FoodShed Planet

Up on the Rooftop, Ideas Pause

2009-12-06T06:36:00.050-05:00

So I was standing there on the grass which I never really finished push-reel-mowing back in October (and, by the way, I'm now thinking of not giving up on that). I looked up at the men on my roof ripping asphalt shingles and tossing them onto blue tarps that are over my garden, which now surrounds three sides of my house. I decided it would be best to hunker down in my office and work on writing assignments so that I wouldn't see what was going on, but, curiosity getting the better of me, I slipped out when the crew broke for lunch and snapped this photo of the main part of my vegetable garden:

It had taken me about two months to get to this point. It started with knowledge that a hale storm had damaged many roofs in my neighborhood. I remembered, vaguely, my younger daughter turning some shingles she "found" into an art project. I should have questioned things then, but chose denial (which, by the way, is not always a bad strategy--my assessment of denial is that it does make about 60 percent of things go away. The other 40%, however, do get worse, unfortunately. So the to-do list is shorter, but more extreme. You decide.)

Then, my neighbor wanted a "cool roof" (which is a roof light in color intended to reflect more heat and thereby be more energy-efficient), which caused a whole brouhaha in the 'hood because I am one of the 60 million people in the United States who live in a neighborhood with a long list of covenants. Anyway, at least we did the research and it turns out that light roofs on our type of houses in our climate would streak and become unsightly with algae within two years, so the neighborhood board rejected it.

The materials are just not there yet in performance capability, and frankly, that is a real problem ( or, shall we say, opportunity for innovative businesses to address--Ray Anderson could do it--yes, I finished his excellent new book and marked up almost every page--Ray says, about the eco-turnaround of Interface--"If we can do it, anybody can. And if anybody can, everybody can.").

I am not an advocate of blindly recommending eco-options with no concern to aesthetics, cost, performance, or other qualities that are part of a thorough decision-making process. I vote with my dollar for things that work, and I challenge Big or Small Business to create them. (Here is a brand new article by Jared Diamond about how Big Business can save the earth.)

However, this opened the door to question all our non-environmentally-friendly restrictions--from solar just on the back side of the house to not allowing porous pavement in the driveway to no clothelines to that $2000 we spend every year to plant chemical-laden annuals at the front entrance, and more. The neighborhood association board prepared and sent out a survey, and almost half the neighbors responded (a shockingly high response, if you ask me, especially considering that this was over the long Thanksgiving holiday).

Anyway, so it turns out, no surprise, that the majority of my neighbors want to keep the restrictions we have. I had suggested at least researching these issues, but when my attempts to start a Sustainability Advisory Group in my neighborhood did not result in a groundswell of support, I stepped away since I am not a believer of "planting tomatoes in April" but rather in May, when the ground is ready for them, and so it is with groups going green. The time must be ripe, or else it's all uphill, filled with acrimonious for-and-against arguments often based on emotion and preconceptions rather than research and reason. I believe this eco-stuff is the fun stuff, not the stuff to be fighting over. At least that's the kind of environment in which I'm choosing to participate.

What was a surprise, however, was that a full 35% of my neighbors did support change. This is about 34% more than I would have predicted! Also, 60% want the neighborhood board to take an active role in encouraging more recycling efforts (about 32% of my neighbors participate in the curbside recycling program currently, and my Sustainability Commission efforts in 2010 will involve setting up electronics and other additional recycling events and systems).

So, back to the roof. I tried to get the asphalt shingles recycled. I thought that, at least, would be good. Some ungodly number of tons of shingles are torn off and sent to landfills every year. The ones that are recycled are turned into numerous materials, including an aggregate that can be used to fill potholes. I pitched my city on the idea of using the aggregate made from the very roofs of our citizens to fill the potholes around town. A nice closed loop sustainability story. My sustainability liaison at City Hall loved it, even suggesting the City encourage recycling the shingles when issuing roof replacement permits, and we also agreed it might qualify for innovation points on the Atlanta Regional Commission Green Community Certification checklist (we are ending the year with over 100 points towards the 175 points needed for the bronze level, by the way, and I anticipate us achieving that by mid-2010).

But then I went crazy finding a recycler. After much research that involved the top eco-people in the state, here was the clincher email:

Unfortunately, there are currently no takers for old shingles because there's a glut due to hail storms. Both the C.W. Matthews Co. and Dykes Construction & Paving have used shingles in their asphalt in the past. They're now over-supplied and road paving is down due to the economy. The State Dept. of Transportation mandates that only 100 lbs of shingles may be used in 2,000 lbs of asphalt. To the best of my knowledge there are no commercial boilers in GA permitted to combust old shingles. Regrettably the only option is a landfill.

So, off to the landfill it all went.

I felt sick about this, really sick. I reached out to my friend, Judy, who works at arguably one of the most sustainable places in the United States, if not the world, and she told me that sometimes no matter how hard we try, it just doesn't work out and all we can do is our best for today.

And so, as I stood there watching the crew teeter on the top of my roof and I thought about how risky that was, I realized how risky it was, as well, to ask questions. To involve neighbors when it would be easier and far more private to just abide by the status quo. And to commit to a joy-based journey, no matter how counterintuitive that might sound when the pursuit involves a path of change.

Then, just a couple nights ago, I brought my kids to City Hall to see a presentation by students from the Georgia Tech School of Architecture about their vision for redevelopment of our city center. I wanted my children to see that school projects could have real-world implications. Most of our city leaders were at the meeting, listening intently. Here is the presentation. If you haven't seen the United States obesity data as it has changed over the last twenty years, that alone is worth a look.

My daughters both sat in the front row, even though I was eight rows back, and they took copious notes that we discussed at dinner afterwards. When we realized that parts of our city could very well be completely different in 20 years, and how my kids will be able to show their children the changes in which they were personally involved, my older daughter said, "Mom, we have to take lots of pictures so they can see what it was like."

The reality of impending change had truly hit her. The likelihood that future generations would be affected by our actions today seemed suddenly tangible. For me, visions of roads that connected and a vibrant local business scene (where now there are mostly vacant storefronts) and extensive urban agriculture danced in my head like sugarplums all night.

As we were driving down the main road that leads to my neighborhood (with all its new dark roofs), we passed:

* Solar-powered speed signs now on the side of the road
* Crosswalk signs where there weren't ones before

* LED lights in more than half the traffic lights

* FlexFuel police cars

* A new (albeit, short) bike lane

* And an abundant school garden (which was started in mid-September) where children just harvested and made a delicious kale salad when most of them had never even tasted kale before.

My older daughter was watching the data displayed in my Prius. (And, by the way, complete strangers come up to me and say things like, "How do you like that car?" When I say I do, they reply, "You know it takes more energy to make that car than it does to make a Hummer?" and then they walk away. Listen, I know it's not perfect, but I love the feedback data that helps me teach my kids. I love that I am growing a garden in a box in the hatchback. I love that it doesn't idle. I love that I get 50 gallons to the mile, and it costs me $40 a month in gas. I love that it's bright red, not some bland maroon like that horrid minivan I used to drive.)

She said, "How does the battery in this car recharge?"

I answered, "It regenerates when you break."

Pause.

And then I added, "Sort of like people."

And that got me thinking. It's time to break. To regenerate. It's time to read and ride my bike and bake cookies and internalize everything that has happened this year, here on our FoodShed Planet. It's time to prepare for the risks I know I need to take in 2010 in order to stand on the metaphorical roof and shout out with joy about the boundless potential and power of the creative spirit to change the world, even just a little bit.

I'm not sure if, up on the rooftop, reindeers paws really alight, but I like to believe they do. I do know, for sure, that up on my rooftop, ideas paused and caused me to stop and think and consider my actions. And now I need to assess the coming risks of a brand new year, and see how I can best step firmly forward.

And so I offer my wish to you: May your harvests of happiness, peace and progress toward a more sustainable future, close to home and around the world, be abundant this holiday season. And may you find sure footing on your own rooftop of possibility.

See you on January 3.

A Volley Happening Between Mother and Daughter in the Place We Call Home

2009-11-29T06:42:00.011-05:00

After years now of garden expansion, my backyard lawn slipping away with each new bed and border planted, lacrosse sticks have suddenly entered my home, a brand new (to us), out-of-left-field pursuit in which my older daughter is now participating. And so it was that I found myself out there among the rosemary and broccoli rabe, the lemon balm and lacinato kale, tossing a small, heavy, neon pink ball from my netted stick head to hers as far away as she could stand without falling into the compost pile.

The stillness of the late afternoon and the golden hue of the sky, the light starting to dim, was punctuated by the gentle thwump of the ball passing, a swishing cradle action holding it in place, a volley happening between mother and daughter at an age when we can't always talk, although we try. With each ball drop, I scooped up more of the fragrance of what we are all about, of the land which we have nurtured, of the very essence of our souls, in the place we call home. Oregano. French tarragon. Lemon thyme. Chives. Every smell a shared memory.

As the light faded too much for my aging eyes, and the sticks and ball got put away, although there is not yet any official "away" for these new houseguests in our lives, my daughter and I smiled and said that was fun and let's do it again another day. And as she went back to her life, her friends, her thoughts, and I went back to mine, I noticed that my hands smelled of cilantro.

2020 Vision (or What Happened When I Read About Ray Anderson's Big, Hairy Audacious Goals)

2009-11-22T05:21:00.016-05:00

So I'm walking around with a book tucked under my arm. Staying up late reading it. And eschewing wheelbarrow-pushing for reading on a bench at the community garden.

"What are you reading that's so riveting?" someone asked me, prying my nose out of the book. No, it isn't some pot boiler mystery, and if this stranger knew me at all, he'd know that. I haven't picked up fiction in something like four years.

It's Confessions of a Radical Industrialist, by Ray Anderson, founder and CEO of the Atlanta-based company Interface, which is arguably the most sustainable corporation on the planet. Just as Anderson says he felt like he had gotten a spear in the chest after he finished reading Paul Hawken's book The Ecology of Commerce, and then went on to change his business, his life and the world, I feel like I, too, am being pointed in a more clear direction.

Big, hairy, audacious goals. That's what Anderson calls them. Big, hairy, audacious goals. That's how he eventually came up with seven goals of what he calls Mount Sustainability. But more on that another time. This post isn't about Interface. It's about how reading just the first 100 pages of this book snapped my 2020 Vision for The Little City That Could into focus. As chairperson of the Sustainability Commission for the newest city in the United States (which celebrates its one-year anniversary on December 1!), I propose this work-in-progress:

The 2020 Vision for the City of Dunwoody, GA (and, perhaps, you can adapt this for your city, too)

By the Year 2020:

* The City of Dunwoody will be carbon neutral, and will have the largest Zero Waste Zone in the United States.

* The City of Dunwoody will have a LEED Platinum (or comparable)-certified City Hall, and the highest number of LEED (or comparable)-certified buildings in the Southeastern United States.

* Every major artery in the City of Dunwoody will be a Complete Street.

* Every neighborhood in the City of Dunwoody will have a WalkScore of at least 75.

* The City of Dunwoody will have food-producing, usable green space within a half mile of every residence and business.

* The City of Dunwoody will have the largest number of locally-owned-and-operated businesses in the Southeastern United States.

* Every neighborhood lake in the City of Dunwoody will be a toxin-free, food-producing wildlife habitat.

* Every school in the City of Dunwoody, from preschool to college, will have a school garden, a Safe Routes to School program, and a No Idling program.

* No citizen in the City of Dunwoody will be food-insecure.

* The City of Dunwoody will be a designated Tree City USA, Bicycle-Friendly Community, and Atlanta Regional Commission Gold-Level Green Community.

Okay, fine. But how do we get there? Well, Anderson quotes the Scottish mountaineer William Hutchinson Murray (who borrowed from Goethe, including the quote that has hung in my office for the last 14 years):

Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.

And so, I do not have a spear in my heart. I have a trowel in my hand. And I point it forward. To 2020. I commit to providing the plan that makes this possible.

Maybe We Could Do This (or How the World Changed When We Learned How to Inoculate a Shitake Log)

2009-11-15T06:44:00.027-05:00

So I was at an all-day mushroom growing class at Gaia Gardens, an Atlanta urban farm, yesterday, when I had the feeling I have at most of these classes at one point or another.

Not for me.

When I attended a beekeeping class at the Atlanta Botanical Garden, it happened right around the time when the instructor talked about what it felt like to get bee stings on your eyelids. Yesterday, at the mushroom growing class, I started glossing over when Daniel Parson mentioned the word "chainsaw." Much detail followed, regarding the recommended diameter of the white oak and sweet gum trees for the optimal inoculated shitake logs. Phrases such as "spores are liberated," "spawn run" and "colonization of the substrate" started to fly over my head, and the whole idea of running out to Home Depot to get a 2500 rpm drill that would work well with a specialized high speed shitake drill bit had become nothing more than theory at this point.

I turned to Rebecca, the chair of the Dunwoody Community Garden (and yes, we have a space behind the cistern in mind for the "mushroom oepration"), and whispered, "The oyster mushrooms will be easier, I think."

And then, of course, they weren't. I had been hoping I could repurpose the waste stream from local coffee shops to use coffee grounds for the oyster mushrooms in my garage or that little shed in my yard, the way these Berkeley grad students do on a much bigger scale.

But the oyster mushroom part of the lecture involved phrases such as this big red-light one, "make sure you keep them away from wood because they will eat your house." Gosh, is it really necessary to tell you any of the others?

So we had pretty much ruled the mushroom growing thing out, until we went out past the community garden, the stand of blueberry bushes, the bees, the bags of leaves being saved for compost, and the rows of cover crops and lettuces at the urban farm part of the land to where we were going to inoculate shitake logs and oyster mushroom substrate (a bale of wheat straw was practically boiling in a huge wire strainer in a garbage can, if you can picture this) to bring home.

Daniel said that the process for inoculating the shitake logs--drilling the holes, inserting the spawn, and applying hot wax to seal--was best done as an assembly line but that he found at these classes that everyone likes to do their very own log, so he had set it up that way.

This is when things took an interesting turn.

Our motley group of 10 (the other ten were currently tossing hot hay to cool it and then crumbling oyster spawn to add to it) somehow, without words, proceeded to completely reject this notion. Not one person grabbed a log to claim it. No one hugged a drilled log close to his or her heart, following it through to solitary completion of the process. People drilled when (and if) they wanted to. People took turns stabbing the spawn tool in a coffee can of spawn (which looks like crumbly compost, sort of) and then inserting it in the holes (this is shockingly fun, by the way), and dipping the round puff in the melted wax and rubbing it over the holes in completion.

The logs stacked up, no one seemed to care if they got the fat one or the long one or the one they had drilled.

I stood back, looked, and listened for a minute. At all the heads leaned in together. At the conversations among strangers. The laughter. The smiles. The sharing of tools and tender patience. And I looked at Rebecca, who couldn't believe she had changed so much in the last few months that she was actually attending a mushroom growing class, as she donned goggles and grabbed that drill.

And we both knew.

This is something good.

And we both went from "no way" to "how can we do it?" And the world changed, right then, right there.

Maybe we could work with the City Arborist or the arborist who provides our free wood chips to get the logs.

Maybe Tom and Rick and Bob, who love to build, could help with the equipment and the drilling.

Maybe we could get a crock pot at Good Will for the wax, or maybe someone has a hot plate and an old pot they wouldn't mind us using.

Electricity? Maybe we could figure that out . . .

Maybe, maybe, maybe . . .

I asked Daniel how much it would cost. 50 logs. Yes, that's a good, solid number that we could do. How much would it cost to do 50 logs? He estimated that, even with the one-time purchase of two of those spawn inoculators and the high speed shitake drill bit, plus the cost of the spawn and wax, it would cost about a buck or two per log. And, guess what, each 40" log is estimated to produce approximately 5 pounds of shitakes, which have a retail value of up to about 20 bucks a pound.

Hmmm.

Maybe we could do this.

A Ton of Food, Green Globe, Zero Waste, and Terry Cunningham at the Finish Line of the New York City Marathon

2009-11-08T06:18:00.017-05:00

So I'm outside raking leaves yesterday, or as us gardeners like to call them, "carbon," and I notice the side of my house and realize I haven't given you the final update. The lawn. Back in August, when I saw my neighbor getting trees cut down and arranged for the chipped wood to be left at my house, I ended up with a mega-pile that I then proceeded to spread everywhere, including making a web of paths on the side of my house, effectively reducing the lawn there by about 40%.

A Ton of Food

You see, I have two goals:

* One, to reduce my lawn and frankly, to get out of that manual push-reel lawn mowing chore--I hated it this year. (There, I said it.)

* And, two, to grow literally a ton of food (I think I'm just excited that I'm finally able to remember that this means two thousand pounds.)

I grew a grand total of just over 100 pounds of food this entire year. For a value of, let's say, $5 per pound (organic greens run more per pound, but that's the going rate for organic heirloom tomatoes here, so I'm going with it and am probably underestimating), that means I grew $500 worth of organic, hyper-local food this year. I spent probably, I don't know, let's say $150, although that seems high to me (but I do seem to always be tinkering at that Farmer D store) (oh, and if you go to that link, I wrote the School Gardens Guide! My friend, Mike, with whom I took that farm course back in the spring, designed it).

Anyway, so I've added a handful of beds to the side of the house (they are pictured above with a winter cover crop on them), and I removed an overgrown, bird-planted privet bush thing that was using up too much space, causing allergic reactions and blocking the sun, so I have even more grow space there.

I also removed a dozen or so overgrown, mite-infested juniper bushes from the back by the hammock and have started putting in a small fruit orchard there. It's also where I will probably put the inoculated shitake log I get next week at the small-scale production mushroom growing class I'm taking at Gaia Gardens, a 5-acre urban farm where I cornered farmer Daniel Parson one day in the broccoli. (I know that 5 Seasons Brewing Company brings their spent grain there, too, so I'm curious to see how they handle it to see if there's anything we can do differently at our community garden with it.)

I'm also eyeing another batch of juniper bushes with the same thought in mind, and the other side of my house is just about next in line. Oh, I also expanded the mailbox garden and ran a border of wood chips up the driveway. I have visions of lavender and other herbs, interspersed with heirloom annual crops, for a sort of English garden effect (but adjusted for our climate, of course). All good, and pretty already, faster than I expected.

What is possible, I wonder? How much food (including culinary and medicinal herbs) could I really grow here? Yes, yes, I know about Path to Freedom. I attended their workshop at the Georgia Organics conference. I think of their moderate slice of property every time I try to imagine what on earth the little piece of land for which I serve as steward might become.

As a result of all this change on the side of my house, I've moved my garbage can to the backyard (since I don't have that privet to hide it behind it anymore). Since I've been on this waste-reduction kick, I only put it out once a week, and now that it's in the back, I'm even forgetting to do that. So I realized it had been nine days recently, and I was still at one not-full garbage can. Considering the average American adds 4.6 pounds of material to the landfill every single day, I was curious what my family of four would be adding in nine days. How much less than the average 165.6 pounds did we produce? The grand total? 47 pounds. About a pound and a quarter per person per day. Now, I know that many of you out there are doing much, much better than this, but this is very exciting news to me, and it makes me ask that question that I love so much--what is possible?

Green Globe and Zero Waste

At about this same time, I got to talking yet again with Holly Elmore, who is the founder and director of the Green Foodservice Alliance. She helped establish the Zero Waste Zone in downtown Atlanta (here is Holly's blog), and now Zero Waste Zones have been formed in a few other parts of Atlanta as well.

Per Holly's suggestion, I met with the Green Team of the Crowne Plaza Ravinia last week (which was started by a woman passionate about sustainability named Elisaveta Dimova, who moved to the United States from Bulgaria about ten years ago). This hotel is right here in the City of Dunwoody. We discussed the sustainability initiatives that they practice that have enabled that hotel to become the first hotel in the state of Georgia to receive Green Globe certification. And yes, they compost their foodservice green waste. They are, as far as I'm concerned, the stake in the ground for a Zero Waste Zone for the City of Dunwoody, although that hasn't been officially designated (yet!). And wouldn't it be nice to package and brand that finished black gold as City of Dunwoody compost and sell it to businesses and individuals, with a percentage of proceeds going to school and community gardens?

Terry Cunningham at the Finish Line of the NYC Marathon!

What is possible? What is possible? What is possible?

This question ran through my head like a mantra this week. And then just as things tend to happen, I got an email from my old boss at Turner Broadcasting (and good friend across miles and years), Terry Cunningham, who moved to Bozeman, Montana about 15 years ago. Terry writes for several publications, and he is one of my favorite writers ever. Really. The man should be much more famous than he is. (Agents, take note.)

Anyway, while "what is possible?" has been running through my mind, Terry had been running through the five boroughs of New York City! Yes, this former smoker whose idea of a workout was riding a golf cart somehow managed to run the New York City marathon! Here is the article he wrote just prior to running it. My favorite lines are the ones about his running style being "loitering," his body shape being "snacker," and his unique ability to come in second-to-last in every race he has run requiring a rare combination of sloth and cunning.

I emailed Terry to find out exactly what happened at the race. Here is what he said:

The Marathon was a blast! It was an overwhelming experience and I still have a goofy ear-to-ear grin on my face. My time (4:31:25) was better than I had anticipated. It’s not “fast” by any stretch, but for me, it was a pleasant surprise. I used a good training program I found online and training at 4,750 feet probably helped, but it’s the NYC crowds that pull you through. When I realized at mile 21 that I was actually going to finish and have a better time than my training runs would indicate, it was quite a relief. I’m a slow guy, but I’m a happy slow guy. For the record, I think I finished in 26,187th place, and there were 43,700 finishers.

And, for the record? Terry came in second-to-last out of the three runners from Bozeman.

So, what is possible? A ton of food is possible. The City of Dunwoody participating in a Zero Waste Zone is possible. And Terry Cunningham at the finish line of the New York City marathon is possible. In my book (which has yet to be published, by the way. Hey, agents, how about a two-author deal? Oh, and add Terry's and my friend, Brad, okay?), that means just about anything is.

DeKalb County, Georgia, USA, Joins Other School Districts Nationwide That Are Restoring Children's Right to Recess

2009-11-03T13:22:00.023-05:00

BREAKING NEWS

ATLANTA, GA--
The DeKalb County Board of Education voted last night in favor of mandatory, daily unstructured recess of at least 15 minutes, preferably outdoors, that cannot be taken away for any reason, for all students in grades K-5 in DeKalb County public schools. It also stipulated that recess would be at the principal's discretion for all students in grades 6-8.

The DeKalb County School System [DCSS] is a metropolitan Atlanta public school system located in the second largest county in the state of Georgia. DeKalb County, one of the most culturally diverse counties in the nation, has a student enrollment of approximately 100,000 students in 153 schools and centers, according to the DCSS website.

For those of you not in the United States or who think that 15 minutes is so short it's a joke, please note that year after year, more and more children in the United States get absolutely no recess at all, or they have it taken away as a punishment or for other reasons. The pressures and demands of No Child Left Behind legislation have resulted in an obsessive fixation with "teaching to the test." In the meantime, childhood obesity is skyrocketing, behavior issues are through the roof, and our kids are increasingly disconnected from fresh air and from the developmental value of unstructured play. Parents nationwide have been advocating for the return of recess, and I am proud to have been just one of the many, many voices that supported this effort.

In addition to the many benefits of unstructured outdoor play, I believe it to be a critical building block of environmental stewardship.

Here is a post with questions you can ask and actions you can take, plus some helpful links for those of you who are advocating for recess in your school districts.

Opening Windows

2009-11-01T05:08:00.025-05:00

This is Dr. Flagler. She teaches inner-city children with emotional and behavioral development issues. I met her this week because her window was the only one open and I was standing outside it.

FYI, here's what that little pink note on the window says:

I was standing outside it because I was touring the new native wildlife habitat that sustainable landscape designer Lindsey Mann created at an impressive middle school (where the morning announcements end with the song "Ain't No Stoppin' Up Now"), surrounded by homes that are boarded up or in desperate need of repair. Here are two houses directly across the street from where I was standing:

Dr. Flagler leaned out the school window to thank Lindsey for what she had done. I asked her if she has always been opening her window, and she said no, that it's just since the wildlife habitat went in. She mentioned that she takes her students out there for lunch. She suggested that she and her students add some fish to the little pond. She offered to be the caretaker of the pond motor, which Lindsey had been hesitant to add unless someone was going to care for it. She said what Lindsey had done had made a difference.

Here's what Lindsey had done (two views):

Lindsey and I sat and talked for a long time. She showed me the river oats and the lavender and the other native and edible ecosystem-appropriate plants she had chosen for this space, plants that will fill in and flourish in the next few years to create a haven for butterflies and birds, and for children. Here is the plan:

That night, at dinner at home, I showed the photos of the houses to my daughters. My younger one commented, "Okay, well, they don't look so great now, but they certainly have potential."

Potential.

I thought of Dr. Flagler and the four middle-school boys whom she introduced to us, who poked their heads out the window, too, and waved. Who asked Lindsey if she was the one who wore the hat whom they had seen before. Who smiled big and broad when talking about the serene, green space in front of them. Who may have lived in one of those houses, or in the apartments across the litter-strewn field.

I thought of windows that should not be open, yet are. I thought of what would happen if everyone, everywhere had a space like this to call his or her own.

I asked Lindsey if I could see more of her work. I want to see what sustainably designed landscapes can do to change the world. One child. One teacher. One open window at a time.

We're going to visit proposed urban farm locations for the United Methodist Children's Home and the City of Decatur this week. Stay tuned!

And keep opening windows.

"I Don't Supervise, Pattie. I Free People."

2009-10-25T05:02:00.027-04:00

So, I have to be honest with you, there's some strife in the community garden. Power. Personalities. Pace. Even the possibility that grown-ups who have agreed to the mission and methods of this organic garden are sneaking in petroleum-based fertilizers, which, of course, would mean, if true, we could no longer assure those particular plots as organic to future gardeners. I go out to the fifteen beds of my kitchen garden--a full quarter the size of the community garden--and revel in the peace and privacy of it. It's like a community garden without people. Sort of heavenly, isn't it?

Or is it?

I thought maybe my work was done at the community garden, that I'm a start-up person, that it was time to move on and start the next thing, to leave the bickering to others. But considering the garden has only been open two months (if you can believe it), that seems awfully premature, don't you think? How can I help my community take positive steps forward if I don't even stay engaged? How can I help myself grow and change if I don't allow the lessons of this journey to reveal themselves to me? How can I deny myself the opportunity of wrestling through the challenges? How can I distance myself from something I have grown to love?

And so, it has been a whirlwind week of trying to focus on positive intention, compassion, and generosity. It has involved reading, talking, inspirational movie-watching (thanks, Angela), yoga, walking, and lots and lots of letting go. It has involved digging in my garden and digging deep in my soul. It has involved moments of just showing up when that was the most I could offer. And it has involved stepping back, especially when my teenage daughter said to me, "Wow, Mom, when did your life become such a soap opera?" She knows I don't live this way, with out-of-control interpersonal drama. I left that long ago when I left my corporate jobs. After 14 years of running my own business, I have gotten used to my solitary, entrepreneurial ways of working. This whole group-decision-making process is contradictory to my basic operating style, and frankly, is hard for me.

The moment of truth came the other day, unexpectedly, as truth tends to do. I had asked several garden members to join Team Beer Compost, to help toss those spent grains from the brewery with wood chips and leaves so that others on the garden board of directors didn't need to worry about it. Several said immediate yeses, and I planned on meeting one of them today. Yet a few days ago, we ran into each other in the garden and got to talking. He embraced the challenge so fully that I asked him, "So will you supervise this project?"

He answered me immediately, without even thinking.

"I don't supervise, Pattie," he stated. "I free people."

I free people.

I free people.

The words punctured the air. Honestly, I couldn't speak.

And so, of course, I've been rolling those words around in my head ever since, and wondering:

How do I find a way to work within the ever-growing list of rules and policies and procedures that are developing around this garden to help free people, and in doing so, to free myself?

Yesterday, I stopped by a community garden in a nearby city and was surprised to find a lock on the gate where there hadn't been one before. My research has shown that community gardens with locks on them actually experience increased vandalism than those without. Mike, if you're reading this, can you shed some light on why that garden now has a lock? Is it a problem that has yet to rear its head at ours, but for which I need to mentally prepare?

Or is your just-a-few-months-older-than-ours garden experiencing a similar lock-down on letting go and trusting the journey, too?

How can we free people to achieve the seemingly impossible? How can we let go and soar? Does the lack of a strong, oppressive thumb inevitably lead to anarchy? Or could it, perhaps, lead to something far more beautiful than we can currently imagine?

(P.S. The photo at the top is not from our community garden. It is from the location we had been previously considering for the garden, a place still under lock and key.)

You Trust That One Day You Will Harvest Fruit

2009-10-18T06:08:00.023-04:00

Too many, too many, too many commitments this week. Three evening meetings that left this morning person wanting to stick pins in my eyes and beg for mercy. Too busy to attend the strawberry growing class at Farmer D's. And too darn sick of our endless rain to connect long enough and well enough with either of the gardens (my home one and the community garden).

On my way to pick up my Riverview Farms CSA box mid-week, I stopped by Farmer D's and got into a long talk with his new store manager, Darby, a young farmer from Vermont who just moved here and must be shocked at our rain and cold, especially so early in October. Darby gave me the crash course in organic strawberry growing in the South (how she knows this already, I don't know, and here I am, having left New York City twenty years ago TODAY). I ended up buying a flat of strawberries, pre-holed landscape cloth and the hardware to attach the cloth to a raised bed. I knew Bob was building the raised bed this week and now I would have the rest of what we needed to get Farmer Bob's Stawberry Patch in place ("I used to hang out with zoning lawyers," Bob told me, "and now I hang out with gardeners and farmers. When did this happen?")

After a city comprehensive plan steering committee meeting, in the dark, rainy night, I showed Bob the strawberry flat in the glass-paned hatchback of my Prius and I got to thinking how well they were doing there, warm and dry, and the next logical thought, of course, was, "Hey, why can't I just drive around all winter with a small raised bed of lettuces in my trunk as a greenhouse?" These are the kinds of things I convince myself are good ideas.

And then, Saturday morning, after a full Friday of endless emails trying to solve what seemed to be one problem after another and a final email I sent that said, simply, "My brain hurts," I came to dig in the garden, even though it was an "official garden workday," even though I "should" have been mulching or scraping paint from the pavilion.

Bob put the bed together (and I have to tell you, one of the funniest emails I got all week was from him, when he responded to mine with "There's a joke in there but I will definitely let it slide." Mine had said, "We need your power tool to attach the landscape cloth to the bed—I have the hardware"). We added the landscape cloth (no drip line as recommended in the directions handout Darby gave us) and then Rebecca (remember Rebecca?) and I tried to figure out how to plant the strawberry plugs. It was nearly impossible to dig a little hole.

"I don't know if I ever got the roots in," Rebecca told me. How could that be? But then I tried and I saw what she meant. We were doing all this work above the landscape cloth, not knowing if we were being effective underneath. I looked back at the directions and it said to poke a hole with the round handle of the trowel and then just drop the plug in the hole. Just drop the plug in the hole. As simple as that.

I stepped back and watched this brilliant and beautiful woman who dropped out of the sky into the hole in my life that has since been filled by this community garden. This gifted-certified high school teacher, who has taken some time off from work to care for her young children, is always diplomatic with difficulties, always quick with a laugh, and knows exactly who needs a kind word when. She is self-effacing in a generous way that makes everyone immediately comfortable, openly honest and insatiably inquisitive. I watched as she gently poked a hole and planted a plug. Poke and plant. Poke and plant. Not brain surgery, yet it healed my hurting brain.

I felt the stresses of the week wash away. I felt the issues of yesterday shrink in size. I felt like that's all there is to it, to life. You poke a hole and then you plant in it. You poke and plant. And when others poke those holes in your day, you still fill them the same way. You plant something good. Something fruitful. And you trust that one day, you will reap what you have sown.

As simple as that.

"We Have An Idea"

2009-10-11T05:44:00.048-04:00

Dennis Lange, partner at 5 Seasons Brewing Company, came by the community garden with the first deliveries of spent grain from the beermaking process the other day, and we dedicated a location for it, way off to the side of our acre or two of space. More is coming each week, and we'll be mixing in wood chips until the leaves fall. They have just begun to turn here in Atlanta, and we find ourselves looking up at our tree-bordered garden location at all the "carbon" we will soon have, and imagining closed loops such as these:

We find ourselves looking everywhere, actually, and imagining every possibility. That flood damage? I'm bartering writing for design from sustainable landscaping designer, Lindsay Mann, for an integrated ecosystem design that mitigates our stormwater runoff and provides a learning opportunity about native plantings and ecologically-sound design.

When I showed up at the garden to meet Lindsey (a "friend" of mine on Facebook whom I had yet to meet in person!), I found her standing in the grassy wild beyond the tamed area within the garden fence, the earth tones of her outfit camouflaging her, her floppy hat hiding her face. She turned to wave and I asked her to turn back, to let me take this picture, that she looked so breathtakingly beautiful, so very right, there in that space, her sketchpad in hand. Like a young Beatrice Potter, sketching rabbits.

Lindsey, a geomancy specialist, had goose bumps from this piece of earth. She told Angela and me that it had one of the most powerful energies she has experienced. I told her that's what we all have been saying, since Day 1 out here. That something else is going on here.

I came out the next day to thin seedlings in the food pantry beds, where lettuces and baby kales were stretching to join the other lettuces, tatsoi and mustard greens in producing enough to donate to the nearby food pantry. We had just harvested three days earlier, and already the beds were ready to be picked again, although I'll wait until Wednesday. Our first harvest this week had yielded enough to put family-sized salads in the hands of three families-in-need.

I felt good about this, teary with gratitude, actually, since it was less than a month since we planted these beds. However, when I went to deliver our "bounty," I walked in to the room where the families come to pick up food from the Atlanta Community Food Bank, to choose second-hand-clothes, and to get their other needs met and the room was already filled with about 70 families, all sitting on rows of chairs waiting their turns. Fathers. Mothers. Little, long-haired girls and wide-eyed boys with big, broad smiles. The food pantry is open Wednesdays from 3:30-5:30 and it was only about 3:10. There used to be a total of about 60 families that came each week, I've been told. The number has at least doubled this past year. And I only had three salads.

Yesterday, my friend, Janet, and I spread out the abundant seedlings in the food pantry beds, an attempt to maximize the space, to maximize the yield, to feed more families. Bob showed up, and we got to talking. Bob is the person who spearheaded the creation of this community garden through our county (our county and city are currently negotiating ownership of parks within our new city's borders, so this was no small feat. In fact, we had been told it would be impossible).

"I could only help three families the other day, Bob," I said. "There were 70 there. 70 hungry families. Even if these six beds produce abundantly, and every single gardener in this garden gives a share of his or her harvest every single week, we won't be able to grow enough to feed those people."

"So what do you want to do?" he asked, and then laughed, "Oh no, you have that twinkle in your eye. That's always trouble."

I saw my opening.

"An urban farm, Bob," I answered. "We need an urban farm so we grow enough to feed those families."

"An urban farm?" Bob asked, not incredulously as he would have a month ago. "What are you thinking?"

"I don't know," I answered. "A half acre, or a quarter acre, rows of crops, a scalable showcase, a pilot project, an example. Maybe something like Rashid's, but smaller, to start. I'll send you the video."

And then, I kid you not, at that exact moment, Robert pulled up. I have not seen Robert at the garden since opening day, August 23. Robert is on the newest city in the United States' very first City Council and is the one who stood with me in the dark one night in July, fireflies around us, and said, "I don't see why the City of Dunwoody can't issue a proclamation in support of a community garden here." You can see Robert in this short, cute little video, sounding the gong at our opening.

"What's goin' on?" Robert asked, passing through the gated garden, joining us under the trees, by the cistern.

"Robert, we have an idea . . ."

"But Then You're Raising Rabbits, Pattie"

2009-10-04T06:18:00.016-04:00

So I had a whirling dervish sort of conversation with Farmer D the other day (I was the whirling dervish--Farmer D is always completely calm). We were chatting away when we got on the topic of pelletized chicken manure, which can be sold under the USDA certified organic label even though it is made from the waste stream of industrial, factory-farmed, caged, debeaked, hormone-laden, GMO corn-fed chickens right here in the lovely state of Georgia (the chicken capital of the world).

Me: The family with the plot at our community garden with your compost and fertilizer is outperforming all the others.

D: So I hear.

Me: But I can't use the fertilizer, D, because of the whole industrial chicken thing.

D: Yeah, I know. That's an issue.

Me: But what else can I use to boost my yields? I'm taking care of six charity beds and the goal is growing the greatest quantity to donate to the food pantry. What do you think of fish emulsion or worm castings in comparison to chicken manure?

D: Good, very good, but not as good as the chicken manure.

Me: I hear rabbit manure is perfectly balanced and doesn't even need to be composted.

D: Yeah, you're right. But I would compost it anyway. Because of pathogens.

Me: But can't you do that in a symbiotic relationship? Don't folks do that with fish underneath or something?

D: Worms. They do worms.

Me: Yeah, that would work. That would be a perfect situation, don't you think?

D: (Silence.)

D: But then you're raising rabbits, Pattie.

But then you're raising rabbits. My goodness, that made me burst out laughing. In fact, I've been thinking of that line all week (and laughing out loud each time), how I start on one path and end up knee-deep in something I never intended. Mostly, this is good. I completely, totally and unequivocably trust the journey. I don't question it, as long as it feels right to me, and I have an increasingly sensitive internal meter for determining this. But sometimes things do start to feel as if they are spinning out of control and that I'm veering into waters where I don't need to be.

Riasing rabbits? No, I don't need to be raising rabbits. Or fighting uphill at school. Or showing up for every single "green event" every single weekend. Or joining this task force and that committee. Or twirling out of control each day like a whirling dervish. I just need to be fully present 100% in order to hear where I am needed.

Last week, as usual, we had a constant flurry of activity at the community garden. A troop of girl scouts spread piles of mulch. High school kids planted their bed. And a steady stream of people came and went, pounding, planting, planning. My friend Jim met me there one morning, with the intention of doing some targeted work together, but I asked him if we could walk the land instead. The floods Atlanta experienced just prior had mostly spared the garden, but the remnants of the natural water flows were particularly clear and I realized I simply didn't know this land yet. I didn't know the way the water moves across it, or the way the light dances in every nook and cranny, or the specific topography under our feet in the area where we hope to create an orchard, or the very essence, its history, its specific energy, that can only be felt in the quiet stillness of early morning. And so we did. For two solid hours.

When we were done, with no sweat or physical manifestation of hard work to show for our labor, I knew that I had turned a corner on this garden. I had made it part of me, in a way that it had not yet been. And when I start to feel as if I should be building rabbit hutches, I have to go back to that feeling. That simple, really basic feeling of just being. And listening. And trusting.

I often tell people to be careful when they start getting involved with all this organic, urban agriculture stuff, that they will fall down the rabbit hole and it just gets deeper and deeper. And even though each day I feel like I am (happily) digging in even more, I am pretty certain that no, I should not be raising rabbits.

A Terrific Short Video, a City's Vision, the Value of Recess, and How to Start a Community Garden Near You

2009-09-27T05:44:00.020-04:00

I love that video, and it hits close to home for me. I've been knee-deep for months now in the Comprehensive Land Use Plan for the newest city in the United States (I serve on the steering committee) and I am pleased to report that the close-to-finished-draft includes major elements of new urbanism. Walkability. Bikability. Connectivity. Usable, public green space. Smart Growth. A "life-long community." Sustainability aspects at every turn. Here is our current Vision statement:

Vision of the City of Dunwoody

The City of Dunwoody showcases its “big city appeal with small town feel” from the moment you cross its gateways. Through its unique, high-quality character as a safe, comfortable and thriving place to live, work, shop and play, the City of Dunwoody preserves the past, promotes economic vitality, protects the residential nature of its neighborhoods, presents viable options as a place to live through all stages of life and ability, and prepares for the future through:

• Historical designation designed to save, restore, and promote our heritage properties

• Continued high-quality development of the Perimeter business area designed to promote the economic engine of the city while enhancing convenience to products and services for our citizens

• Conservative, conscientious growth of our other commercial nodes designed to enhance the quality of life of our residential neighborhoods

• Development of a variety of living options designed for all stages of life and ability

• Increased connectivity, enhanced transportation options, expanded green space and park ownership designed to improve the health, vitality and recreational enjoyment of our city’s businesses and residents and the long-term sustainability of our city

When our plan is adopted by our City Council, I'll be sure to post it here so you can see what a group of citizens and government leaders, working together to create something that can withstand the challenges and embrace the opportunities of the next twenty years, has created.

And so, just as the light shifts and the rains pour down (we got totally soaked this past week in Atlanta, if you haven't heard the news--although my family and home is fine, there was much destruction and some lost lives around Atlanta, so please keep us in your thoughts), I shifted gears all week as well. Two other initiatives on which I've been working (in between things like work, taking care of family, and sleep!) are:

Guaranteed Daily Recess for Our School Children.

Please, folks. If your child is one of the 40% of elementary school children in the United States who does not have daily recess (or is at risk of losing it), please stand up and speak out. Here is my Sustainable Dunwoody post about this (I particularly love the photo), which includes an excellent toolkit as support for this needed break in our children's day.

FYI, I was asked to be the chair of the Environmental Committee at the supposed new "green school" in my city. Not only do I think unstructured daily play time is the building block of environmental stewardship, but I said that I could not imagine the ideas I had being embraced if the school could not even assure me that all children would get guaranteed daily recess of at least 15 minutes. And also, something in my gut tells me this particular school is not where I am called to be right now (except for the usual support of my child and her classroom).

(An aside: I did my "life pie" recently, where I divided up a literal cherry pie to represent the 168 hours in the week--you take out sleep, work, chores, meals, and getting the kids from here to there and then decide how you want to spend your time to make the vision for your life a reality. I designated 14 hours a week for pro bono/volunteer projects and I intend to maximize the impact of those hours by only volunteering where I truly believe I can make a measurable, sustainable difference.)

The good news--our county's Board of Education is probably going to mandate guaranteed daily recess for at least 15 minutes, preferably outdoors, that cannot be taken away for any reason (including punishment or to finish up work), as early as January, 2010 (stay tuned). Other good news--my daughter's teacher is really trying to maintain daily recess in her classroom and I greatly appreciate the effort she is making even though the administration does not support it. I am also willing to check my child out for 15 minutes each day (if it comes to this) and discussed with the teacher what time of the day would be the least disruptive to do this. My daughter and I have also created a "Rainy Day Recess Kit" for the teacher that includes decks of cards, dice, checkers and chess.

FYI, I gave my ideas to the teacher who is in charge of forming the Environmental Committee to use as she and the eventual committee see fit. You may find these helpful in your child's school as well:

The proposed Environmental Committee would help insure that the school adheres to the newly-adopted Go Green standards of DeKalb County Schools, as set forth in its Go Green Operating Manual.

Additionally, the Environmental Committee would aspire to research, create, and help implement components of the following initiatives through, first and foremost, the unyielding and continuous support of administration and teachers in conjunction with the hands-on, active participation of students from ideas through implementation. It will be aided, secondarily, by innovative business and institutional partnerships, grants, and parent volunteerism:

• A waste reduction initiative that includes classroom and general area recycling, a vermicompost system, and awareness-raising about reduced packaging at the point-of-purchase (representatives from Atlanta’s Zero-Waste Zone would be great guest presenters regarding this topic)

• A farm-to-fork initiative that includes the necessary three components of food cycle lesson integration, experiential school garden, and hands-on food preparation exposure (I have many connections to local organic farmers and others involved in urban agriculture who could help)

• A Clean Air initiative that includes a No Idling campaign and active participation in the Dunwoody-wide Safe Routes to School initiative to increase biking/walking participation ( a member of the City of Dunwoody Sustainability Commission is extremely active in this endeavor)

• A water conservation initiative that includes the cleanup and utilization of the creek, the promotion of toxin-free lawn care and cleaning supplies, and inclusion of rain harvesting devises such as rain barrels (non-profit groups such as the Upper Chattahoochee Riverkeepers are great resources for things like this)

• An energy initiative that includes the exploration, creation and implementation of energy alternatives (such as retrofitting a bicycle to run a blender, or learning how and why to use a simple solar oven as used by refugees in Africa)

How to Start a Community Garden Near You

And finally, there are many groups of citizens who are trying desperately to start community gardens and hitting roadblocks at every turn. I wrote this predominantly to help other groups in my county, and have since adapted it for the Metro Atlanta Community Gardens social networking site I started, but I believe with just a few tweeks, you may find things helpful in this article for you as well:

How to Start a Community Garden on Public Land

Thinking of starting a community garden, and eyeing that public park nearby? You’re not alone. Community gardens are flourishing nationwide as a terrific way for citizens to grow healthy food as well as community bonds. Many community gardens are formed on public land such as public parks. Public parks are wonderful gathering places with some valuable features that typically include restroom facilities, security, visibility, parking, and a convenient location as well as other recreational options to enjoy before or after gardening. Community gardens are particularly good at bringing people to a part of the park that might be currently underutilized, improving the environmental attributes of the land itself and the park in general, and creating a positive energy that is known to have community-improving ripple effects throughout the park and beyond.

Our metro Atlanta counties are beginning to recognize the benefits of community gardens and encourage citizen groups to start community gardens in county parks. They are coming up with different procedures specific to their counties that will help position each community garden for optimal success.

To submit a proposal to start a community garden in a county park in your community, I’d recommend you follow the guidelines of the American Community Gardening Association, with these additional tips learned from the formation of the Dunwoody Community Garden in Brook Run (the first community garden in a public park in DeKalb County).

1. Form a planning committee. This could be a group of friends or neighbors, but we recommend throwing a wider net to bring in passionate people with specific skills that may not be present in your current social network. Skills needed include: organizing, negotiating, communicating, building, fundraising and yes, of course, gardening. If your group is already a 501(c)3 non-profit organization, or you can organize under the umbrella of an existing non-profit organization, you will be able to apply for grants and accept donations that will be tax-deductible to donors.

2. Choose a site. You may have a “perfect spot” in mind, but give it a fresh look to be sure it has 6-8 hours of direct sunlight a day (consider what the spot will look like when the trees are full of leaves if you are viewing it at another time of the year), a gentle slope for drainage, ample and convenient parking, room for the number of garden beds you propose as well as compost bins, a cistern, wood chip piles, a shady spot for picnic tables and other possible future enhancements to the garden. Check to see if there is an available water supply. If not, your county may be able to help you through Administration and Watershed Management to explore the possibility of using an existing meter or tapping a new water line. Also, if the park in which you are considering starting a community garden has a master plan, see if the site you have in mind is designated as green space or if there is already another site indicated for a community garden.

3. Prepare a Request for Approval for a Community Garden in a County Park from your county’s Parks and Recreation Department. If no form currently exists in your county, prepare your own and list the names of the planning committee, describe the site, attach a diagram of the proposed community garden, and indicate any 501(c)3 associations you have or are pursuing. This is a good time to secure and outline any social justice relationships you want to be integral parts of the garden (such as designating a certain number of plots to be used by families in need, or donating a set portion of the produce to the Atlanta Community Food Bank or other needy organization). These relationships help the garden to achieve additional objectives, and serve as a strong role model for the community.

4. Organize your garden leadership and operating methods. Establish your board of directors; write by-laws, rules and regulations; and prepare a waiver for garden members to sign. This sounds overwhelming at first. However, the American Community Garden Association has comprehensive online examples and resources for you to use to do this. You can tailor what they have for your specific location and intended membership. See www.dunwoodygarden.org for the bylaws, rules and regulations, and waiver developed by the Dunwoody Community Garden at Brook Run. The more you discuss and establish at the beginning, the simpler things will be as you move forward. However, remember that a community garden is a living, breathing science experiment, and there will no doubt be need for adjustments as your garden develops. Be thorough, but open-minded. There are many paths to the same destination.

5. Involve the public. Once you receive approval from your county as a letter on official letterhead, you’re ready to prepare a press release with details about the community garden and how the public can sign up for a plot or get involved otherwise and submit it to your local newspaper. You may also want to start a website and/or a social networking site at this time so that people have a place to go for more information and to leave comments or connect with others to help make this garden a reality. It is also helpful to put a sign at the garden site and an info box with a friendly note explaining about the garden and how to get involved.

6. Prepare and develop the site. It’s time for work days! Those who signed up for garden plots are currently enthusiastic to get going, and there’s no better way to channel that energy than to have a couple workdays and move some mulch. Have your garden design ready. Stake out the main paths beforehand. Have free mulch delivered from tree removal companies. And then get people out there, pounding stakes to mark plots and moving mulch. The Dunwoody Community Garden at Brook Run got its entire foundation established in two 4-hour workdays.

7. Have an official opening. You’ve worked hard. You’ve created community excitement. And you’ve achieved the start of something really special. Commemorate and celebrate. Keep it simple. Have a little music, say a few words, issue lots of thanks, and then have a bring-your-own picnic lunch or share a celebratory cake. Take lots of pictures and video because every single day from this moment on the garden will change and you will want to look back on when it was nothing but dirt and dreams. Follow your dedication ceremony with a garden member meeting. Consider asking the police department to give a short overview of safety suggestions for community gardening (such as “garden with a buddy” and “call 911 if you see anything suspicious”). Require payment and signed waivers before allowing anyone to start working on their plots.

8. Connect with other community gardens in metro Atlanta. Learn from each other. To fence or not to fence? Are you experiencing any vandalism? How do you handle water? Are you offering classes to plot holders? What are your fees? Do you have a source for free seeds or tools? Have you applied for any grants? Do you have a shared tool shed or a bulletin board? Are you involving area schoolchildren? The list is endless. This social networking site was set up to help facilitate the sharing of information like this among community gardens in the metro Atlanta area. Take advantage of it, contribute to it, and help metro Atlanta grow!

At any step of this journey, feel free to reach out and ask for advice or encouragement. Just about anything you are considering doing has probably been done somewhere else in the Atlanta metro area (did you know there are more than 150 community gardens in the metro area?!) or somewhere else in the United States or world.

If you are the first community garden on public land in your county, you may have a bit of a hill to climb getting approval and getting started. But stick with it. You are doing something positive, and your county will most likely applaud your vision and your perseverance and want to help you make your community garden a true success. It may be limited in resources but boundless in respect for what you are trying to achieve right here in metro Atlanta.

For more details and resources, please see the American Community Gardening Association website

As for our new community garden? Its gentle slope helped it survive the storms. Now, we're mulching and replanting some stuff. And praying for sunshine.

Wishing I Could Put a Rat Excluder Down the Very Center of My Life

2009-09-20T04:54:00.009-04:00

These are rat excluders. They were made by DeKalb County Extension Services based on a design by the garden expert, Walter Reeves. A woman named Bobbi, who is a member of the City of Dunwoody Sustainability Commission, sold them to me at our monthly meeting this past week. You put one in the middle of your compost pile, surrounded by leaves, twigs, and old garden debris. Then, you lift out the black plastic planter, deposit food scraps into the cage, replace the planter and there you have it! Apparently the rats don't like the metal. I'm testing one in my yard and one at the community garden.

I threw one in the car and drove in the pouring rain to the garden (five weeks old today!) to meet with Dennis Lang, a partner/owner of 5 Seasons Brewing Company, along with several board and garden members. Dennis offered to bring us a ton of spent grain (used in the beermaking process) per week for a compost pile, plus he would honor one night a month at the brewpub as Dunwoody Community Garden Night and give 10% of receipts from those who identify themselves as garden supporters to the garden. He'll also do a class on beermaking at the brewpub for garden members so we can see the whole process and appreciate how that glass of Belgian Wit helps our garden grow. A good relationship, if you ask me.

After the meeting, I took out the rat excluder and got to thinking about Dennis and the community garden members. About the folks who were putting in the first organic school veggie garden later that day at the school my children used to attend (and yes, I brought them there to see it happen, after all these years of advocating for it, and yes, Farmer D was involved). And about three other members of the Sustainability Commission:

* Tom, who is working on extending a Safe Routes to School program from one school to all schools in our city.

* Mitch, who is arranging to have bike racks fabricated locally from regional steel for businesses to sponsor around the city (we don't even have a bike rack at City Hall and Mitch therefore drags his bike into our meetings).

* Debbie, whose adorable Idbids sustainable toy company has teamed up with The Nature Conservancy and will soon be in REI stores nationwide.

And about all the other positive, can-do people I have somehow been fortunate to meet lately who are working day in, day out to make a measurable difference.

And then I thought of all the barriers I keep hitting. All the naysayers who will kill any whiff of wonderful possibility they smell. All the issues for which I have to advocate year in, year out (especially at the start of school--yes, the children need guaranteed daily recess; yes, the arts are important; no, my child is not for sale to companies like fast food restaurants and Coca Cola that want to capture yet more youth market share by calling it a "partnership for education"; no, a community with carpool lines that extend for blocks is not normal . . .)

And I got to wishing that I could put a rat excluder down the very center of my life and put all the people who believe in the power of positive change in the cage and protect them from those whose analysis paralysis serves to drive innovative thinkers away.

But then I wondered. Perhaps these people don't need that protection. In fact, perhaps the constant destruction from the rats keeps them going. Perhaps the rats of negativity have a purpose.

What about me? Do I need to be in a rat excluder? Or do the rats have a purpose on my journey, too? Should I, somehow, learn to embrace the rats?

Signaling That It's Time

2009-09-13T05:42:00.012-04:00

The heavy heads of crimson amaranth, sprays of five-foot-tall zinnias, and towering sorghum stalks dominate my home garden right now. The days of multicolored tomatoes lining the windowsill (which we named for Yankees players or Supreme Court justices so that we would have Johnny Damon tomato pie or Sotomayor pizza for dinner) have passed.

The basil stems are thickening, getting woody, signaling it's time for a last batch of pesto. The first of the fall seedlings, the mustard greens, the tatsoi, are clumped together like college kids at a concert. The gold finches and cardinals and mockingbirds flutter from milkweed to pokeweed and back again. And the rays of light lengthen day by day, cascading across my dandelion-speckled lawn, across the lemon balm and mint (which are happy again with the cooler nights), through my kitchen window and across my face as I stand there, chopping or kneading or just gazing mindlessly.

"What are you doing, Mom?" my daughter asked the other day, finding me trance-like at the sink, a leg bent, my head cocked to the side.

I had no answer.

She stood next to me and gazed out, too, seeing what I was seeing, understanding.

It's that time of year when muscadines fall from the trees like that children's book (and soon-to-be-released movie) Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. We found some the other day, while riding our bikes home from school (an ongoing challenge each year as my children change schools and the travel patterns present new obstacles--here's a post about it on Sustainable Dunwoody). My younger daughter shook a dangling tree branch and the ripe purple balls of fruit struck our helmets and bounced to the ground like hail, making us laugh, as if we had worn the helmets just for this. Lone children in the back seats of cars rode by, occasionally waving, their faces pressed against the windows to try to figure out what we were doing. (There are only a couple once-in-a-while bike riders and only 12 walkers in a school of 800 students.)

It's that time of year when the leaves of the maple trees that hold my hammock start to turn red and yellow. When the sweet potato vines make a mad dash for the finish line. When children start coming home again with too-heavy backpacks and I once again advocate for daily recess and a school garden and a bike rack, please.

It's that time of year when I stand there with my lantern in the dark of morning waiting for the school bus, gazing at the moon I share with my friends in Australia half a world away. And knowing it is time again to pass them the baton as they welcome spring, and as those of us in the northern hemisphere, once again, dig out our socks.

"They Don't Have to Justify Need"

2009-09-06T05:50:00.011-04:00

A package came the other day with these seeds in it. Corne de Belier snow peas. Rouge d'Hiver lettuce. Danvers carrots. All heirlooms from the 1800s. Plus a variety of other heirloom seeds with equally impressive histories. These were sent to me, free, from Holly. This is what Holly does. Holly Hirshberg and her husband Sean run The Dinner Garden, a 501(c)3 non-profit organization that gives free seeds, gardening supplies, and advice to anyone in the United States who wants them. Anyone. No questions asked. No qualifying. No cost, not even postage.

The Dinner Garden just celebrated its first anniversary. Since January, Holly, Sean and a small group of volunteers (including their two special needs children) have provided seeds to almost 12,000 families, including numerous community gardens, in 39 states.

I met Holly because of Pamela Price, who writes the blog Red, White and Grew. I met Pamela because of that Victory Garden Drive I tried to run a couple years ago, a concept that was also being rejuvenated by many others around the country and world, most famously, now, by Roger Doiron of Kitchen Gardeners International, who was instrumental through his Eat the View campaign in pursuading the White House to plant its organic vegetable garden, but also by Pamela and a historian and garden educator in California named Rose Hayden-Smith. Roger and Rose are actually going to the White House next week to bring the 110,000 signatures of the White House Garden petition to the White House chef to add to the compost pile. Pamela continues to write like mad out of San Antonio, Texas about Victory Gardens and more. And I am giving Holly's seeds to the six families from the food pantry who will be gardening in our new community garden.

So, this is how it works. We do things because we feel driven to do them. We meet people for reasons we don't know. We trust the journey. And then one day, bang, some pieces of it somehow, miraculously, come together. If I hadn't done the Victory Garden thing, I wouldn't have met Pamela. Holly. The seeds. The families. The garden. It all ties together.

I interviewed Holly last week about The Dinner Garden. This is not a little side volunteer project that Holly and Sean are doing. This is a full-time job for both of them. They rely on donations of money, seeds and supplies from individuals and companies, and again and again I heard Holly say about their recipients, "They don't have to justify need."

They don't have to justify need.

I kept thinking about this all week, while walking to and from school, while shoveling yet more mulch on yet more paths, while turning over some of my garden beds with the change of seasons, while riding my bike, while writing, while cooking, while standing there at the kitchen window washing dishes and watching hummingbirds, while realizing that 9/11 is coming once more, sure as the swallows return to Capistrano, in just a few more days (9/12/01 is the day when I started my garden) and my heart will get ripped from me yet again.

They don't have to justify need.

They don't have to justify.

And so I realize, I don't have to justify my actions. I don't have to justify my intentions. I don't have to justify my purpose or path or possibilities. I simply have to take the positive steps. Save the seeds. And pass them on.

I invite you to do this, too, figuratively, in the winding, twisty path that we call life. Trust that journey. And in the literal seeds that pass through your day. The seeds from that butternut squash in your CSA box. The heirloom tomato you buy at the farmers market. The beans you find hiding in your vines, too big to eat fresh. Dry them and put them in little plastic bags or glassine envelopes, mark them, and mail them to Holly and Sean at:

The Dinner Garden
P.O. Box 700686
San Antonio, Texas 78270-0686

I'm not going to worry about justifying anything anymore. No more questioning whether or not the steps I take matter. Holly and Sean and Roger and Rose and Pamela remind me to just do the actions. And trust.

Planting in the Holes

2009-08-30T05:29:00.026-04:00

So I'm working the other day in my office, tap tap tap on the computer, when I hear the unmistakable grinding sound of a wood chipper right ouside my window. I slip on my fave flip flops, the orange ones from Mary, and head out the front door to find workers from a tree removal company feeding large tree limbs from my next-door-neighbors' property into the chipper. "Free mulch," it says on the side of the truck, and I see my opportunity. My way to get the sink hole on my front lawn filled and to expand my lawn elimination plan just a little bit, thereby easing my weekly push-reel lawn mowing burden.

I ask the guy in charge if he will dump some mulch on my sink hole before he leaves, and then I head out to meet my younger daughter at school. Her school this year is several miles away and we have taken to driving halfway and walking halfway. We have discovered a stone wall overlooking a babbling brook that we have never, ever noticed before and we sit there after school and have a snack, usually a juicy peach when I can find organic ones (which is hard) and so we started calling this resting spot the Pit Stop. A little girl who waits for her father to pick her up nearby this spot has joined us in finding turtles and looking for the beavers who have built a dam. She says the spot reminds her of the book and movie, Bridge to Terabithia, and I know already that the three of us will remember this spot as special when one day we think back on it.

Anyway, so we walk and drive home this day and as we come down the hill toward our house, I laugh out loud. The tree guy had dumped the entire truckload of mulch, right there on my front lawn.

Tending toward obsession a little bit, I spend the entire next day spreading a border of mulch along my front walkway, down my driveway and around my mailbox garden, connecting it all in a swoosh of mulch that will kill off a big ole' piece of lawn and provide me with a place to plant lavender and rosemary, black-eyed susans and daisies, and other food-bearing and pollinator-attracting front-yard-worthy plants.

I also lay a path-and-bed system on the side of the house leading toward the backyard that will be, one day, filled with flowers and three new vegetable beds. I couldn't have been happier with my little wheelbarrow and pitchfork, the warmth on my feet as the compost spilled across them, the blank slate of grass on which my imagination was creating something new, something already beautiful in its possibilities.

I had been at our new community garden already this week (after the opening ceremony last Sunday--check out this sweet 51-second video created by my new friend, Jim Hines), where I had dragged sixteen cinderblocks and pounds and pounds of soil and compost to create my little piece of harnessed sunshine, my goal to do it all for less than $50. Yes, I'm planting in the holes--the sink hole and the cinderblock holes, and perhaps, a certain hole in my heart, about which I will tell you, in January, when it is time.

I had lingered there, at the garden, looking at the blank slate I had created, imagining. I was reminded of January, my favorite gardening month here in Atlanta, when I take hoe to soil and smell the sweet earth and bask in the still of a fresh dawn on a new gardening year.

And so the seasons change here now. The new blank slates on which I will write have been prepared. And the world's energy, which it seems has not called me to Kate's in France this year, has called me where I need to be.

Some Part of Me Felt Like I Had Found My Way Home (Or, What Happened at the Southface Eco-Office Dedication Ceremony)

2009-08-23T05:31:00.040-04:00

So I stood there on the sidewalk in front of the Southface Energy Institute Eco-Office, some lemonade in a compostable cup in hand.

After hugging Judy of the CSA, who is now the marketing director of Southface, I had already bee-lined toward the outdoor gardens. I had already indulged myself in taking photos of raised bed gardens, a beehive, rainbarrels, composting bins, a bike parking area complete with an air machine, a plethora of nut and fruit trees, muscadine vines, extensive native plantings, and a dry creek bed that ends in a cistern.

So as I waited for the speeches, the native vine for the ribbon cutting draped across the stairs attractively, this UPS package car pulled up (I know they are called package cars instead of trucks, by the way, because I used to work at the global headquarters and this kind of detail is drilled into your head there; I also used to work at CNN and you were fined if you used the word "foreign" since, the theory goes, nothing is foreign to a network with global coverage).

And I shot this photo. I don't think UPS has any particular relationship with the Southface Eco-Office, yet is has a relationship with me, since I worked there. Since I've been following its move toward increased sustainability and leveraging the energy-saving lessons it is learning from its current status as having the largest alternative fuel fleet in the industry with 2,200 vehicles. And since I just heard that the UPS Foundation, in conjunction with the Earthday Network, is rolling out the Atlanta-based Clean Air Campaign's No Idling program at schools nationwide. (FYI, only one public school in my City of Dunwoody currently asks parents on the carpool lane to not idle.)

I didn't realize until I got home that this photo not only reflected me, but also reflected the Eco-Office and the people who were standing there waiting for the ceremony. It reflected us all. It reflected Atlanta. It perhaps, in some way, reflects you as well, and the changes that are happening in your company or country.

I traipsed around the Eco-Office on the expertly-given tour, driving poor Bourke and John crazy with questions (Are the cartridges used in the waterless urinals recyclable? Are these carpet tiles the ones that Ray Anderson of Interface talked about as the design solution that mimics the forest floor? In which cases would you recommend using low-VOC paints and in which would you use no-VOC paints? What exactly is marmoleum? Is the wood in the training center tables sustainably harvested? What are some examples of adaptive reuse within this building? What are the advantages of open-cell foam insulation? You get the drift!) when we finally emerged onto the Green Roof, right there in the shadow, ever so symbolically, of the Georgia Power building.

And some part of me felt like I had found my way home. First, you have the 1,700-gallon cistern, looking like the water tower where the Petticoat Junction sisters used to swim in that ridiculous TV show from the 1970s (okay, I'm dating myself, but I have no problem with that). Then, you have the sedum covering the roof, intercepted by a curvy path made of squishy square tiles, all feeling very inviting and homey and almost "gosh, I know this place." I remembered when I lived in a fifth-floor walk-up in New York City and I discovered the door that led to the roof and suddenly found myself out there every Sunday with a little lawn chair and my newspaper. Or how my friend and I used to make up choreography to Abba's Dancing Queen on the roof outside my bedroom window, or how I used to crouch out there at night after my parents thought I went to bed, watching the stars and writing poetry by flashlight.

I walked from stepping stone to stepping stone, the memories flooding me, the sensation under my feet of these soft tiles new, however.

"What are these made of?" I asked, and this was about when the rest of the group and John moved along, leaving Bourke and me up on the roof.

Bourke told me that Georgia Power was redoing a playground and was replacing an existing track. The rubber from that track was going to go into the waste stream until it was repurposed as stepping stones. So right there on the roof of the Eco-Office was an attractive example of a material being reused as a project between a power giant and a non-profit organization promoting sustainable homes, workplaces and communities through education and technical assistance.

Less talk, more photos--here is it:

Okay, I'll give you more.

Here is the rooftop Petticoat Junction cistern:

Here is Georgia Power beyond the Eco-Office green roof:

Here are the nut trees and muscadine vines:

Here is the dry creek bed:

Here is the lemonade and the compostable cups:

Here is the Eco-Office, taken from the Southface Eco-Office's excellent online press kit:

Here are the girls from Petticoat Junction swimming in the water tower on the TV show:

And here is the most important photo of all. My friend Judy:

Oh, and did I mention that the Southface Eco-Office achieved the Platinum level in LEED certification? Establishing a LEED policy for new government buildings is on the Atlanta Regional Commission Green Community Certification checklist, and that is one of the measures on which we are working right now through our City of Dunwoody Sustainability Commission. After visiting the Eco-Office, I totally get it now.

And I got a trip down memory lane and a glimpse of the future as well.

What The Children Found That Was Important

2009-08-16T05:10:00.009-04:00

We staked out the plots of the community garden yesterday and spread mulch for something like five hours. More than twenty people showed up and we somehow intuitively divided into several teams that I will call the Measurers, the Mulchers, and the Movers. I was a happy Mulcher.

The Measurers engaged in much discussion about the best way to mark off the plots and paths, aiming for perfectly straight lines as if our garden were a giant quilt. I even thought I heard a trigonometric formula or two over there, as well as words such as quadrants and diagonals. There was much hammering and lots of twine involved.

The Mulchers, on the other hand, shoveled mindlessly from a big pile of smoking wood chips into wheelbarrows while continually chatting. To the best of my knowledge, there was not one conversation about mulch or wood chips or even really about the garden. Whenever the Movers would show up with their wheelbarrows, we would get a quick update on what was happening with the Measurers so that we could be sure we were doing what they needed us to do. Then, we'd stop leaning on our shovels and start loading the wood chips, never actually missing a beat in our conversations.

There were several children there and I gave two of them my camera and asked them to take pictures of what they found that was "important." That was my only direction. One of them took the picture above, of the hands of a man who has been organic farming and gardening for more than 50 years and who will be turning 80 next week. This man, Rod, fell from the heavens into our lives about two weeks ago. It is because of Rod that we didn't plow the land since he likes to use no-till methods. Our soil is hard and poor, but Rod has no concerns about his ability to work with it. Most of us are building raised beds on our plots, but we are watching Rod closely this season.

When the heat of the day got too strong and the length of our time working got too long, people began to peel off, sweaty and tired and satisfied, pledging to come back next week for a final work session before we open, which we are hoping will be next Sunday, in conjunction with the start of National Community Gardening Week. The very last person at the garden, by the way, was Rod. And I have to tell you, I don't think I have ever seen a person more happy than that man was for the entire five hours. If that's what a lifetime of gardening does for you, count me in.

It's Not About the Lawn

2009-08-09T05:52:00.018-04:00

I've been putting off telling you about it, the lawn. How hard it has been this summer. How much I have been hating it, the mowing. Not just how physically difficult it is (was I stronger last summer, or is it just way beyond time to sharpen those blades?)

Yet I head out there every week and say the same mantra to myself as I grip my hands around the handles and bear down with my shoulder muscles, a 45-degree angle push to get things going, the sweat on my brow apparent instantly.

It's not about the lawn.

It's not about the lawn.

It's not about the lawn.

I tell myself to just be there, in the moment, the grass clippings flying all over my feet and legs and clothes and hair and, if I'm not careful, in my eyes. I tell myself to let it wash over me, whatever is meant to happen and, as always, to trust the journey.

Last year, this meant many serendipitous conversations with passersby and neighbors. This year, not so much. They're on to me, I suppose, and run for the hills when they see me coming with that mower. And so, most of the time, I'm out there alone. My younger daughter will sometimes join me, like the week I questioned my sanity as I pushed, pushed, pushed until I finally realized she was walking in my path, singing, "It's all about love, love, love" over and over again and I kicked off my flip flops and traced a heart in the grass with my bare heel and thought, "Well, yes, okay, that works."

And, other times, I get to thinking that if it takes three years to convert a pesticide-laden farm to organic, then it takes three years for a lawn as well, and next year will be my third. And not only will the lawn be completely organic then, but also petroleum-free. No gas (or electric) equipment will have graced it for three years. And that keeps me going, another heart-pounding row.

But most times, I just get to thinking. Just thinking. Thinking about everything going on in my life, the City of Dunwoody Sustainability Commission stuff, the community garden, my articles, the books I'm trying to sell, my family, how much I'd like to plant an orchard right where that tough-to-mow part of the lawn is.

And I think of what Tim said that time, that everything is hard, the question is "Is it worthwhile?" You remember Tim and Liz. They sold their big on-the-golf-course home and bought a large, scrappy piece of land on which they built a house and started a grass-fed-meat farm less than two years ago, with absolutely no farming experience at all. Well, here they are now:

And all I'm trying to do is mow the lawn?! Push on, Pattie.

Time is passing. I'll be over the crest of the hill on this lawn thing for this year soon. It's like the other day when my younger daughter and I rode our bikes to her school to test a new route there and we turned a corner and were faced with an enormous hill.

"Let's just go as far as we can," I said to her, and ahead we went. We kept pushing and pushing and suddenly we stopped, looked back and saw we had almost done the entire hill.

"It wasn't as bad as it looked in the beginning," my daughter said, and she was right.

The lawn thing, however, is worse than it looked in the beginning, back in April when the lowest setting for the wheels didn't even reach the grass. Now, I have them on the highest setting and sometimes the wheels just dig deeper and deeper, with no forward movement, until I've created a bit of a ditch. I'm not sure it's sustainable, year in, year out, this push reel mowing. My right knee makes weird noises that it didn't make a year ago. My heart thumps so hard I have to just stand there and breathe in, breathe out. I drink at least four Klean Kanteen's worth of water. And it doesn't even look all that great when I'm done.

I push. I breathe. I think, getting lost deep in my thoughts in that way you can only when you're doing something completely monotonous, an experience of which convenience gadgets and outsourcing our lives has robbed us.

Today is the last day of summer vacation here in Atlanta, if you can even believe it, even though it is still 95 degrees out and August, for goodness sake. I think of how I never even told you about my summer reading. About the beautifully-written, poetic Epitaph for a Peach, and Dirt: The Ecstatic Skin of the Earth, which had chapters titled Crevice Invasion, On Gopher Humps, and The Pharmacy of Molds. I haven't even gone into detail about Michael Perry, who wrote Coop: A Year of Poultry, Pigs and Parenting and also a gem of a book titled Population: 485 and who is now my favorite contemporary writer. Perry is smart, funny, and thoughtful, with a masterful grasp of language and a seemingly limitless wellspring of emotion and experience.

I progress slowly but steadily from the side lawn to the front to the other side, saving the back for another day.

And I think of how my children move on tomorrow, a grade older, new environments for both of them. I realize I never shared with you the poem I wrote, on the salty-water-speckled inside back cover of Coop down at the beach right about when this mowing started this year. I sat on the sand and my older daughter went out, deeper and deeper into the waves, farther and farther away from me, perfectly fine in reality (the way children-no-longer-children are ready to leave their parents) but every horror movie running through my overactive imagination:

Letting Go

The foam-tipped torrent
Tossed her heels over head
And dragged her bruised and battered
Along the ocean's bed.

An undertow
Swallowed her
And carried her
Where, I do not know.

In an instant
The sharks, those monsters of the depth
Made her gasp for breath
And left me standing helpless on the shore.

Or at least
It appeared that way to me
From where I stood
Wanting, praying for the day to turn out good.

Used to be I used to love the beach
Never deeming its dangers a deterrent
But never more
Since I became a parent!

And so I let go. I push on. I move on. Tomorrow starts a new phase in our lives. And perhaps, before long, I will turn the corner, once again, on the lawn as well. It will get easier. I will do a handspring again this year when the mowing season is over, if my knee lets me. And I will decide, once more, if it was simply hard. Or worthwhile.

The Hands We Have Touched that Have Touched Us Back

2009-08-02T05:40:00.017-04:00

So a woman named Kathryn Wasserman Davis got an idea about how to celebrate her 100th birthday in 2007. She decided to give away a million dollars to 100 projects for peace. But that's not all. These projects had to originate from college students. The projects deemed the most do-able each received $10,000. The Davis Projects for Peace program was so successful that Mrs. Davis continued it in 2008 and again in 2009.

Enter David Baron. Or, wait, let me back up. Enter Roy Baron. Roy is David's dad, and a local friend of mine. He is the garden director of Garden Isaiah at Temple Emmanue-El. He is a retired Centers for Disease Control epidemiologist and a committed advocate of social justice, specifically through making healthy food available to the hungry. 100% of the food grown at Garden Isaiah is donated to those in need.

So I've been hanging out with Roy from time to time, and you want to make his face light up, you just ask about David.

David is a 20-year-old college student in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Last summer, David taught bio-intensive agriculture to Tanzanian farmers in order to increase production and promote resource conservation. This summer, he interned with Growing Power's Chicago office to further develop his understanding of urban agriculture and food access. And right now, David is using the Davis Projects for Peace grant he was awarded (along with two other grants) for creating HOPE Gardens, a transitional employment program in an urban farm and community garden that aims to reestablish local homeless people as independent, productive citizens and as contenders in the future job market.

I stood with Roy and David and several others recently in the little field where the sidewalk ends that will soon become our community garden. And we talked about mulch and plot size and the best methods for increasing the amount of food to donate and about what brought us there, that day, in the intermittent rain, among people who were strangers just moments or months before.

I looked at Fred Conrad, a man who grew up dirt poor in Appalachia and now serves as the Atlanta Community Food Bank liaison to 150 community gardens in the Atlanta area.

"I feel like my whole life prepared me for this job," Fred told me.

I looked at Rebecca, who lived in a homeless shelter after her parents divorced, and then a decrepid trailer park where her bike was stolen her first night there.

"And now look at me, in a nice house, starting a community garden."

I looked at the whip-smart 13-year-old and a mellow 17-year-old who are going to help build compost piles, and a baby who has no idea he is about to grow up in this spot, among these people.

I looked back at Roy and David, a father and son who, by the way, never gardened when David was growing up and now share a passion so strong, a root so deep, that they almost flow as one when they are together. Look at those hands in that picture. Look at those hands. Does your grown child rest his or her hand like that so comfortably on your shoulder? Does your father wrap his hand so proudly around your waist?

The website for HOPE Gardens will be up soon (I'll let you know when). In the meantime, here is some info about it from David's proposal:

Sitting on a 14 acre tract of land, including young growth and old growth pine forest and a pond, the HOPE Gardens area will be leased for $1 per year from the Town of Chapel Hill. The land sits off of Homestead Road in Chapel Hill. Designated for the future Chapel Hill-Carrboro greenway, the land is nestled between existing and developing residential neighborhoods. HOPE Gardens will preserve green space and biodiversity in the area, expected to be nearly urban in 5-10 years, and the Gardens will beautify the proposed greenway. Across the street from the women and children’s homeless shelter, a block down the road from the proposed location of the new men’s homeless shelter, and a quarter mile from a free bus line, the land and project are positioned for success and sustainability.

HOPE Gardens will break ground in summer of 2009. Phase one includes a .19 acre fenced plot that will house vegetable, herb, and flower gardens as well as fruit bushes and vines. In addition, about one fourth of this area will be devoted to individual plots specifically for community members. Other phase one developments include a cut flower meadow over the septic field and a distributed fruit and nut tree orchard, likely containing 45 trees.

I am awestruck, yet again, at how the world's energy works to focus resources and knowledge and possibility. I'm thankful that a 102-year-old woman invested in the future through people like David Baron. And I'm humbled to be standing in that little field with such an amazing group of people, our first seed yet to be planted in the ground yet the number of hands we have touched and that have touched us back growing in surprising directions with each passing day.

Where the Music Takes You. Where Seeds Pass from Hand to Hand. Where the Sidewalk Ends.

2009-07-26T05:20:00.030-04:00

Amon and Cina Sherriff from Pattie Baker on Vimeo.

This four-part story is about joy. The joy of connection, between friends who've never met in person, couples who meet again after raising a family, generations that pass the diversity of civilization from hand to hand, and strangers who simply find each other and dare to create something new.

Part 1

It starts at my local health food store. Amon Sherriff works there and he and I can get to talking for up to an hour when I go in to buy local honey (he called me The Honey Lady for ages before he learned my name). My older daughter and her friend consider the health food store their "go-to" place when they go for weekly walks, and they now have their own relationship with Amon.

Well, turns out Amon and his wife Cina have a music group with seven of their children called A Family Affair, where they talk about and demonstrate a wide variety of traditional African instruments. However, the seven children are now grown and have moved on and so the latest performance of A Family Affair brought it back down to two. Just two. The two who had started it all. (Watch the 23-second video clip above and see the power of their connection.)

As I sat there on the picnic blanket watching them with my husband, our older daughter currently sleeping tentless, far away, in the Nantahala Forest and our younger daughter nearby jumping from rock to rock in the creek, I tried to imagine that day for us, too, when the kids are gone and it's back down to the two of us. That day is not so distant anymore. And now, I will carry this memory of Amon and Cina and the joy between them, and aspire to that.

Part 2

Several days later, a package arrived in the mail. From Australia! (Thank you, Kate and Maggie!) My younger daughter opened it excitedly and found koala bear and kangaroo napkins plus a documentary about seedsaving, filmed across eleven countries with twenty tribal groups.

I watch a lot of documentaries about farming and gardening but I only report on the ones that I LOVE. And THIS I LOVE! I was moved not only by the amazing diversity of food that people are growing and saving from generation to generation, but the incredible joy I see in people's faces. I have a lot of fun in my life, but in all honesty, I'm not sure it comes close to the joy these folks experience. Take a look at the trailer for this film below. The actual film absolutely enveloped me with joy, as well as an overwhelming desire to add more community celebration to my life.

Part 3

And so that brings me to the next big news. It appears as if our community garden is going to happen, in time for fall planting! Extraordinary things are happening on a daily basis relating to this garden. People are literally dropping out of the sky to make it all work. A convergence of the world's energy has apparently zoomed in on a little spot past the dog park, across the street, where the sidewalk ends (here is the update on this effort, and another, as posted on Sustainable Dunwoody). The tagline for this amazing place has written itself: "Where the sidewalk ends, community grows." And, yes, of course, this evokes the famous Shel Silverstein poem, the first stanza of which goes:

Where the Sidewalk Ends

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

And so, I'd like to introduce Rebecca to you, a woman I didn't know a month ago, a woman whose joy is contagious, and a woman who could not have imagined at that time that this was the next step on her journey:

Introducing Citizens for The Dunwoody Community Garden from Pattie Baker on Vimeo.

Part 4

The last part is about you. How will you find joy today? In music? In seeds? In people? Go. Go where the music takes you. Where seeds pass from hand to hand. Where the sidewalk ends. And see what happens.

No Time or Money to Eat, Pray Love Around the World. So Here Is What I Did Instead.

2009-07-20T07:29:00.009-04:00

Click here. It's a full-length book, but it is a rather fast read. It is a funny, frenetic and fairly philosophical escapade of what happened after I found a long-lost life list (written before I started FoodShed Planet). And I think my husband is hands-down the funniest part of the story.

For you Star Trek fans out there, you are in for a special treat. (Not a Star Trek fan? You may be, by the end! And there's plenty of other stuff!)

Where I'm At (Literally and Figuratively)

2009-07-19T07:42:00.001-04:00

They Say The Garden Resembles the Gardener from Pattie Baker on Vimeo.

"Once People Realize I'm Not Going to Blow Up Their Zamboni or Butcher Their Ballerinas . . ." (Harry's Journey with Two Turtles in a Smart Car)

2009-07-12T05:50:00.019-04:00

So there's this guy named Harry Hurt III. He would do things, like be a stand-up comedian or sportscaster, or learn to figure skate, or work in a chocolate factory, or become a doorman for a day at a Washington, D.C. hotel during Obama's inauguration, and then he'd write about his experiences in the New York Times in his weekly column titled Executive Pursuits.

Well, one week he wrote at the end of his column, as simple as pie, that his column was over. Downsizing at the Times, like everywhere else, I supposed. I was crestfallen. I hadn't realized how much Harry Hurt III punctuated my Saturdays.

So I emailed him, set up an interview and we've talked and emailed a number of times. I'm even following him on Twitter. You know why? Because of what Harry's doing next.

Award-winning journalist Harry Hurt III is driving across the United States with two turtles in a Smart Car, observing 'a world of hurt,' as he calls it, and writing about it.

First stop? Kennebunkport, Maine, home to the first President Bush (photo courtesy of World of Hurt). The footage of former President Bush getting in Harry's Smart Car and proclaiming, "You have turtles! Are they gonna' go all the way with you?" is priceless, if you ask me.

When Harry and I talked, our interview went something like this:

Me: "Harry, why do you do the things you do?"
Harry: "Because I'm stark raving mad."

Me: "What advice would you give others who might want to follow in your footsteps?"

Harry: "Take two aspirin and quit."

So he's a bit of a salty dog who clearly likes to be the one interviewing and writing, not being interviewed and written about. Or, perhaps he just doesn't like me. Yet, he did manage to share these couple tips:

Me: "How easy is it for you gain access to these pursuits?"

Harry: "Once people realize I'm not going to blow up their zamboni or butcher their ballerinas, they're open to letting me participate. If you show respect and humility, then you can do a lot of interesting things."

Me: "What was your reaction to losing the New York Times column?"

Harry: "My reaction was my action."

My reaction was my action. Great line. Great advice.

Harry lost his stable weekly gig. Within weeks, he launched a website, bought a Smart Car, got the turtles, gained sponsors, pointed his compass in a new direction, and set out.

Here's what Harry has to say (on his website) about his situation:

America is literally in a world of hurt not seen since the Great Depression. The stock market and the housing market are in the pits, the banks are teetering on collapse, and corporate icons like AIG, GM, and Chrysler are either in bankruptcy or on the verge. Four million people across the country have lost their jobs.

I’m no exception. In fact, I’m the Everyman. The New York Times has just dropped my “Executive Pursuits” column after 98 consecutive installments spanning almost four years. Although I still write a book review column once a month, my chances of finding equivalent employment are bleak since the print media look like toast and the network TV outlets for which I’ve done sideline gigs are melting like butter in the face of competition from the Internet.

But hey, when the going gets tough, the pros get wired and hit the road with a populist vengeance. That’s what WORLD OF HURT: Working Across America in a Smart Car is all about. You might think of it as a tech savvy Studs Terkel meets Dennis Hopper, Jack Kerouac, and John Steinbeck on a non-fiction road trip inspired by a tradition that dates back to Alexis de Toqueville.

And here are the jobs Harry is planning to work as he crosses the country:

* Maine lobster boat worker
* NYC hair dresser at the Carlyle Hotel
* Pennsylvania Amish country fake fireplace maker
* Washington, DC doorman at the Four Seasons Hotel

Pit Stop: Eastern Tennessee: My 1858 Immigrant Ancestor

* Atlanta janitor at Baptist church
* Palm Beach male escort service
* Miami cigar roller in Little Havana
* Birmingham, Alabama chef at Benihana
* Pit Stop: New Orleans: My Harvard Thesis on the Mardi Gras
* Tunica, Mississippi casino black jack dealer
* South Louisiana oil field roughneck
* South Texas wild boar hunter
* Amarillo, Texas fast food worker on Route 66

Pit Stop: Heaven, Hell, and Houston, My Home Town

* Santa Fe, New Mexico commune handyman
* Vail, Colorado ski slope snowcat driver
* Southern, Utah outdoor survival guide trainee
* Irvine, California video game creator
* Northern, California medical marijuana farmer

The Ultimate Pit Stop: Driving a Cab in New York City

I love things like this, because, as you know, I'm a "journey" kind of person, and I'm never quite sure where we're going on this FoodShed Planet. Oh, sure, we may have an itinerary to follow, at least superficially, and Harry certainly has one of those. But where, truly where is Harry going? I suspect that although Harry will travel the country, the greatest ground he'll cover will be in his heart and soul. (Did I just make you gag, Harry?!)

So Harry Hurt III, his Smart Car and his turtles are coming to Atlanta. Will I get to meet Harry? Nothing in any of our conversations or emails leads me to think that Harry has the slightest fondness for me. Yet, something tells me Harry and I are meant to cross paths, for reasons I (and he) don't yet know.

(See you soon, Harry!)

"Come and Get Some Food"

2009-07-05T06:43:00.017-04:00

Here is Rashid Nuri, one of the biggest names in organic agriculture in the state of Georgia, if not the country, if not the world. As it says on the About Us tab on the Truly Living Well Natural Urban Farm website:

Rashid managed public, private and community-based food and agriculture businesses in over 30 countries around the world. Travel has enabled Rashid to observe local food economies in the countries he has visited. He now lends his experience to urban areas where good health and nutrition are lacking. Rashid also served four years as a Senior Executive in the Clinton administration including Deputy Administrator of the Farm Service Agency and Foreign Agricultural Service, U.S. Department of Agriculture. He is a graduate of Harvard University, where he studied Political Science and has a M.S. in Plant and Soil Science from the University of Massachusetts.

Way back in March, in the middle of the Georgia Organics conference, I got an email from Rashid. He told me to come to his urban farm right in the city of Atlanta. It is about 40 minutes away from me, just a little ways off a major highway. I planned a morning to go, and then our unending yet very welcome rains this spring (so abundant that the state of Georgia announced our 3-year drought is over and relaxed all watering restrictions, even though now, in July, it hasn't rained for weeks) foiled my plans.

Rashid wrote back, "Peace, Pattie. Hope to see you soon."

I planned to go again a week later, and again torrential downpours grounded me. I canceled. Rashid wrote back, "Sorry you do not get along with rain."

Don't get along with rain? I love rain. What gardener doesn't? I had that van that broke down all the time, I'm not a strong highway driver . . .

Blah, blah, blah, excuse, excuse, excuse. I'm not an excuse kind of person, yet there I was, making excuses. Throwing away what was clearly an opportunity that was placed in my path.

For some reason, I was too embarrassed to contact Rashid again and reschedule. Months passed. I asked numerous people if they would drive me there but it never seemed to work out. My husband said he'd bring me there one upcoming weekend but you know how life goes, how something always comes up with the kids or someone gets sick, and weekends keep drifting away.

I was getting Rashid's enewsletter each week. "Come and Get Some Food!" it announced, along with the list of all the CSA box contents from that week, and more and more each week those words kept resounding in my head.

Come and get some food. Come and get some food. What food for my soul was I missing by not going? What nourishment had I forsaken? Something about the whole situation nagged at me.

And then, as life's journey would have it, out of the blue, I got an email from Rashid about two weeks ago, a full three months after the original email.

"You remain invited to see our work," he said, as simply as that.

At this point, my goodness, I think I saw the sky light up a bit and heard a voice shout down to me, "What do I need to do, Pattie, hit you over the head with a hammer? GO to Rashid's!"

And just then, of course (there are no coincidences), the phone rang. It was my friend Ashley. I don't think I've told you about Ashley. Ashley and I have become very close friends in the last year or two. She is the salt of the earth and a blessing to the world. Additionally, as Vice Chair on our new city's Sustainability Commission, she provides the perfect complement to my strengths and personality, and I barely make a move anymore in our city without discussing it with Ashley.

So I told Ashley about Rashid and said, "I don't know why, Ashley, but I just can't seem to get there." I knew it wasn't about the car or the rain or the distance or the schedule of my family. I was stuck somehow, for some reason.

And Ashley said, without a second's pause, "I will bring you there." And within the next ten minutes, that amazing woman (the kind of person who left a vase of hydrangeas from her garden by my door with a beautiful note after I posted that hydrangeas blooming again each year reminded me of my friend who died) proceeded to arrange to have her children sleep over someone else's house so they could get to swimming practice the next day without her and she was ready to go at 7 AM for as long as our outing would take. Now, that is a friend.

The second Ashley and I met Rashid at his gorgeous oasis of urban food, we all knew it. We were meant to meet, all three of us, not just Rashid and me, for reasons we don't yet know. The intensity of the feeling permeated the entire visit, from that piece of land to another one that Rashid farms, and beyond as the depth and breadth of our conversation dipped and danced through our minds for the next day and weeks.

I'm still trying to figure it all out, yet I realize I'm not yet supposed to know the answers. To why Rashid wanted me to come. To why I couldn't come until Ashley came, too. To why the three of us connected so completely. To why this meeting needed to happen in exactly the way it happened. To why it will one day make sense.

All I know is the one thing that Rashid says so simply and eloquently:

"Peace."

Here. Take a look at Truly Living Well Natural Urban Farms. Maybe you are meant to be part of this story, too. Maybe you are meant to meet Rashid. Maybe we are all meant to be part of a bigger story.

Truly Living Well Natural Urban Farm from Pattie Baker on Vimeo.