy and damp. Across the street a smoky haze rises from the field. A lone crow greets me with a defiant caw.

All of the plants survived their first night away from the nursery. Great, but I'll still be nervous until I taste the first tomato. When I return from deliveries, Sam meets me at the field. We transplant more tomatoes, and eventually Sam puts hay down. Hay works well as a mulch, and there is plenty of old hay available.

I notice that the tomato plants are beginning to wilt. Farmer Brown has told me several times

that sensible farmers rarely water crops, that nature is normally capable of doing the watering. But I am getting nervous. There is no water near the field. I decide to buy water at Stop & Shop. Gallon bottles. 89 cents a gallon. Reusable gallon bottles. I buy thirty six gallons of water, and I answer endless questions about the contents of my shopping cart.

Back at the farm, I give each plant a drink, and I transplant the rest of the Brandywine tomatoes. By the time I finish transplanting the last tomato plant, the Romas, the Beefstakes, the Giant Cherry and the Brandywines have come back to life. They seem content in the fading evening light. I used fifteen gallons of water on the plants, and until I can figure out a system, I've decided I'll refill the bottles.

Day Six, 5/24/2010

Soon after arriving at Wychwood Farm, I run into Farmer Brown . There are Dark clouds all around.

"Are you going back down to finish tilling?" He asks.

"Yep. At least until the rain muddies the soil," I reply, taking meteorological clues from above.

"It's not going to rain. Not today. Not tomorrow."

When I get down to the field, the sun starts to shine. My fancy headphones get so slimy with sweat, I take them back to the car. My cap fits better. Thoughts and the rototiller engine provide the soundtrack for the afternoon.

A day later, the sun is still shining through clouds. I trust Farmer Brown's forecasts . At the same time, I want to be outside. I want to finish the wall. I want to buy plants and start planting. Instead, I'm stuck on the phone. I'm stuck on hold waiting for help from Agway. It was suggested I call Agway because professional

farmers deal with them.

After a five minute hold, the girl who answered comes back. I tell her I'm looking for a person with good knowledge of seeds and farm planting. When I think Agway, I think rural America and deep knowledge when it comes to matters of earth.

"That's me," she volunteers.

"OK, I need bulk pumpkin seeds."

"We don't sell them, but maybe we can order them."

"Bummer. I was hoping to come by and see what you have."

"Sorry.

Which is what leads me to a Google search and Main Street Seed & Supply Company in Bay City, Michigan... I buy two types of pumpkin seeds, ornamental and pop pcorn seeds, and I learn that an "offer" is a smaller packet of seeds.

After lunch, I stop by the farm and retrieve the rototiller. After returning it, I drive to Norwich and buy eleven flats of tomatoes, peppers, onions, cucumbers, basil and dill. I grab a flat of tall zinnias and a couple of packets of sunflower seeds.

When I get to the farm, I notice a lot of action. There's a bunch of equipment out. Farmer Brown takes a moment to approve of my plants.

"How are you doing?" I ask.

"Well, I'm losing time. Bailer's not tying enough knots."

I plant about fifty tomato plants. Roma Plum tomatoes, Giant Cherry tomatoes, and Brandywines go into the ground.

By the time I leave, I can tell from a distance that the bailer seems to be working. I wonder how long they'll stay out. My plants need rain, but I know the freshly cut hay can do without it.

This is a time we can do without an accurate forecast from Farmer Brown.

Day Five, 5/23/2010

I get to the Farm around one-oclock. When Debbie arrives, a couple of hours later, she brings along a sign that she's tacked to a wooden stake. On it, she's printed,

"Field of Dreams...

Field of Greens"

Anything that a person does, of a entrepreneurial nature, involves embracing a dream. On the other hand, much of dream weaving involves hard work, sacrifice, and attention to details. Deb tells me that she spent a little time with her parents, that her mom is concerned that I'll be frittering my days away in a corn field instead of looking for gainful employment.

"Deb, first of all, I still have a little bit of snack business left, and I've been asked to represent an old and fascinating candy company."

"I know, and I never told her that."

"It's not your job to," I decide. "Being an entrepreneur is lonely, little guy business, and it'll be this way until the rest of the world realizes that you have a great idea."

"I believe," she says, with a hug.

"Come on. Let's finish this field." "Check out the wall." I've decided to consolidate all of the stones from one side of the field, and build a dry wall. It actually saves time, holds tools, and when we plant the area in pumpkins, it will be a great place to rest and enjoy the bounty of our labor. Farming, I am finding, is all about preparation, skill, and a large measure of luck.

For the better part of the afternoon,

Debbie picks hundreds of stones from the field. She tosses them in the line of the wall while I rototill the balance of the field. Just as we're about to finish, I hear the high sputter of a golf cart. It's Mrs. Brown, George's (Farmer Brown) wife. She coasts to a stop on the concrete path beside the field. "Hi!" She's come to check out our work and, I guess, meet Debbie."

"Hi, Ann! This is Debbie."

"That's me, just picking your Stonington Potatoes."

Ann laughs. "You've been working two days, just wanted to come and say hi. It looks great."

I show her my wall, and we talk about planting corn and pumpkins, and other more exotic crops. She tells me not to worry about corn, that they have it on their farm, and it's even easier to get from other growers." But I still want to plant some if I can find a variety that pops.

I decide that I love talking with Ann because I think she understands what I'm trying to accomplish. She knows, as do I, that the bigger dreams, the actual products that eventually come from this farming experiment, and the specialty plants, will take longer. She and George understand that I need to plant for cash this season, even if it is a small amount. After all, I only have a half acre to train on.

After Ann leaves, I go back to the rototiller. I keep thinking about Deb's mom's comment. Maybe she's right. In fact, in most cases, she would be right, but I realize that I am ultimately the only person who can assess risk. Even, with the most detailed business plan, which, by Wall Street standards would contain more bullshit than a cattle barn, I would still be the only person able to assess the true risk. I believe this because my most successful projects have come from my heart, and with or without a business plan, no one will really understand the full potential of my idea. In fact, I have learned that ideas evolve, opportunities - like meeting and being accepted by the owners of this farm - come and go, and that's why I choose to throw myself into this project. I'm convinced that enough positive elements have fallen into place.

Tired and grubby, we finish the field around 6:30.

Day Four, 5/22/2010

The girls are doing jumping jacks. Haze burns away as parents and their kids settle in for a lacrosse tournament. Elizabeth, my daughter, is in the tournament, so I won't see the farm until after three-o-clock.

I'm still not sure exactly what the field dimensions are, or whether I'll need an electric fence to keep rabbits and deer away. Farmer Brown tried teaching me, the other day, what his father had taught him to say.

"When we plant corn, we always plan on unexpected guests. We put seven seeds in a hill to get one plant." Then he recites a rhyme he learned years ago:

"One for the blackbird;

Two for the crow;

Three for the cutworm;

One to grow."

But right now, I have this horrendous to-do list harrowing through my brain. I'm wondering about where I can find a rototiller, whether to ignore my host-farmer's anecdotal advice, and just buy an electric fence. How much would it cost? Expenditures especially concern me since I took an involuntary vow of poverty at the outset of this incarnation. And then, if I buy an electric fence, will it keep rabbits out? Should I recruit barn cats to act as bunny bouncers? Buy a shotgun? Sit on the low roof of the milking stall, and send my message out to the animal kingdom with buck shot?

As the girls warm up for their three games, I realize that, as I observe their game preparation, I am also an observer of my actions, an unprepared voyeur who needs to till soil before he can become an inchoate farmer. In fact, before I can even plant a crop, I need to know what I want to plant. And before I can plant, there is a harvest waiting in the field. Farmer Brown calls them "Stonington Potatoes." Big round rocks, mostly the size of two palms.

After the tournament, I rent a gigantic red Troy Bilt "Horse." Debbie joins me, and together we head up to the farm. We unload the rototiller, with Jim's help. I cannot wait to start tilling the field, but after watching me from the side lines, farmer Brown waits for me to stall out, and calls , "Hey, I think that thing has two speeds. Why don't you try it a little slower, let the tillers work the soil a little more." He looks over at Debbie, in flimsy L.L. Bean flip-flops, picking Stonington Potatoes from the field, and says, "She's a good worker."

"We need a Belgian horse out here," she laughs. "With a wooden cart for all these rocks."

"In fact, Farmer Brown urges, " You might want to run the shorter side... prepare a little area, plant, and move on."

"I like that idea," I answer, wiping my filthy canvas gloves on my brow. Inside, though, I'm thinking, "Two day rental. $140.00. I decide to follow Farmer Brown's advice, but also to finish the field within the rental budget.

Debbie finds about a dozen mummified turkey feet in the field and asks me if we should start selling Mojo Voodo souvenirs.

"Debbie, yuck... get those out of here." Then I laugh and tell her she can keep them if she really wants them. She tosses them, except for one that she leaves for me.

By seven-o-clock we've tilled 60% of the field. I did something I had never done before in my life, and I think I did it pretty well.

Note to self: Buy Work Boots.

Copyright 2010, Ben Greenfield, All Rights Reserved

Day Two, 5/20/2010

I took this picture during a visit to Falls Creek Farm in Oneco, Connecticut. It's how I picture my first field, and when I wake up this morning my head is full of fresh produce, a bountiful harvest... brimming with beginner's luck.

When I get to my office, the first thing I do is call Walter's cell phone. He never answers, I am told, so I leave him a message. It goes something like, "Hey, Walter! Thanks for your time yesterday. I'm really excited about your offer. I'd like to stop by, look at the field and get organized as soon as possible." I leave my number, confident he'll call.

Ten minutes later, Mike calls. "Not gonna work," he tells me. "Sister hit the roof... reamed him up and down. Something about insurance and leased fields." Mike is reflective. "I was afraid of this... his sister can be difficult."

There's an Irish proverb, I believe, that says, "Rejection is God's Protection." After Mike's call, I find the courage to call Wychwood, the farm that I had always dreamed of calling, but never believed would take me seriously. The man who owns 600 of the most beautiful acres of farmland in Stonington and North Stonington seemed more to me like a rock star than Farmer Brown, turkey rancher.

I cannot remember the conversation, just that Farmer Brown said, "Come by at two."At two he's on a tractor, about to cut a hay field. I decide to leave him be, come back at four. At four, we talk a little, he introduces me to Jim, his good friend and farmhand. Afterwards, we climb onto a small utility cart, he drives us behind a barn and shows me a field that had recently been plowed and fertilized. There we sit. I get out of the cart, reach to the soil, pick up a clump and break it.

"That's been fertilized, has turkey droppings in it, too."

"Don't care. I can wash my hands," I answer wanting to sound tough.

"Well, Ben," Farmer Brown explains, I can't promise this any more than one year at a time. I have a man I lease two hundred acres of hay fields to... it's the same deal.

"No problem. I've learned nothing is forever."

"Well, I'm going to need to talk this over with my wife," he says as we drive back to my car. "Here she is right now."

"I can leave..."

"No, that's O.K."

I'm not sure what to expect as she walks over. "Hi, I'm Ben," I croak.

"I'm Ann." She's confident, and I can tell I'm going to like her.

"Ben wants to learn about farming," George explains.

"You want to know my story?" I ask.

"Sure," she smiles. I grab a little bag of Mystic Chips from the utility cart and hand it to her.

"These are yours?"

"They were, but I sold the brand to Utz Quality Foods a few years ago. I'm going out again. I like to create products that have real roots, and would like to say that I at least took the time to learn how to raise food before selling it.

"I love it," she laughs. We stand there talking and laughing in the parking lot, a huge farm, silent road, and still silo in the background, I ask them if I can take their picture. They laugh. "Sure."

For the first time in a decade, I'm getting the feeling that the craziest of plans somehow have a way of taking on a sensible life. For me, it means there is promise, once again.

I believe that if I want to, I can create once again!

Copyright 2010, BenGreenfield, All Rights Reserved

Day One 5/19/2010

I joined Facebook, somewhat reluctantly, a year or so ago. I never played Farmville, never fertilized a friend's crops, never discovered oil between corn rows, never sent boards and nails to a virtual friend.

Nearly ten years ago, I sold a potato chip brand, called Mystic Chips, to a large regional snack food company from Hanover, PA. Mystic Chips is a company I dreamed up one summer afternoon at Mystic Seaport Museum. I was out of work after being canned from a large wine company, was walking the grounds with my oldest son, Sam, who I remember was riding on my shoulders.

Within two years of starting Mystic Chips we've been featured in The Wall Street Journal and been on television. The brand is easily accepted by dozens of grocery chains and even the largest Native American casino in America decides to feature Mystic Chips.

Within a year of selling the brand, I suffer a devastating and embarrassing embezzlement at the hands of a trusted bookkeeper. I discover yoga. My wife and I divorce. As our nation's economic apocalypse sets in, I watch the remains of my business atrophy and slowly start to die. It's impossible to continue the growth we'd earlier experienced. Utz had bought all of our chip routes, and what remained was mostly casino business. Easy to manage, but I knew in my heart that one large customer was a risky proposition. Yet I had no choice.

During this time, I realize it would be a matter of years before all the wheels come off, and I even prepare my resume. For what? I realize, as I slog through the job-seeker motions, convincing myself that I'd be a great technical writer at a submarine company, that I am functionally unemployable. It's not that I couldn't be valuable to the right company, it's just that business owners and corporate hiring wogs have difficulty believing that one who has smelled the roses, tasted the freedom and perks of business ownership and success, will be manageable in a structured setting. I know that sooner or later, I'll have to swim up stream again, and spawn a new business.

Mystic Chips is no longer mine, but I do have a powerful idea and a trademark for a candy product. I'm about to meet Walter, the owner of an old family farm in Preston, Connecticut. Walter grows hay and corn. He also raises beef cattle. Right now I'm with Mike, a quirky, exuberant ex-employee. He has driven me to Walter's farm. I meet him, tell him that my girlfriend, who is a dental hygienist, used to clean his teeth, and that I believe he owns a Tennessee Walking Horse.

"I do," he admits. "What can I do for you?"

"Walter, I want to learn to farm!" He's likely a few years younger than I. He's solid, has a calloused handshake and short dirty-blond hair. Behind me, chained in open stalls are several young black and white cows, some resting on legs that look like they could never support their bodies A larger cow stands, relieving herself shamelessly, giant thuds on the concrete deck. I wish I had author, Kent Haruf's knowledge of livestock, but I feel like a new character in his farming sequel, Eventide.

"What do you want to grow?"

"Honestly, I'm not exactly sure... just know I want to learn what it's like to raise a crop, sell some of it, and create new products that have their roots on a farm." I smile sheepishly, knowing that I've cracked my first agri-pun, with zero effort.

"Ben's good at that stuff," Mike adds. "If he says he's going to do something, it'll probably happen." As she finishes her business, the cow gives a satisfied mooo, and further down a horse whinnies impatiently in her stall.

"Well, we don't want anybody into our business up here," Walt explains. "It was always just my father and me, and now it's just me and him," he explains, pointing to his helper, outside, loading bales of hay into a pickup truck.

"I understand..." I'm starting to feel discouraged.

"But we do have a field... maybe an acre or two we could let you use..."

"Oh, great... thank you." I'm sure he can tell I am now crazy happy. I imagine myself out there planting five hundred tomato plants, a section of peppers and green onions, neat rows, healthy plants popping from holes in black plastic sheeting. This, I know will be my idea laboratory. This will be the garden path to the reincarnation of my career.

"Let me talk to my sister. She has a say, but I'm sure she'll be fine."

"Thank you, Walter!" Mike and I get ready to leave when I blurt, "This is so cool. Don't worry, you'll never regret this decision."

"Maybe you and Debbie will do so well you'll want to buy your own farm."

"Yeah.... maybe," I add as we drive off.

Copyright 2010, Ben Greenfield, All Rights Reserved