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
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