I loved, loved, loved this book. When I heard it was being made into a movie, I was troubled: Hollywood has a tendency to take things and make them flashier, more upbeat. I thought about the book, with its unrelentingly oppressive, blasted landscape, the almost exclusive focus on the simple, powerful relationship between a father and his son (a son who was an actual boy, a child, not some precocious scene-stealing smartass). A book with no sex and no definitive happy ending. I doubted Hollywood could leave it as it was.
I was wrong. Hollywood did a great job with it. As with the book's narrative, it let the circumstances speak for themselves: the horrible things weren't over-emphasized or dwelt upon; their horrific nature was enough to establish and then move on. The dialogue remained simple and telling. it was really like watching a movie of the book.
Viggo Mortensen was absolutely perfect as The Man, and the boy who played his son was spot-on. The dialogue seemed taken right from the book, for the most part. There is a fantastic small part by Robert Duvall, whom I didn't recognize until he began to speak. All in all, a really good film.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
O Tannenbaum!
Ever since I split with my husband, I've always gotten myself a Christmas tree for my various apartments. They're pretty, they're fun, and I look forward to them every year.
Here in Rogers Park, there is a small vacant lot a block or so from my house. During the fall, a man named George inhabits this lot, living in a tiny trailer no larger than a walk-in closet. Without the trailer and the lot, you would assume George was homeless - scruffy, unshaven, very rough around the edges, but he's a really sweet guy. In October he sells pumpkins, and in November switches over to Christmas trees and wreaths. He's a bit of an annual fixture. I'd brought the Babies there to get their Halloween pumpkins, and today I went over to get my tree. I'm on a really tight budget, so my plan was to get a really small tabletop tree, hoping to spend no more than fifteen dollars, which is itself extravagant for me right now.
Today was the first real winter-y feeling day we've had - grey, rainy, and very damp. I walked into George's sheep-fenced area and saw a line of small trees that would work just fine. Looking them over, I decided on the one I wanted. I heard George over amongst some larger trees, and followed the noise to find him, wearing his ever-present baseball cap over long unwashed hair, untying a tree for display.
"Hi," I said.
"Why the company decided to sent a tree delivery on the coldest, wettest day is beyond me, but what do I know," he growled.
"It smells great here," I offered.
George stepped out, and I told him I thought I'd found a tree.
We walked over, and I pointed to the tree, which was a little over three feet tall.
"How much?"
George looked at it. "Thirty."
My stomach dropped. I'd experienced the shock of the pricey Midwestern tree when I'd moved here, but I'd forgotten how bad it could be.
I was embarrassed at not being able to buy it, so I said, "I may have to come back once I get paid."
"Tell you what," George said, "they gave me two extra trees and I'd really love to get some revenge on the bastards. You got twenty?"
I said I did, and it was done. He cut the bottom, and I carried it home. Twenty was more than I'd wanted to pay, but the idea of a year without a Christmas tree was too depressing.
So now my lovely little tree is on a table in my living room. My friend Krys and I are going to see "The Road" (she has free movie passes), then I'll decorate. Yay.
Here in Rogers Park, there is a small vacant lot a block or so from my house. During the fall, a man named George inhabits this lot, living in a tiny trailer no larger than a walk-in closet. Without the trailer and the lot, you would assume George was homeless - scruffy, unshaven, very rough around the edges, but he's a really sweet guy. In October he sells pumpkins, and in November switches over to Christmas trees and wreaths. He's a bit of an annual fixture. I'd brought the Babies there to get their Halloween pumpkins, and today I went over to get my tree. I'm on a really tight budget, so my plan was to get a really small tabletop tree, hoping to spend no more than fifteen dollars, which is itself extravagant for me right now.
Today was the first real winter-y feeling day we've had - grey, rainy, and very damp. I walked into George's sheep-fenced area and saw a line of small trees that would work just fine. Looking them over, I decided on the one I wanted. I heard George over amongst some larger trees, and followed the noise to find him, wearing his ever-present baseball cap over long unwashed hair, untying a tree for display.
"Hi," I said.
"Why the company decided to sent a tree delivery on the coldest, wettest day is beyond me, but what do I know," he growled.
"It smells great here," I offered.
George stepped out, and I told him I thought I'd found a tree.
We walked over, and I pointed to the tree, which was a little over three feet tall.
"How much?"
George looked at it. "Thirty."
My stomach dropped. I'd experienced the shock of the pricey Midwestern tree when I'd moved here, but I'd forgotten how bad it could be.
I was embarrassed at not being able to buy it, so I said, "I may have to come back once I get paid."
"Tell you what," George said, "they gave me two extra trees and I'd really love to get some revenge on the bastards. You got twenty?"
I said I did, and it was done. He cut the bottom, and I carried it home. Twenty was more than I'd wanted to pay, but the idea of a year without a Christmas tree was too depressing.
So now my lovely little tree is on a table in my living room. My friend Krys and I are going to see "The Road" (she has free movie passes), then I'll decorate. Yay.
Cookie Elf
My last gig helping the American Blues Theater had been as a greeter at an event held at the Bridgeview Bank, a locale used in the shooting of the movie "Public Enemies," about John Dillinger. So it's only fitting that my next volunteer gig for this group would be at the Biograph Theater, where Dillinger was gunned down.
The Biograph is no longer a movie house; instead, it is home to the Victory Gardens Theater, and has two stages, a main and a smaller stage. American Blues is performing a staged radio play of "It's a Wonderful Life," and they needed volunteers to hand out milk and cookies after the show. I agreed to do tonight and a couple of shows next week - why not; it costs me nothing, I get out of the house, and networking is key.
So I showed up before the show ended, and was shown the kitchen, etc. I set up the cookies and cups outside the theater entrance (the show is in the smaller upstairs theater, right next to the kitchen, making it very convenient.) It's a very nice theater, very nicely redone. There is a rehearsal space on the other side of the kitchen, and I stood there, munching on a cookie, thinking about Dillinger and the history of the place.
The show ended, patrons came out, and I was Cookie and Milk Barista. I worked the crowd, and said hello to ABC members I'd met before. As with all free things, the food went quickly. I cleaned up, got things ready for the person doing tomorrow's matinee, and headed out.
On the sidewalk, a couple was waiting for the valet to bring their car. They smiled at me, and the woman said something.
"Excuse me?"
"I said, we really loved gthe show; your performance was wonderful."
And again, people think I"m someone. Happens. All. The. Time.
"I was the cookie girl. I gave out cookies after the show. But thank you for thinking I'm someone," I laughed.
They laughed, embarrassed, and I headed for the El. I thought about this amusing exchange, and realized that the women in the ABC show are tall with long brown hair; there is no mistaking me for one of them. So the couple must have seen "The Snow Queen," which was playing on the main stage.
I wonder who I was?
The Biograph is no longer a movie house; instead, it is home to the Victory Gardens Theater, and has two stages, a main and a smaller stage. American Blues is performing a staged radio play of "It's a Wonderful Life," and they needed volunteers to hand out milk and cookies after the show. I agreed to do tonight and a couple of shows next week - why not; it costs me nothing, I get out of the house, and networking is key.
So I showed up before the show ended, and was shown the kitchen, etc. I set up the cookies and cups outside the theater entrance (the show is in the smaller upstairs theater, right next to the kitchen, making it very convenient.) It's a very nice theater, very nicely redone. There is a rehearsal space on the other side of the kitchen, and I stood there, munching on a cookie, thinking about Dillinger and the history of the place.
The show ended, patrons came out, and I was Cookie and Milk Barista. I worked the crowd, and said hello to ABC members I'd met before. As with all free things, the food went quickly. I cleaned up, got things ready for the person doing tomorrow's matinee, and headed out.
On the sidewalk, a couple was waiting for the valet to bring their car. They smiled at me, and the woman said something.
"Excuse me?"
"I said, we really loved gthe show; your performance was wonderful."
And again, people think I"m someone. Happens. All. The. Time.
"I was the cookie girl. I gave out cookies after the show. But thank you for thinking I'm someone," I laughed.
They laughed, embarrassed, and I headed for the El. I thought about this amusing exchange, and realized that the women in the ABC show are tall with long brown hair; there is no mistaking me for one of them. So the couple must have seen "The Snow Queen," which was playing on the main stage.
I wonder who I was?
Saturday, November 28, 2009
I wish they all could be Massachusetts girls....
A friend of mine is a non-performing member of a local theater company, which recently had a fundraiser. It was held at the Bridgeview Bank in Uptown, notable for its use as the setting in the trailer for Public Enemies. We were in the upper rotunda, which is the original banking area, a round vaulted marble room with teller windows and writing stations. It promised to be a swank event, and the organizer had arranged for her friend Olympia Dukakis to attend and participate. General tickets were $75; for a mere $125 you could also attend the VIP reception and meet the divine Ms. D.
Even while employed, I would have found this a bit hefty, so when my friend told me they needed volunteers to work the event, I jumped at the chance. I arrived and met my fellow volunteers, a bunch of very nice and funny women.
I ended up doing Door Duty with H---, a woman who had run tech at a one-off fundraising show in which I'd had an offstage speaking part. She was very nice, but a little door-matty. We got ourselves situated and prepared for the guests. We had a list and had been instructed to check people off when they came, and to take credit-card information if they wanted to bid at the auction.
Now, whenever I start to think it might be fun to get back into acting, all I need is an evening around Theater People to remember what I didn't like about the whole scene.
A man walked through the doors.
"Hi, can I take you name?" I smiled.
"I'm with the ensemble."
"Wonderful. And your name is?"
"Oh, I know him -- go ahead you're fine," H--- stammered.
The man went upstairs.
"He's an ensemble member, H-- said."
"And being an ensemble member means you forget your own name?" I asked. "I'm supposed to keep track of who's here."
A large, mannish older woman resembling nothing so much as a white-haired army tank -- an army tank that did not tell if you did not ask -- bellied up to the table and frowned at me.
"Hi," I smiled. "And your name please?" The woman glowered at me.
"OH! She's fine! " said H---, jumping up, and throwing her arms around the woman, who weakly returned the hug but not the smile. "Hell-O Greta! It's SO good to see you!! You go right on up," she said, in a voice so oily I could feel my face breaking out. "We know who YOU are."
"Is there an elevator?" Greta scowled.
"Oh, yes, of course!" and H--- led her away to it.
When she returned, she said in hushed tones, "Greta's an agent."
"And is she going to get me work? Is that why I'm supposed to care?" I asked, getting tired of the smell of ass on H--'s breath.
"She's a really big donor," H-- explained.
"Look," I said. "I'm here to help the theater company, and I'm going to be professional and sweet as pie to everyone who comes in, no matter what their delusions of grandeur. But I'm having trouble understanding how any of this justifies being an asshole."
I took a break and went upstairs, where I pounced on the passed trays of hors d'oeuvres and gazed furtively at Olympia Dukakis mingling and being extremely nice.
"Now, see," I said to one of the other volunteers, who'd also noticed some bad cases of Prima donna, "She is fabulous. She is amazing. And because she's fabulous and amazing, she does not have to impress anyone by being an insecure diva."
I should mention that there were a lot of very, very nice people there, too. Most of the ensemble members I've met have been fun people.
I went back to Door duty, where I resumed checking people in and taking credit-card information. Of course, there were people who got paranoid about this.
"So if I bid and don't win, you destroy this information, right?"
Good Lord. After hearing this a number of times, I was losing patience. So when a nervous-looking man asked, and H-- said, "Oh, of course, of course - we will destroy it completely," I said, "Speak for yourself; I'm going shopping."
The man looked at me. I smiled sweetly.
"It's just that I'm nervous about giving this information out," he said.
"How many baristas do you hand this card to every day?" I asked.
A couple came in. The woman looked familiar.
"You look familiar," she said.
"Same here," I replied. "But I don't know from where." Drawing on the only performance-related link I could think of, I said, "Second City?"
"Yes, I worked there with name name name name Tina Fey?"
"Um..I was actually just at the Training Center." This is like having a WWII vet ask, "Didn't I see you at the Battle of the Bulge?" and you reply, "I was actually in the Coast Guard."
We tried a few more ideas, came up with nothing, and left it at that. The thing is, people everywhere always think they know me from somewhere. They always think I'm someone famous or notable. It's nice, but also highly bizarre.
Olympia was about to do her reading, so I went back upstairs. She did a reading from Tennessee Williams' "The Milk Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore." She simply stood in the middle of the room in a circle of light, and read into a microphone. She was perhaps twenty feet from me.
I've become so accustomed to mediocre acting that when I see something pure and genuine, it's almost physically overwhelming. I think I stopped breathing several times during the reading, I was so mesmerized. I had goosebumps. She became this complete character with nothing but herself and the script. It was wonderful.
Afterward, she was sitting at the side of the room, chatting with various people. My friend L. came up to me, and I said, "I'd so love to say hello to her but I don't want to be a jerk and butt into her conversations."
"No, it's fine," L said. "C'mon, I'll take your picture with her."
"Really? You think that would be OK?"
"Sure. I had mine taken with her earlier. It's a fundraiser. It's fine."
I walked over, my heart in my throat, put my hand on her arm, and apologized for interrupting her conversation, but could I be obnoxious and have my picture taken with her before I went back to door duty?
"I'm from Massachusetts also, so I've been a fan of the Dukakis family for a long time," I smiled. Of course, I was so nervous I'm pretty sure I rattled it all off so fast that she understood none of it, but she smiled and put her arm around me for the picture. Now in my elaborate fantasies leading up to this night, she'd sign my copy of Tales of the City, we'd chat about Michael's presidential run, and end the night at the Green Mill across the street, where, over drinks, she'd be wildly amused by my impressions of my mother. In reality, I got a smile, I got my picture (still to come from L), and the opportunity to tell her how much I enjoyed her performance. I was happy.
The thing is, watching her perform was more electrifying than anything else, and was worth the whole evening.
As the night wore down, a group of us older volunteers clustered and ganged up on the younger volunteers, who were passing the food.
"Over here, I want some more of those spinach things," called one volunteer whom I loved. She was about my age, had been with the Second City Touring Company, and was now a school teacher. We talked about the irony that so many performers who make so many people laugh are themselves insecure and humorless.
"See that woman over there?" the woman said, pointing across the rotunda at a 60-ish, taciturn dumpy woman. "She's one of the founders of Second City."
"A regular Little Miss Sunshine," I said. I watched as Greta joined her. It became clear that they were a couple, and I couldn't imagine a better match.
Even while employed, I would have found this a bit hefty, so when my friend told me they needed volunteers to work the event, I jumped at the chance. I arrived and met my fellow volunteers, a bunch of very nice and funny women.
I ended up doing Door Duty with H---, a woman who had run tech at a one-off fundraising show in which I'd had an offstage speaking part. She was very nice, but a little door-matty. We got ourselves situated and prepared for the guests. We had a list and had been instructed to check people off when they came, and to take credit-card information if they wanted to bid at the auction.
Now, whenever I start to think it might be fun to get back into acting, all I need is an evening around Theater People to remember what I didn't like about the whole scene.
A man walked through the doors.
"Hi, can I take you name?" I smiled.
"I'm with the ensemble."
"Wonderful. And your name is?"
"Oh, I know him -- go ahead you're fine," H--- stammered.
The man went upstairs.
"He's an ensemble member, H-- said."
"And being an ensemble member means you forget your own name?" I asked. "I'm supposed to keep track of who's here."
A large, mannish older woman resembling nothing so much as a white-haired army tank -- an army tank that did not tell if you did not ask -- bellied up to the table and frowned at me.
"Hi," I smiled. "And your name please?" The woman glowered at me.
"OH! She's fine! " said H---, jumping up, and throwing her arms around the woman, who weakly returned the hug but not the smile. "Hell-O Greta! It's SO good to see you!! You go right on up," she said, in a voice so oily I could feel my face breaking out. "We know who YOU are."
"Is there an elevator?" Greta scowled.
"Oh, yes, of course!" and H--- led her away to it.
When she returned, she said in hushed tones, "Greta's an agent."
"And is she going to get me work? Is that why I'm supposed to care?" I asked, getting tired of the smell of ass on H--'s breath.
"She's a really big donor," H-- explained.
"Look," I said. "I'm here to help the theater company, and I'm going to be professional and sweet as pie to everyone who comes in, no matter what their delusions of grandeur. But I'm having trouble understanding how any of this justifies being an asshole."
I took a break and went upstairs, where I pounced on the passed trays of hors d'oeuvres and gazed furtively at Olympia Dukakis mingling and being extremely nice.
"Now, see," I said to one of the other volunteers, who'd also noticed some bad cases of Prima donna, "She is fabulous. She is amazing. And because she's fabulous and amazing, she does not have to impress anyone by being an insecure diva."
I should mention that there were a lot of very, very nice people there, too. Most of the ensemble members I've met have been fun people.
I went back to Door duty, where I resumed checking people in and taking credit-card information. Of course, there were people who got paranoid about this.
"So if I bid and don't win, you destroy this information, right?"
Good Lord. After hearing this a number of times, I was losing patience. So when a nervous-looking man asked, and H-- said, "Oh, of course, of course - we will destroy it completely," I said, "Speak for yourself; I'm going shopping."
The man looked at me. I smiled sweetly.
"It's just that I'm nervous about giving this information out," he said.
"How many baristas do you hand this card to every day?" I asked.
A couple came in. The woman looked familiar.
"You look familiar," she said.
"Same here," I replied. "But I don't know from where." Drawing on the only performance-related link I could think of, I said, "Second City?"
"Yes, I worked there with name name name name Tina Fey?"
"Um..I was actually just at the Training Center." This is like having a WWII vet ask, "Didn't I see you at the Battle of the Bulge?" and you reply, "I was actually in the Coast Guard."
We tried a few more ideas, came up with nothing, and left it at that. The thing is, people everywhere always think they know me from somewhere. They always think I'm someone famous or notable. It's nice, but also highly bizarre.
Olympia was about to do her reading, so I went back upstairs. She did a reading from Tennessee Williams' "The Milk Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore." She simply stood in the middle of the room in a circle of light, and read into a microphone. She was perhaps twenty feet from me.
I've become so accustomed to mediocre acting that when I see something pure and genuine, it's almost physically overwhelming. I think I stopped breathing several times during the reading, I was so mesmerized. I had goosebumps. She became this complete character with nothing but herself and the script. It was wonderful.
Afterward, she was sitting at the side of the room, chatting with various people. My friend L. came up to me, and I said, "I'd so love to say hello to her but I don't want to be a jerk and butt into her conversations."
"No, it's fine," L said. "C'mon, I'll take your picture with her."
"Really? You think that would be OK?"
"Sure. I had mine taken with her earlier. It's a fundraiser. It's fine."
I walked over, my heart in my throat, put my hand on her arm, and apologized for interrupting her conversation, but could I be obnoxious and have my picture taken with her before I went back to door duty?
"I'm from Massachusetts also, so I've been a fan of the Dukakis family for a long time," I smiled. Of course, I was so nervous I'm pretty sure I rattled it all off so fast that she understood none of it, but she smiled and put her arm around me for the picture. Now in my elaborate fantasies leading up to this night, she'd sign my copy of Tales of the City, we'd chat about Michael's presidential run, and end the night at the Green Mill across the street, where, over drinks, she'd be wildly amused by my impressions of my mother. In reality, I got a smile, I got my picture (still to come from L), and the opportunity to tell her how much I enjoyed her performance. I was happy.
The thing is, watching her perform was more electrifying than anything else, and was worth the whole evening.
As the night wore down, a group of us older volunteers clustered and ganged up on the younger volunteers, who were passing the food.
"Over here, I want some more of those spinach things," called one volunteer whom I loved. She was about my age, had been with the Second City Touring Company, and was now a school teacher. We talked about the irony that so many performers who make so many people laugh are themselves insecure and humorless.
"See that woman over there?" the woman said, pointing across the rotunda at a 60-ish, taciturn dumpy woman. "She's one of the founders of Second City."
"A regular Little Miss Sunshine," I said. I watched as Greta joined her. It became clear that they were a couple, and I couldn't imagine a better match.
Deja vu
Remember the interview I had? Remember I went to Corporate, they loved me, we clicked, I was scheduled for an interview in Lake Bluff, I went, thought it went well? Well, a few days went by and I heard nothing. I emailed my recruiter and continued to hear nothing.
The following week, a woman from my recruiter's office, a woman I knew, called to tell me my recruiter had been laid off. Now, I confess right here that after 8 months of getting nothing from my recruiter until now (save for a desperate attempt to get me to interview with a bully), I felt some schadenfreude, people. I really did. I was tempted to email her LinkedIn account and say, "How's it feel to be on the begging side? Let me know if I can lend you a coat, because it's COLD out here."
But Other Recruiter informed me that the managing partner from the prospective employer had called her to assure her that I was still in the running; they just needed to "sort a few things out" up in Lake Bluff. OK.
Another week went by, and I heard nothing. It was now another Monday and it had now been two weeks since the second interview. I went to craigslist to look at job postings, and what do I see, but the job posting. The one I'd interviewed for. Company name, and everything. I left a voicemail for Other Recruiter, explaining in that perhaps the delay in response was that they'd decided not to pay a recruiter's fee, given that I'd just seen a new positing on craigslist.
The kicker is, because I was introduced to them through the recruiter, I could not apply for the job directly. On the bright side, I don't want to work for people that behave this way. Oh, and the recruiter? Has yet to call me back. It's been about a month now.
I don't mind not getting the job; what I mind is being strung along without the common courtesy of a response. It's like the entire business world has taken on the Internet Dating Model: meet them, tell them you had a great time and want to do it again sometime, and then just ignore them and hope they take the hint. I don't understand how our economy is supposed to get better unless people grow some manners. It's a business climate of children.
The following week, a woman from my recruiter's office, a woman I knew, called to tell me my recruiter had been laid off. Now, I confess right here that after 8 months of getting nothing from my recruiter until now (save for a desperate attempt to get me to interview with a bully), I felt some schadenfreude, people. I really did. I was tempted to email her LinkedIn account and say, "How's it feel to be on the begging side? Let me know if I can lend you a coat, because it's COLD out here."
But Other Recruiter informed me that the managing partner from the prospective employer had called her to assure her that I was still in the running; they just needed to "sort a few things out" up in Lake Bluff. OK.
Another week went by, and I heard nothing. It was now another Monday and it had now been two weeks since the second interview. I went to craigslist to look at job postings, and what do I see, but the job posting. The one I'd interviewed for. Company name, and everything. I left a voicemail for Other Recruiter, explaining in that perhaps the delay in response was that they'd decided not to pay a recruiter's fee, given that I'd just seen a new positing on craigslist.
The kicker is, because I was introduced to them through the recruiter, I could not apply for the job directly. On the bright side, I don't want to work for people that behave this way. Oh, and the recruiter? Has yet to call me back. It's been about a month now.
I don't mind not getting the job; what I mind is being strung along without the common courtesy of a response. It's like the entire business world has taken on the Internet Dating Model: meet them, tell them you had a great time and want to do it again sometime, and then just ignore them and hope they take the hint. I don't understand how our economy is supposed to get better unless people grow some manners. It's a business climate of children.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Might have to take the B.
Missing a horticulture class Monday; I will be working a gala event for a friend of mine. "Why?" you ask? Well, because, broke as I am and unable to afford a ticket, I will happily don cocktail attire and help set up and work the event if it means I get to meet Olympia Dukakis. And hopefully get her to relay to her cousin Michael that I'm so sorry for making a fool of myself when I met him several years ago at a Dorchester fundraiser. Yes, when the Edge signed my denim jacket, I took it in stride; when I met Patrick Stewart at a fundraiser at the Boston Park Plaza, I merely smiled and hyperventilated while he signed my program (p.s., he's just as hot in person. And very nice.) But when I met my political hero, I became a gibbering idiot. GIBBERING.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
You should have seen Ethylene Pam....
So Horticulture class has been chugging along. Got an A on my mid-term, am learning a decent amount, but the text remains brutal and the focus seems to be on large-scale commercial agriculture. It's all I can do not to scream when I read things like, "Perhaps someday we can discover how to reduce transpiration to save water." (Transpiration is the process by which plants take water from the ground and put it into the air. It's what makes them temperature regulators, and our allies in fighting global warming.)
The more I learn, not only am I more fascinated, I'm horrified. I walk into the produce department, even at Whole Foods, and as I read signs telling me of the various near and far origins of various fruits and vegetables, my mind fills with images of artificially applied Plant Growth Regulators, Controlled and Modified Environments, CO2 and ethylene saturation. I know most of this stuff has been picked Mature Green, and that a ton of energy (mostly from fossil fuels) has gone into presenting what I see before me. I know that nutrition decays first, then flavor, then appearance.
"You lie," I whisper to the bright, pure-looking fruit..
And at the bottom of it all, I get this sense that most of this knowledge that I struggle to remember is something any decent farmer, or someone who grew up knowing how to feed themselves just.. knows. That understanding how food grows should be something we all know, rather than have to learn from a text book. For instance, many people know that in order to hasten the ripening of bananas, you put them in a paper bag. I now know that this is because bananas give off ethylene, a maturation hormone, and trapping it and concentrating it in the bag hastens the bananas' ripening, (and that of other fruit put in there with them). But is it important to know this, or sufficient just to know that it works? In other words, is someone who knows to do this less knowledgeable because they don't understand the chemical process?
Still waiting to hear whether I'll get into the Master Gardener Program. With that practical grounding, I'll pursue private permaculture studies. And if I still don't have a job next summer, I'll see about interning at a farm.
The more I learn, not only am I more fascinated, I'm horrified. I walk into the produce department, even at Whole Foods, and as I read signs telling me of the various near and far origins of various fruits and vegetables, my mind fills with images of artificially applied Plant Growth Regulators, Controlled and Modified Environments, CO2 and ethylene saturation. I know most of this stuff has been picked Mature Green, and that a ton of energy (mostly from fossil fuels) has gone into presenting what I see before me. I know that nutrition decays first, then flavor, then appearance.
"You lie," I whisper to the bright, pure-looking fruit..
And at the bottom of it all, I get this sense that most of this knowledge that I struggle to remember is something any decent farmer, or someone who grew up knowing how to feed themselves just.. knows. That understanding how food grows should be something we all know, rather than have to learn from a text book. For instance, many people know that in order to hasten the ripening of bananas, you put them in a paper bag. I now know that this is because bananas give off ethylene, a maturation hormone, and trapping it and concentrating it in the bag hastens the bananas' ripening, (and that of other fruit put in there with them). But is it important to know this, or sufficient just to know that it works? In other words, is someone who knows to do this less knowledgeable because they don't understand the chemical process?
Still waiting to hear whether I'll get into the Master Gardener Program. With that practical grounding, I'll pursue private permaculture studies. And if I still don't have a job next summer, I'll see about interning at a farm.
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