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:
- Save a Farm;
- Build a Farming Community;
- 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."
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