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?