how can a person this size survive five years or so?
Photo by J. Harrington
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Think about the size of the spark of life in each of those tiny, feathered bodies, as they try to maintain some warmth in negative wind chills. Have you read the section in the December chapter of A Sand County Almanac about chickadee 65290? It appears s/he survived five Winters near the Leopold shack in Wisconsin. I'm not sure how that translates into human years, or even if it does. I do find it astounding that the spark could have been kept burning for that long.
one of our local producers sells through a local food co-op
Photo by J. Harrington
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In a few minutes I'm headed off to a meeting of local folks who are focused on building a food system that can help neighboring farmers and respond to climate change. In preparation, I recently read the Land Stewardship Project's Long Range Plan: 2019-2024. I'm hoping there will be some cross-fertilization instead of everyone inventing their own version of a wheel.
when local fruits aren't in season, they come from far away or we do without
Photo by J. Harrington
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Back from the meeting. I learned that the Better Half and I already support about 80% of the local producers who were there. It's good to see growing recognition of the role played in local economies by farmers and Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) and food co-ops. It would be better if there were more dot connecting going on. Food waste and large CSA shares and more consistent quality from suppliers are unexplored themes. Industrial foods are consistently mediocre and rarely beneficial to the environment. Where are there more stories of local farmers who don't pollute the waters on or under their farms and do provide quality vegetables and meats and, in season, fruits? All the pieces tie together whether we recognize the linkages or not. Food. Water. Shelter. Companionship. Humans and more than human animals, all have these needs. But you knew that, right?
The Farmer
By W.D. Ehrhart
Each day I go into the fields to see what is growingand what remains to be done.It is always the same thing: nothingis growing, everything needs to be done.Plow, harrow, disc, water, praytill my bones ache and hands rubblood-raw with honest labor—all that grows is the slowintransigent intensity of need.I have sown my seed on soilguaranteed by poverty to fail.But I don’t complain—exceptto passersby who ask me whyI work such barren earth.They would not understand meif I stooped to lift a rockand hold it like a child, or laughed,or told them it is their povertyI labor to relieve. For them,I complain. A farmer of dreamsknows how to pretend. A farmer of dreamsknows what it means to be patient.Each day I go into the fields.
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