My ecological footprint is 38 acres, and if everyone on earth lived like I do it would require 8.5 more planet earths to support all that. The average North American has a 24 acre footprint, making me more ecologically consumptive than average. I had thought, as many Americans probably think, that I was somehow better than the rest. I understand the value of local food, and I have read extensively on the subject. Have I actually challenged myself to feed my family on local food predominantly? Well of course I haven't, mere understanding should be adequate to change the world, no? I have been espousing the global benefits of local food for years, yet without doing the hard work of putting my money where my sweet tooth is. I give myself a pass for driving a truck getting 12 mpg of diesel for two reasons. First off, I am a farmer and my vocation demands the utility of that truck. Secondly, my diesel could be instantly converted to alternative biofuels. Have I made such a conversion? No. Would I pay the premium for Biodiesel, maybe. Do I really NEED to drive a 1 ton truck every day in the course of my extensive travels around the farm? NO. Could I actually do my job in a mini cooper? Not likely, but I probably could get away with a Subaru. I am no better than the rest.

Webkinz

I have an idea. I will buy a webkinz, and post the code on my blog, and then watch what happens to the critter on the website. would this sort of thing be fun watch. Wait, this just in: My daughter informs me that only one person can register a new account with a new code. My idea is to set up the account myself, and then put the username and password on my blog, then i will see what kind of shenanigans go on. This was inspired by some other dudes blog where he was talking about this webkinz phenomenon, and he got crazy posts on his site by people looking for codes! Strange, but it sure looks like this subject was driving a lot of traffic to his blog! Ok, more later on this.

My Son The Poet

I rise from bed. I am uninterested in life. I shuffle down to the other end of the house and find my sneakers. I am a sneaker guy. Sometimes that is not such a great deal. I sit down on the hassock to put on said sneakers. I am undoing the knots, looking at the stuff scattered on the kitchen floor from the previous day. Our family usually arrives home a la the Simpsons opening credits, although we insist upon homework being done before the tv and computer come to life. A crayon colored packet lies on the hardwood floor, a lonely reminder of the hours and days the kids spend working at school. This packet is entitled "words with W's", and it is apparently a booklet of poems the children in the first grade have written to describe who, what, where, when and why. My youngest is in this group of first graders, a solid member of the team, outstanding and individual. I leaf through the pages, searching for his poem, the rest of them are a sea of trite cliche that I pay little attention to. My dog this and my dog that, nothing original. I find my boys poem and I am not disappointed:

Buddha
doing disco
at night
in Nepal
because he does it secretly.


This is genius, and it also demonstrates my spiritual leanings so well. When was the last time you saw Jesus doing disco.

A worthy day to get out of bed (I suppose)

Today I will be attending a Fred Pryor seminar, to enhance my already well honed supervisory skills. The seminar, entitled "Dealing With Difficult People" promises to illuminate and educated my mind on a persistent hardship in my life. Every day is the same, I awake before dawn with that familiar sinking feeling: Oh shit, I have to deal with "those" guys today. My job entails outlining work for a group who, in varying degrees, have done the same or similar jobs for a longer period than I have roamed the planet with descended testicles. How do I motivate and inspire people who find the greatest pleasure in breaking my aforementioned external reproductive organs? In the interest of fairness, they are not all the same sort of difficult, and some bear a great deal more malice than others. Some are just stuck in their own quagmires of mental dullness, emotional stagnation and physical roundness. The latter, the more rotund, suffer from what we call "fat aggression" or "fitness envy". There exists a great deal of intolerance, especially toward me, as I am thinner, smarter and better looking then they. To make matters worse, some assume that I am wealthy beyond measure, but this would be a mistake. I am not starving, but I do not posses unimaginable fortune the way they imagine. So this fact only makes it a full house, my hand stacked against theirs; perceived wealth, good looks, brains, authority over their lives, and a beautiful wife. Wow, I think I might hate me too. "Check the ego on that guy" I would say, while slashing my bald tires. Wait, why would a rich guy drive around on these slicks? Maybe I was wrong about him...
Alright, now I am confused about how I feel about myself, never mind anyone else. I am off to a well appointed meeting room in a Holiday Inn to learn how to deal with difficult people. I hope there are some mirrors available.

Latent Heat of Fusion

Last night was a "frost night" on the bogs. The tiny buds have swollen and begun the process of elongation, indicating a tolerance just below 30 degrees Fahrenheit. New Bedford had a record low temp of 34, while the bogs got down to around 21. Brrr. So what is a lonely cranberry farmer to do in the night as he watches the mercury (actually it is colored mineral spirits in todays orchard thermometers) dip towards damaging degrees? It is all in the magic of water. Ah yes, the mysterious and wonderful properties of our abundant water resource. We start the irrigation pumps, and begin the process of building a nice coat of ice on our little vines. It seems ironic, I know, but it works quite well. Many farmers use this technique to protect spring plants from unexpected cold snaps, yet some do not understand why exactly. I saw on strawberry grower profess the ice was an insulating layer. I beg to differ! The protection comes from the water changing its state from liquid to solid. This process gives off what is referred to as the latent heat of fusion, as water changes from a higher energy state to a lower one, latent heat is released, and the temperature should not dip below 32. Now the only trick for the cold, damp grower is to ensure that pump continues to run through the night, because if the water is shut off, then the process will stop and temperatures will drop back towards the critical tolerance. The greater danger is a breeze picking up, and moving across the ice surface, potentially evaporating the precious ice. That can have dire consequences, as this would be an instant hop back up two states, having the reverse effect of fusion, thus robbing our farmers precious plants of their hard earned heat. Alas, it is a long night we have survived again, always followed by beautiful high pressure days. Until next time, keep drinking our tart gift to the juice aisle!

Bogged Down

I am fucking stuck. Everything is a mess, and I can't seem to get out of my own way. I am a writer who is farming cranberries for a living, only because that is what I thought I was supposed to do. My great-great grandfather was a farmer in Hyannis, MA. He found the ultimate specialty crop in the great American cranberry, and I continue the cause four generations later. They say any business is lucky to survive the second generation, so by that standard we have exceeded all expectations. The problem is not the long term sustainability of the diminutive vaccinum macrocarpon, alas the problem is me. I have lost all interest in what I do, the thrill is gone. I guess I grew up with a romantic notion of sliding easily into the helm of the business, sailing off to a life of privilege and ease. Who knew I would get bored and frustrated long before the captains chair was earned? I am now trapped by financial security, attachment to material goods, a life of cushions. My greatest problems lie in the ease with which I pass through life. I was reading a description of the Myers-Briggs personality type INFP, my personality type, and the danger zone for my type is a life blessed with money or good looks. How about ego? It didn't mention that, but I have a feeling that doesn't help much either. So I am a writer who does not write, who cannot get beyond the first paragraph without getting distracted or bored. I have zero follow through, and very little interest in anything at this point in my life, aside from my usual morose narcissism. Too bad I would never consider offing myself, it would probably be better than existing like this.

So who has the "Hemi" after all?

Cranberry bogs are a fussy sort of place, requiring a great deal of attention, yet resent overt meddling. The bountiful harvest must be coerced gently, not forced. The case of irrigation, for instance, must be approached carefully. The bog, a native wetland environment, does not want to take its weekly allowance of water in one or two large gulps. Just as you or me don’t want our weekly recommended diet of precious life sustaining water in few, large doses. We may drown in that much water, and this is precisely what happens to our diminutive cranberry plants when too much water is forced on them at once. The more intensive, daily drink is what our vines prefer, particularly during the peak of the growing season. This July appetite must be fulfilled a little bit at a time, spoon feeding so as not to drown our productive little friends. If the root systems become waterlogged, our soils become instantly unproductive, lacking the proper soil solution, and precious oxygen to enable the life sustaining cat ion exchange. This exchange of plant nutrients and H20 are essential to the productivity of our farm. This effort requires constant vigilance on the part of the farmer, me. This also requires many early morning starts, heading out of my quaint little nest, to water my bogs before the sun comes up. This is important for many reasons, reasons I will perhaps extrapolate on later, but suffice it to say, I need to leave early. This early departure has come as a disappointment to my neighbors, apparently due to my choice of a more ruggedized transport. My truck is the kindred spirit to the FedEx truck, or the UPS van, and as such, has a rattling diesel under the hood. This unfortunate side effect of my choice of vehicle was unforeseen to me at the time of its purchase. I simply stated, to the earnest salesman, that I was one of the few people to cross that dealerships threshold, who in fact needed a four wheel drive vehicle. Further, not any 4WD would suffice. I would require the service to of a truck that could withstand the abuses that are accompanied by my adventurous bog lifestyle. I was directed to what is now my trusty steed, the F-350 Lariat sporting the newly designed 6.0 liter diesel. This is indeed a truck that will go the distance, regardless of hard riding, being put away wet, etc. Particularly, this diesel engine, and diesels in general, are purported to have more longevity than their gasoline counterparts. This was part of the appeal, as I was definitely not going to be allowed, by my marital partner, to purchase another truck anytime too soon. This fact was especially true, were said truck to cost in excess of $45 grand. Herein lays the rub. My “friendly” neighbor informed me, while smiling earnestly, that I was her “new alarm clock”. Hmmm.? “You are my alarm clock when you drive by at 5:30.” She accused me of having a Hemi. I was quick to fill her in on the finer points of difference between a Ford and a Dodge, not to mention the fact that a diesel and a hemi are two entirely different animals. That is the point at which her husband interjected “It sounds like the Fedex truck.” Ok, now I’m getting the point. In spite of this being an apparently friendly exchange, there is venom just below the surface. I never seem to get the poisonous message till it is all over. These people are pissed that I am driving out of the neighborhood at O-Dark-Thirty O’clock in the morning, yet they don’t have the stones to be up front about it. Instead she intimates that we sometimes trade vehicles, my wife and I, as if we ought to take such a thing as a suggestion. Wow, isn’t life grand. Welcome to America, home of the free, land of liberty. If you don’t like the sound of my truck, I guess you better move.

Alton Brown Rules

I am a huge fan of "Good Eats", Alton Brown's Food Network cooking show. Actually, to call it a cooking show does it no justice. His show is really cooking meets chemistry and physics at the molecular level. This geeked out stuff is really up my alley. What is the difference between baking soda and baking powder? What does the protein from an egg actually do for any given recipe? These questions and much more will be answered by any given episode of "Good Eats". The protein that holds all these cool facts together in the form of entertainment is the food. The act of cooking and sharing food with my family is, at times, magic. Granted, it is often rote and hurried, but having spent many thousands of hard inherited dollars on a new kitchen, I am determined to make time spent in said kitchen have some meaning. Why not, after all? Our life is full of time consuming things. These activities, for the most part, take us away from one another. When the time we do have together lacks quality, for one reason or another, I really feel motivated to make something count. If the rest of my house weren’t such a shithole, I would invite more people to break bread with us, but alas, I am ashamed of our housekeeping. Getting back to Alton, I heard him on the Bob Edwards show on XMPR. He was being interviewed about his road food show. He pointed out the historical importance of food in the social context of society. We cannot loose it, Alton contends. Well I second that, but I fear it is too late. I think it is lost, but I invite Alton and anyone else to come over for dinner, damn the upswept floor, dirty windows, and piles of laundry. I invite the world to come to my table, and help me become a better human.