I Believe in Community

I got a great email from my dad's cousin yesterday. She said she was going through boxes, and had found lots of Burke papers - birth and marriage certificates, First Communion documents, stuff like that. She wanted to know if I'd like to have it.

Of course I did.

I returned her email with a chatty one of my own, and among other bits of news, I shared some of my latest goals with her. I find that expressing my goals has become easier these days. When my priest asked what had been going on for me lately, I told him as well. There's a calculated reason for this. I believe in community.

When I was younger, I used to have a negative opinion of community. I viewed them as oppressive and restrictive, viewed the people as nosy and judgmental. Certainly, some communities can be. But there's a subtle line there, and it's worth noting. When you let a community tell you who you are, they will control your life. But when you tell a community who you are, they will support you instead. And in fact, if you share with a community not only who you are, but who you want to be, whenever possible they will help you get there.

When you're a kid, that means the adults in the neighborhood will buy the worst tasting beverage imaginable from your lemonade stand and declare that it's fabulous. When you're an adult, that means they encourage you, tease you, quiz you, and hold your feet to the fire while you develop your plans. Their persistence can sometimes even substitute for your own, reminding you that your goals aren't all in your head.

In fact, just the other day when I confessed to a friend that my goals were big and scary, she did just what a community member does. She gently encouraged me to get over it, with these words: Dreams are no more scary than real life. If your dreams were unrealistic, you'd know it. But you know they aren't.

This may not seem connected to the memorabilia I mentioned earlier. I was reminded however of a piece of family history I already have. In these obituaries, you see people, recently deceased, being described by the loved ones they left behind. You can't help but wonder how you'd be described if someone were writing yours.

These family members had a loving community to miss them when they were gone, a community that knew who they were. So at my age, as I am reconnecting with who I am and who I always wanted to be, I acknowledge not only that I have dreams, but that I can nurture them into reality. I find that I want my community to know that the dreams are as much a part of me as the real bits they already know about. I'm not afraid of telling them in case I were to fail and embarrass myself. In fact, I'm not even afraid of falling or failing anymore, I'm just afraid of not trying. And I need them, along with my family, to remind and encourage me to keep trying.

That's how hard things get done. With help. And when you know that getting help will definitely make hard things easier, don't you want everyone to know?

--Laura

Feeding the Hungry Heart

Thanks to Hurricane Fay, it has been raining all week. It began in earnest on Sunday, the day I chose to go hiking in Sweetwater Creek State Park. Yes, good timing, that.

Anyway, I had taken an umbrella, a bottle of water and some trail mix, so I felt fully prepared, and I got some nice pictures. This fern is one of them. I felt pretty artsy when I took it.

I began the day with mass, as I was scheduled to sing on Sunday. Normally, with an activity like hiking planned, I would have gone to the evening mass on Saturday, but as Deacon Bill would say, I was working the noon mass this weekend.

As it happens, Joe the organist sped through all the music at noon, for reasons known only to him. I don't think anyone minded, except me, though it wasn't because I wanted to add any particular spin to the songs. It's just that singing and breathing are vitally intertwined, so a quick song poses an interesting dilemma over how to do both. Fortunately, since I wanted to get some hiking time in before too much of the day had passed, people seemed satisfied when I sang on getting their spiritual hunger satisfied with the gift of finest wheat at a fast clip rather than at a more gentle or contemplative pace.

So back to the woods. Sweetwater Creek park is an interesting jewel in the center of an urban sprawl. Unlike many people I encounter there, I don't trudge through the place intent on getting exercise. Mainly this is because I'm a big girl with a bad back and regardless of how fast or slow I go, walking 4 or 5 miles is going to count as exercise for me. But the other reason is that when you speed through the trails to accomplish having hiked the trail, in my opinion you might as well have done your 5 miles on a treadmill at Gold's gym. Frankly, you miss everything.

For example, no one noticed the turtle, big as a dinner plate, sunning himself on the shoals in the creek. Or the tree frogs dancing around the base of a tree near the falls. Or what I'm certain was a blue-tailed skink. You can see my picture of him (or her) here.

In fairness, they also missed the two snakes. But I'll tell you something, they were just red corn snakes which they say make great pets. Not my pets, but that's what they say. I saw the first one while I was looking for the dinner plate sized turtle. I spotted the second one when I fell face forward into a tidal pool in the shoals. Later, I also got a little lost.

Maybe you're glad you missed my adventures. Maybe Gold's gym is sounding better and better. It's okay if you feel that way. All I'm saying is this: I went to the woods this weekend, and I have the bruises to prove it. And the stories. If I'd gone to the gym, I wouldn't have bruises or memories of snake encounters, but I probably wouldn't have remembered it, period.

Kahlil Gibran said, "When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight."

I guess that's not conventional wisdom, but I see it. You value the things that require something from you. When you lose a loved one, weren't they first your joy? When you find your joy, isn't your delight due in part to the fact that at one time you hungered for it? If you hadn't missed it to begin with, would it have satisfied so completely when you found it? I think not.

Sunday, I went to the woods, and found joy in it. I guess without realizing it, I had hungered for it. It was nice to feel alive again, instead of lazy on a Sunday. It was a nice change from apathy.

--Laura

Village Elders

My encounter with Tom, the pool guru, got me thinking about my elders.

The African proverb, made so popular by Hillary, claims that it takes a village to raise a child. That can be taken to mean that lots of people contribute to a child's well-being, in fact to the well-being of... well, anyone's being. But there's more to this than meets the eye.

I've always been fortunate to have lots of older people in my life. They say in some of the "birth order" literature out there that only children will develop the strongest relationships with people years younger or years older than themselves. This has been true for me. As a young girl, I loved to visit Mrs. Margie, who taught me how to make sugared violets. In college, most of my friends were 3rd or 4th year, even when I was a freshman. When I graduated and moved to the mountains of north Georgia, I befriended the "blue haired" set because of my work schedule, and delighted in their company as much as they delighted in mine. Today, even as a young adult, I spend a fair amount of my time with adults old enough to be my grandparents.

And if you don't do this, I caution you. I think you're making a mistake.

I don't think it's healthy to surround yourself only with people your own age. This is why I've never felt comfortable in social settings geared to Young Professionals or Young Singles or Young Adult Catholics. These people are all in the same boat I'm in. Heck, some are a lot worse off than I am, so the only real satisfaction I get is in knowing I'm not quite as screwed up as the guy sitting next to me.

I prefer the multi-generational approach to living: people much older than myself, people younger than myself, people my age and people from all walks of life. People in different stages of life are interesting. They have things to teach you.

One such couple befriended me in the north Georgia town I lived in prior to moving to the Atlanta area. I first met Rita when I began taking instruction in the church. Because I worked 3-11, I could pop by the church and help her and the other "Garden Angels" tend to the church grounds. She was a silver-haired, practical woman who despite living the last 2 decades in the south had still managed to retain her Minnesota accent. She and Gordy lived on the lake and had made a hobby out of adding onto their house. They were healthy and industrious people, and by now it was the size of the Pentagon.

By the time I entered the church, they had both become good friends, and once a month or so I was invited to their house for dinner. Those were some of the most enjoyable evenings of my time in that town. We'd talk about everything from history, politics, religion, dating, work, you name it. In fact, we often covered all those topics in one night, until we were all tired and yawning, and they were still reluctant to see me go. Keep in mind, these were not lonely elders. They had 6 kids who were regular visitors to the river house. They were constantly on the go, involved in both their community and their church. Gordy had taught himself how to design web pages "just to keep myself out of the bars."

They were interesting. They weren't like me. They had things to tell me about how to live my life. They were interested in what I had to say. They respected me, and I respected them.

What makes that different from friends your own age? Well, that's hard to put into words. Maybe it's because you aren't in the same stage of "figuring things out." They have seen things you haven't, and they listen with a relatively neutral ear.

The other thing is that they teach me to be a little less harsh on myself. Older people like to take breaks. They don't tackle the whole day at one time. They get where they are going by pacing themselves, but they get there nonetheless. Sometimes, I forget that I should stop for a while and rest, refresh and renew myself between projects. Much like the observation that "you always will have the poor with you," there will always be a task set ahead of us, with things to take care of. Your ability to do this hinges on the time you take for yourself, to restore yourself, to keep yourself physically and emotionally strong, and the time you take to learn from your experiences. Otherwise, life stays pretty much the same, and you become a mindless cog in the wheel, endlessly repeating the same behaviors and getting the same results.

Sitting a spell, talking it out with an older friend who wants little more than your company is insurance - against turning your life into an endless assembly line of duty and responsibility.

I heard this once: Yankees will spend thousands a year to sit on a couch and talk to a stranger, calling it "therapy." Southerners spend an afternoon with friends, sitting on a couch and call it "just visiting."

If that's just a southern thing, I'm sorry, it's time to expose the secret. The economy is bad these days, people, so take advantage of this tip. Consulting with the village elders is free, and the rewards are immeasurable.

--Laura

A Real Goal Getter: Part VI

I'll pause for a minute about what my goals are, to tell you a little story, because I had the most interesting experience at the pool the other day.

As I was finishing my swim, an old man entered the indoor pool area to take his own afternoon swim. He was East Indian, with clear, warm skin. Nevertheless, he was so wrinkled, I had the desire to iron him. I'd learn later that he was quite old.

We exchanged pleasantries, and I liked his gentle nature and his warm smile so much, I must have been grinning at him, because he continued to speak to me after he got into the pool. We discussed the Pool Closing Tragedy, the alternate Aquatic Center down the road, ways to get the best value for our gym membership dollar, and the advantages and disadvantages of paying for a full membership versus paying ala carte.

The tone of the conversation suddenly changed.

"I am 75-years-old," he said. "I came to this country with $45 in my pocket. But I was determined to get an education. Now I have a PhD." I congratulated him, but was a bit confused, because this seemed to have nothing to do with our previous conversation. But he continued.

"I've seen tragedy in my life. My child, my only son, worked for the government. He gave his life for his country at the American embassy in 1998, when he was only 37. I stood over his casket and I told him that for him, my son who was always so worried about my health, I was going to lose weight and quit smoking. Many people complain about quitting smoking and how it will make you gain weight, so I decided to do both at the same time. When I began, I weighed 250 lbs. I just got off the scales in the other room, and I weigh 181 lbs."

I congratulated him, and he thanked me. Then he said the most remarkable thing.

"So many people say they want to do big things, but immediately come up with excuses why they can't. If you want to drive to Chicago, you don't wander around Douglasville, get low on gas, then go back home. You go to mapquest, you plan your route, you plan where you will need to stop and sleep, and then you head out with a full tank of gas. It takes preparation and it takes a plan. The excuses are just things to look past. You cannot let them get in your way."

"People let obstacles and not goals guide them," I said, letting him know I was actively listening to him. In fact, I was enthralled that this man would be saying these things to me, a reformed slacker, a real goal getter. He smiled at me and nodded, satisfied that I understood him.

All the things he said to me wouldn't fit in this entry. It was funny though that the night before, in the bathroom of a nightclub, I paused from the entertaining evening I'd had with friends to look at myself in the mirror and speculate on the wisdom of all my recent plans and goals. Were they crazy? Was I crazy? Did my reach exceed my grasp? Was this all too hard? Would I ever be able to afford to make the changes I wanted to make?

Call me crazy, but I think the next day brought my answer, from a man who lost his 37-year-old son and his only child and in doing so learned a thing or two about goals. Only to share that lesson with a 37-year-old only child standing on the edge of a pool, who is learning a thing or two about setting goals herself.

--Laura

Crackers

Lately I've noticed that when men are trying to be flattering, they call you a Georgia peach. Naturally, this only works in Georgia, but it goes something like this:

I'm just a southern gentleman, looking for my Georgia peach. Or,

I like ladies to be sweet like a Georgia peach.

I'm going to be honest with you. I know they are trying to be cute with that little come-on line, but lately, whenever someone has said this to me, all I thought was, "I need to get my eyebrows waxed and head to the gym again, this man thinks I'm round and fuzzy."

The truth is, I'm nothing like a Georgia peach. See, I come from Crackers. Oh, I know, a man trying to make an impression would get his face slapped if he called some lady a Cracker, but do you know what the word means, because it really fits. Let me explain.

Georgia Crackers were the original settlers of Georgia, so to call someone that name means their family has been around since Moses was a toddler. And as it happens, that describes much of my family on my mother's side.... Rollins.... Byrd... Tyson... Hodges... In fact, I can ride down the main street of a little town called Guyton, Georgia, and I can see the craftsmanship of my great great uncles in the finish work of many of the old houses still standing there. Beautiful old houses with intricate wooden scrollwork along the roofline.

And in front of those houses, the old railroad bed has been lifted up and planted with trees, standing in a straight row like soldiers. But it used to be the old Central of Georgia railroad company, which called Guyton, Station No. 30. William Perry Rollins used to drive that train from Savannah to Guyton, which is how he met Dora Ellen Tyson, his future wife. She was a school teacher who rode the train to her school. They were my great great grandparents. And my family is one of the few left who could be buried in the Guyton Cemetery just down the street, because we were among the founding members of the place.

The term "cracker" came into fashion during Elizabethan times, to describe braggarts. They got the term from the Middle English word crack, as in to crack a joke. There's an alternate spelling to this, which is craic. This word is still in use in Ireland and Scotland, which is where my people came from. In fact, by the mid 1700's, cracker was applied specifically to the Scotch-Irish settlers (still my folks), who came to this country and settled the remote southern back country. There is a passage from a letter written during that time to the Earl of Dartmouth, which says in part, "I should explain to your Lordship what is meant by Crackers; a name they have got from being great boasters; they are a lawless set of rascalls on the frontiers of Virginia, Maryland, the Carolinas, and Georgia, who often change their places of abode."

So as it turns out, I authentically come from a long line of tough crackers - self-reliant people who settled the American south, people who relished telling a tall tale, and were constantly on the move.

As it happens, I have the talent to accentuate or eliminate my southern accent almost at will, so to some, my tough cracker past might not be obvious. But it's there, in all the stories I tell, in the way I quietly take care of my own business, and in the travels I take. I've got cracker under my skin and in my blood.

So listen, if you want to flirt with me, you're welcome to call me a Georgia peach. But if you really want to win me over, you'll need to call me a Georgia cracker. But say it with spunk, okay? Say it like you mean it.

--Laura

A Real Goal Getter: Part V

So why haven't I been living my life right? Where do I start?

Many people graduate from college ready to tackle the world. I was exhausted. Though I had done lots of growing up, I struggled until the last gasp and was so eager to be done with it all that I skipped my own graduation ceremony. I was putting my belongings in a U-Haul truck when the rest in my class were tossing their caps in the air.

I was ready to go home and regroup.

Outwardly, I did regroup. I helped out my family, not always joyfully, but my grandmother was dying of lung cancer and it was a stressful time. When she died, I began looking for work.

That’s when it hit me that I had no idea what I wanted to do. It was terrifying. I swam for the first shore I could find. A job offer came in the town where my aunt and uncle lived, and I took it, despite the fact that it only required a high school diploma. I knew I had to get back out of the house, so I took the first thing offered to me. It was a start, I reasoned, and I could always look for something else once I got my feet under me.

So I swam for the nearest shore.

The shore is the responsible place to be. No one can fault you for going to work, singing in the church choir and paying your bills on time. I wasn't miserable either. I made a home in that North Georgia town. I met people from all walks of life. I became a Catholic, finding a larger family in a community that embraced me. I took on the role of youth minister to the teens I had befriended, and did it as a volunteer because the church was too small to pay me. I shared myself with the family I had created there, and the people shared their lives with me, becoming my friends.

Something was still wrong though. Something was missing.

So when the opportunity came to travel with my company, I took it. I went to Dayton, Ohio. I went to Charlotte. I went to Carol Stream, Illinois. I went to Santa Clara, California. I went to Atlanta.

And something interesting developed on the Atlanta assignment. It was a startup project, and when I arrived I barely had a place to sit, with a computer that wasn’t even networked. I thought they were silly to spend so much money on me when I was able to do so little. But I had seen the extravagant spending that went on with new accounts, so I didn’t give it a lot of thought. The account reps, however, had other things in mind.

Part of the contract specified having a designer on staff. As it turned out, the designer they had selected for the project had just gotten a government job. They were scrambling to find another before they had to tell the customer that he was leaving. One of the customer service reps had transferred from my location a few years earlier, and knew that I was interested in leaving as well. She put my name in the hat, and they asked for my services so I’d travel down there. When I got there, they asked if I wanted the job.

Promises were made to convince me I was making a good move. I’d learn new software. I’d learn web design. I’d take classes. This was the missing piece, I believed. I was taking a new direction in my career. I was moving to Atlanta.

That was June 2000. I commuted for almost 2 months until I found a house to move into. Once relocated, I became absorbed in getting the design area organized, getting designs migrated to our system and adjusting to life with a commute significantly longer than six minutes.

A year later, the twin towers collapsed in New York City, and with them the opportunities that came with working on a highly successful and profitable account. What began as a new path out into open water and new adventures became a stressful package of financial insecurity. I don't intend to distract from the significant tragedy 9-11 was, but its impact was felt all the way down to Atlanta, Georgia.

For me, it was time to swim back to the shore.


--Laura

Summer Swan Song

The summer is coming to a close again and normally I would say not a moment too soon. But this summer has been different for me in a number of ways.

First though, I must tell you of a summer tragedy. The pool at my gym is closing down.

Owing to age, budget cuts and expensive repairs, the owners at our local pool have decided to close it at the end of August. I find it distressing. For some time now I've enjoyed visiting it on Sunday afternoons. I walk the pool's length several times, I do aerobics, I swim, I float -- all in cool comfort. Afterwards, I sit in the whirlpool to relax and then spend a few minutes in the steam room before changing and heading home. For the rest of the day, the scent of chlorine lingers on my skin, and both my body and my brain flounder like wet noodles.

Woe is me. It will all end this month.

But there have been other surprising joys this summer, from a girl who counts spring and fall as her favorite times of the year. I was able to plant a garden this year, and though the results weren't spectacular, it was okay fun to share with my friends.

I went on summer vacation, a miracle in and of itself, and I have a depth of appreciation for my trip to Charleston that I can't really express. It wasn't just a vacation. It was rest. It was recuperation when I particularly needed it. I won't soon forget that lesson: when you really need a rest, don't deny yourself. You short change yourself and you short change others.

And above all, this summer I found a new direction for myself. I've been talking about it (and will continue to post about it) in the upcoming months in my "Real Goal Getter" posts, but the wonderful Ah-hah! moment came in the summer.

And by God, it's rare for me to think during the hottest time of the year. Surely that's a sign that things are stirring.

I hope you all had a wonderful summer as well. Now stand back people, here's hoping for a truly amazing fall...

--Laura

Pampering

It was tax free weekend in Georgia recently, when many items deemed necessary to begin the school year are sold to weary parents. This means one thing to people without kids: unless it’s necessary to sustain life, you don’t need it. Saturday morning, people were waiting outside in a line for Target to open.

But I did need a pedicure.

Pedicures are not deemed necessary to begin the school year, so they don’t fall into the tax free category. Nevertheless, the place was packed when I arrived. At the door I was greeted as I always am. Tina, a slim Asian woman asked, “Can I help you?”

I haven’t decided if the owners are Korean or Vietnamese. I’ve even googled words I’ve remembered from some of the plaques I’ve seen hanging in the store. That leans toward Vietnam. However, someone I know who also gets her nails done there says they are Korean. One day I will just ask, but it’s kind of an odd thing to bring up in the limited conversation I typically have with them. “Yes, spa pedicure… Yes, manicure. No eyebrow wax today. French on the toes, American on the hands.” It doesn’t seem graceful to then ask, “Are you Korean?”

For those unfamiliar with the jargon, a French manicure is a purely American invention. It means that you apply white varnish at the tip of the nail and a natural colored varnish over the rest. The American version is the same, except the shade of the white varnish is softer, which looks more natural. I like putting the American shade on my hands and the French on my toes.

A spa pedicure entitles you to step into the magical world of “The Swan,” a massage chair with a whirlpool basin at the bottom. Tina dumps a scoop of blue powder in it, fills it with water and sets the jets in motion as you ease back in the chair and dial it to “ecstacy.” The Swan is more relaxing than my last few dates were and demands no small talk. I think at twenty five bucks, it’s a bargain.

A delicate balance is required however, because to speed customers through the experience, often two people work you over at one time. And when two people are attacking your body at one time, with lotions, oils or sharp utensils, keeping up with them takes practice. Tina taps your leg when she wants your foot out of the water. Steven taps your arm when you need to hold your hands up. Then your nails will be shaped, the cuticles pushed back and snipped. Envision a puppet on strings -- left arm up, right arm down, left foot down, right foot up! One hand at a time, please!

A young girl, no more than ten years old, sat in the Swan next to me. Two other teens, clearly her sisters, were also getting their nails done, but she was getting a pedicure. I watched as a first layer of juicy jungle green outlined the tip of her nails, followed by neon pink fill. The result was unmistakable, though probably unintended.

She had watermelon slices on her toes. “They look really great,” I told her with as much admiration as I could muster. Her face lit up. To my right, a younger girl had climbed into the empty swan next to her grandmother, who was getting her own pedicure. Someone had painted her toes in a pink with sparkles, and she was being careful not to touch it while it dried. But she sat in the Swan cross-legged, with the poise of a miniature Indian maiden. “That is such a pretty pink,” I told her. She smiled happily, but she did not need my assurances. Every muscle in her body said she knew she was gorgeous.

But the real beauty of the day was Mama Rose. She had heard all she could handle of our trips to Super Nails. She wanted to find out firsthand what it was like to be pampered. I believe her first encounter with the massage chair hooked her. The first time I looked over, her face was scrunched up tightly as the magic fingers “worked out a kink.” The next time I looked over, she was slumped in her chair.

Asleep. Dead to the world.

You may be a guy reading this right now, wondering why you should care. You know, I’m not the poster child for pampering. I only discovered the spa pedicure a few years ago. But it taught me something. There’s nothing selfish about taking care of yourself. When you feel good, you project your best self. When you’re not lost in your own insecurities, you’re present for others, and your thoughts are more positive. Besides, if you’re hung up on the idea of doing for others, how about having some pretty feet when you slip on those ugly old flip flops for the family pool party, guys? When you’re at your best, it tells your partner that you think they’re worth a little effort on your part, and that’s not selfish at all.

Think about it, gentlemen. The Swan is calling you.

--Laura

A Real Goal Getter: Part IV

So now I stand before the world (or the half dozen people who read this), a reformed slacker, a recalcitrant goal dodger, determined to change my ways.

Now what?

Your mileage may vary. I've spent time, as you've seen, looking back to a time when I had, I felt, clearer goals. And let me be clear. I'm not talking about regular goals - to lose weight or get the laundry done by the end of the day. It isn't even about living within a budget or replacing the carpet with hardwood flooring. Those things are tasks. They are chores. And I've managed to do each of those things at one point or another.

I'm speaking of goals like the ones you had in high school, like the ones you developed in college. These were the goals you used to chart your life. And I think finding them again is a bit harder than it sounds. How far back do I need to retrace my steps, for example? When I was young, I wanted to be an archaeologist. Then I wanted to be a geologist. After that, an astronomer. In fact, my parents even got me a telescope during that phase, and I remember I was able to manipulate the lenses and mirrors well enough to view a lunar eclipse.

But the fact is, if I had to wait on the schooling I'd need to invest in those dreams again, I'd be further in debt and miserable in the struggle. I can keep those dreams alive as interests. But I can put them aside as goals.

There's writing, which is closer to my heart. Many people appreciate the writing I do. And recently I devoted some time and energy to complete a certificate course in technical writing, knowing that like any skill (as opposed to a talent), it could be mastered and used to my advantage.

But there's something I've realized as I've spent time on this goal getter search of mine. Since I've left college, some of my goals have changed. As an adult, my goals are not so much about what kind of job I want, not really. They are more about the kind of person I want to be. Because it's not that I want to be an archaeologist, or an astronomer, or even a journalist, but I want to be the person I think some of those titles represent.

I am curious about my surroundings, so I want to do something that supports that instead of discouraging it. I want to emulate the archaeologist in me who's not afraid of getting a little messy digging for treasure in the hidden places. I want to hold onto the astronomer in me who's interested in what lies beyond. I want to hold onto the journalist in me who asks the questions we all need answered.

And after all this digging, exploring and asking, I've determined something; I'm not living right.

More on that later...

--Laura

On My Mind

Among the books on my bedstand is "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle - A Year of Food Life," by Barbara Kingsolver. You may disagree, but I admire a woman who's known as one of the top 100 people screwing up America (seriously, search for it on Amazon). And she's done it not liking the war and supporting efforts to produce food differently in this country. And she's done it with a book that's as genuine and lyrical as any of her fictional works. In addition, her oldest daughter Camille provides recipes they developed while going "back to the land" for a year in the Appalachian mountains, and her husband Steven provides truly startling sidebar information about the food industry.

I'd like to be as lyrical as Kingsolver. But I think if I attempted to tell you about this book, I'd sound preachy. I think it may be quite impossible to detail the growing case against corporate farms without introducing an opportunity for endless arguments about whether or not the "go green" camp or the "organic" camp is the savior of the universe or just another empty promise, already subverted by advertisers for another quick buck following the burst of the dot com and real estate bubbles.

Is going green the next bubble? Quite possibly.

But you know, this year I've resolved to be a bit less jaded. I think the cynicism that protects us from disappointment on one hand can substitute for action on the other. It gives us permission not to change. And there is a growing sickness in our environment. The chemicals we use on land filter down to our oceans. We've got some healing to do. We have a responsibility to do that.

Preachy? Quite possibly. So instead of regurgitating parts of the book I found most informative, I'll encourage you to get the book yourself and tell me what you think. I'm going to preach to myself, with the small changes I think I can manage in my own community, under my own steam and within my own budget. Maybe as a result of reading the book, you will be compelled to do the same.

--Laura