Real Economies vs. Fake Economies

There’s a really interesting piece in this morning’s New York Times about the town of Hardwick, Vermont and the Center for Agricultural Economy. Hardwick was, like many small rural towns, emptying out — main street was full of empty buildings, and there was no way to make a living. Then a group of local agricultural entrepreneurs got together, meeting monthly, loaning one another money, figuring out ways to share skills and resources so that they all prosper. Their website says that their goal is programs that:

…will recognize that the 21st century food system balance be tipped towards localization over globalization, locally sustainable food systems over long trade routes, and broadened agricultural diversity and biodiversity over intensified crop production

Local systems, local sustainability, local community — look — hippie values back in action, but making money, and building a local economy. It sent me off to the basement library to pull out Gary Snyder, Wendell Berry and Paul Hawken’s books — maybe its time for a refresher course in the economies of sustainability. In the wisdom of old values like thrift, and soil conservation, and organizations based on community.

What I loved about this article was the timing of it. Here we are in a financial crisis caused by a classic crazy bubble — this time it wasn’t tulips, or Web 1.0, but mortgages. If you give people crazy mortgages that they can’t afford, and then you borrow on margins of 60 and 80 times the ostensible worth of those rotten mortgages, well, then I guess you shouldn’t be that surprised when the whole thing blows up. I’ve been just beside myself with anger at all those snotty guys I grew up with who when you asked what they did said “I do money” and then went on to point out that what they did was of course so arcane and complicated that no one but them could understand it. And then they went off and gambled with all of our money and lost it because they decided to pretend that the essential rules had changed when they hadn’t. And now the rest of us will suffer the very real financial consequences.

So in a week when I’ve mostly been livid — it was such a joy to read about the farmers of Hardwick (where my beloved Patrick spent a couple of years when he went to Sterling College in Craftsbury). What I loved about these farmers and ag entrepreneurs in Vermont was that they rebuilt a town by focusing on what is real — real crops, real compost, real products that they can make out of materials they grow themselves. Real cooperation. They banded together. They found ways to buy one another’s surplus and make more products that they could sell. They put money back into the foundation and into one another. They rebuilt a town. The old fashioned way. The way we’ve all been told for the last couple of decades was obsolete in a global economy. They proved that local and sustainable can work.

Ed Abbey called an economy based on the  concept of endless growth “the economy of the cancer cell” — it seems to me that perhaps, although it’s traumatic and is likely to be very painful, maybe we’re seeing the beginning of the end of that way of thinking. The traders who were making millions and millions of dollars by trading pieces of paper that held no real relationship to anything of actual value have seen their entire industry disappear (perhaps now they’ll have a little more sympathy for all those steelworkers and manufacturing workers who have been through the same thing for the past thirty years). Although I haven’t gone to the website and read the details, the fact that Obama is talking at every turn about green technologies being a sustainable growth sector and a way we can earn/innovate our way out of this crisis is very heartening to me. And his message is resonating. It’s making sense to people waking up from a fever dream of consumerism and cheap oil and bad processed food that only makes them obese and sick.

Suddenly, the old values, the ones that Gary Snyder and Wendell Berry and Paul Hawken have been talking about for years are being proven true. I was talking to one of my dog park friends this morning who is opening a store this winter — he’s going to sell canning equipment and water filters and mills to grind one’s own wheat. He wants to start some classes for people who want to learn to do for themselves those skills of basic sustainability that we’ve handed over for too long to big corporations. This is one of the main reasons I moved here — I wanted to be someplace where people still know how to do things. There are still a lot of old chicken coops in back alleys all over town. There are gardens. There are ranchers raising animals. There are elk and deer and antelope filling freezers every fall. There’s an ethic of sustainability and self-reliance and there’s also a real community. So maybe, like the good people of Hardwick, we can keep one another afloat.

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Everyone’s Downsizing …

I always see a fair number of bikes in town in the summer — it’s pretty flat here, and town isn’t that big, and of course, we’re all locked in our houses for six to nine months a year, so once nice weather hits, there’s a lot of biking and walking. But I’m definitely seeing more bikes this summer — more old bikes that have been pulled out of the garage, more bikes with trailers. The bike shops over in Bozeman report that they’ve been slammed this year by people refitting older bikes. All good.

The other thing I’ve seen in town, that I haven’t seen anyplace else, is that a lot of folks have pulled out their ATVs and are driving them for short haul trips. And motorcycles. And scooters. But there are more ATVs on the streets than I’ve ever seen before. Fine by me — I’d rather have them here on the streets than running me off the trails.

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Rodeo Slack

Independence Day is a three-day event here in Livingston, and the centerpiece is the Livingston Roundup Rodeo. There are so many rodeos in this part of the country over the holiday that they call it “Cowboy Christmas” — most of these riders will do two, three or four rodeos over the weekend chasing the bonanza of prize money available that might just get them through the rest of the season. It’s easier for the rough stock riders (bucking events) to do a lot of rodeos because they don’t have to haul livestock with them — often three or four guys will hire a small plane to hop between Livingston, Red Lodge, Cody, Great Falls. But the folks who ride timed events, team roping, bulldogging, barrel racing, tie-down roping, they have to haul their horses with them, and so, many of the top competitors in the timed events show up in Livingston the day before the rodeo for the Slack Competition.

I have no idea why it’s called the Slack, but it’s my favorite part of the rodeo here. For one thing, it’s really just rodeo people in the audience, and as I said to the nice group of roper guys I wound up sort of sitting with (listening to them bitch about their wives was pretty amusing), it’s the only time I get to really watch without having to explain what the events are, or that the calves will really be all right. None of my friends here really grew up around horses, and none of the people with whom I’m going to the rodeo tonight (to hear our Sophie sing the national anthem) or on the Fourth really follow rodeo at all. To them it’s a strange, and possibly barbaric form of entertainment and a lot of them are really just there for the social scene and the fireworks afterwards.

I’ve written before about how rodeo was a thing that Patrick and I did together, and it’s always difficult to be there without him. I got a little teary sitting up in those bleachers by myself, but after a while, as I wound up surrounded by that group of ropers, as I watched the little kids running up and down the bleachers like Patrick and I did during our childhood at horse shows, as we all watched Trevor Brazil, who is leading the standings for all-around champion this year, sign a hat for one of those kids (a kid whose ears seemed to be the only thing keeping that hat above his eyes), and chat with some of the older guys in the stands, as I sat there and ate my hamburger, and had a drink, and watched a lot of very good roping, and bulldogging and then some barrel racing, well, it felt okay. The last couple of years I’ve gotten too sad, and I’ve had to leave, and it makes me mad because I really like rodeo. I’d still rather not be there by myself, but this was the first year I had a good time. It was an odd good time, but the ropers were nice, and explained to me why they don’t like roping in our arena (something about how there’s not enough room, and when they push the calves out of the chute they tend to drive them over into the corner). It was companionable, and fun, and although the bucking events are spectacular, and exciting to watch in their own right, it was fun to watch the timed events, which take a whole different set of skills while surrounded by folks who don’t just think the timed events are the boring filler between the bucking events, to be surrounded by guys who frankly, would rather be out there in the arena than sitting up here in the stands.

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Unexpected Visitor

 Unexpected Visitor We had an unexpected visitor yesterday — it was early, about seven, and I was making tea when my dogs rushed the back fence, barking. I went out to shush them because it was early, we have neighbors — and who did I see on the far side of my back gate but Jacques!

I let him in and looked down the alley, but there wasn’t any sign of the Mighty Hunter. That was weird. So after I got the three of them to stop barking, I got on the phone. Jacques has been known to go on walkabout every once in a while, and apparently that’s what he’d done. We don’t know if he got following some of the many folks on the levee who had come down to watch the bridge collapse, or what, but somehow he went from the MH’s house on Tenth Street all the way across town to mine on C street — there are some big streets to cross along the way.

I have to admit, he did look, well, hangdog about it all. He sat in my kitchen looking like he’d had a slightly larger adventure than he’d meant to — I knew how he felt. When I was about seven, and Patrick was five (were we really that little? we didn’t feel like we were that little, we felt like perfectly capable people) we were stupendously bored. We lived on a farm then, and we’d been away for much of the summer so we couldn’t find our bikes, and the woods were full of mosquitos, and our parents were busy. So we decided we’d walk to Gigi and Shelley’s farm to play with them. It was always fun there. They had a pool. So we sneaked out the end of the driveway and started walking. It was August. It was hot. What took seven or eight minutes to drive was really far away. We got all the way to the corner where you turned off our road to go over to the one they lived on, probably 3 miles or so, when we gave up. We stuck out our thumbs and decided to hitchhike like the hippies we’d seen on TV (this was the early 70s). Of course, when that big, low-slung American car screeched to a halt we dove into the weeds. Suddenly it all seemed a little scary, especially when a heavy-set black lady came wading into the ditch to retrieve us. What are you two doing out here? she scolded. Where’s your parents? Where do you live? I’m going to give your mother a piece of my mind for letting the two of you out here on the side of this road. Anyone could pick you up. What are you thinking? Patrick and I looked at eachother and I lied. I told her we lived at Gigi and Shelleys. I knew that their mom wouldn’t be as mad at us as ours would be, and maybe we’d get to go swimming. So this nice lady and her son, who was driving, took us to the H’s house. When Mrs. H. came out, she looked at the two of us, in this car with these strangers, who were black (it was not a colorblind society that I grew up in) and sent us into the kitchen. The woman who picked us up just laid into Mrs. H, who was sputtering that she wasn’t our mom, and that yes, she thought we’d made an unwise decision. Mr. H came out as well, and with his famous Australian charm managed to calm this nice, apoplectic woman down. We sat in the kitchen, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, knowing that despite the awe with which Gigi and Shelley were currently looking at us, we were in such big trouble.

That’s sort of how Jacques looked sitting in my kitchen yesterday morning. He was panty. He was a little freaked out. He seeemed very releived to be back inside a yard he knew, with his packmates. The MH left him with me all day as he had a tile job anyhow, and Jacques and I had a long discussion, much like that one in the H’s kitchen 35 years ago, about how he is always welcome at my house, but he has to tell someone where he’s going, and he can’t cross all those big streets by himself.

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Hail and Voting

So, here we are, the last primary in the nation. Although I’ve been an Obama supporter for months, I’ve been lying to the campaign. They (quite rightly) have been encouraging people to vote early, especially since here in Montana you can register any time, including on election day, and you can vote right when you register. The Bozeman Chronicle had a photo on the front page this morning of a line of early voters snaking out the door of the courthouse over there yesterday. But I’ve written on this blog before about how I love to go to the polls and so, although I told the Obama folks that I voted early (so they could move on and call people who really were undecided) I didn’t. I waited until today so I could go to the polls. And it turns out I’m not the only one who likes to go vote in person. My friend Scott McMillion did a piece on the Lehrer News Hour (which I still think of as McNeil-Lehrer) last Friday about how he loves going to the polls here because he sees all the older ladies who knew him when he was a little kid. It’s a great piece about how the town has changed both for the better and for the not so better. You can watch the streaming video here. So, off I went on my bike a while ago to go vote, and although I don’t know all the older ladies, I saw several of my friends, and it felt like a civic event.

 Hail and Voting In garden news, we had a little hail yesterday afternoon, along with several bouts of pelting rain. While the 2 kales (Gallego and Laccinato) seem to be okay, and the chard looks a little battered, and even the broccoli transplants held up fairly well, the Regina di Maggio lettuce didn’t fare so well. I’m giving it a couple of days to see if it will recover, but poor things, they just look beat to death. The spinach is finally coming in, as is the broccoli rabe, and my other oddball favorite from Seeds of Italy, the Rapa da Foglia senza Testa. The description says that this is a turnip green — all I know is that I love it. It’s bitter, without being too bitter, and grows like mad, and is absolutely delicious sauteed with a little olive oil, garlic, and lemon.

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