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Published: August 21st 2008
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All That The Light Touches
Tranquilizer dart behind her at last, Percy resumes her accustomed role as lord of the jungle. Day 7: Westward Hoe! Like a stubborn case of chlamydia, Kansas just won't go away. We capped off our enchanting stay in Junction City with a memorable breakfast gathered from the overflowing shelves at WalMart (irradiated apples, armageddon-ready Hostess Streusel cakes, and a 35-pound burlap sack of old carrots). There's nothing that quite compares with a meal eaten in the parking lot of a midwestern superstore.
As many of you know, my most admirable character trait (and there are many) is my unflinching commitment to a progressive environmental politics. From the celebrated national campaign to get the Oklahoma State bird changed from the Scissor-tailed Flycatcher to the Thrice-Inebriated Titmouse, to the stirring protest songs I have penned for the "Plastic or Paper?" wars, I pride myself on being at the forefront of American environmentalism. It was in this spirit that I decided to make a quick stop at The Land Institute in Salina, Kansas. For those of you not in the know, The Land Institute is a research organization started some thirty years ago by Wes Jackson, a biologist and environmental activist interested (like Wendell Berry) in rethinking the shape of agriculture in America. Jackson has been studying the
Jessica's Fall Line
Jessica mistakes The Land Institute for The Fashion Institute and tries to make a runway entrance. native plant species of the Great Plains with the goal of developing a mix of indigenous perennials that can be farmed and harvested as a polyculture rather than the conventional monocultures of industrial agriculture. He wants to come up with a mix of plants that mimic the biodiversity of the plains ecosystem (prairie grasses, wheats, corns, legumes) so that farms can farm without massive infusions of petroleum-based fertilizers, etc. It is, I think, exciting stuff. I had read one of his books,
Becoming Native To This Place, about twelve years ago and it had made quite an impression.
,
So here we were in Salina, Kansas and I thought it would be cool to drop by The Land Institute and see how things were progressing. Unfortunately, it was Sunday and according to their website the office would be closed. Anyhoo, we motored out the gravel road, found the farm, and started wandering around the place. It was deserted except for an alarmingly blonde family of six who had also dropped by to check it out. (The father asked me if I could tell him what this place was about because his wife had only confused him. I immediately launched into
The Jig Is Up
Jessica's smile is strained. I convinced her to come to the Land Institute by telling her it was a pot farm. But she was quick to figure out that you can't smoke the prairie grass. a lengthy disquisition that included phrases like "polycultural complexity" and "biomimetic productivity." He smiled weakly and coughed into his hand.) After Percy had dug up four or five experimental plots of prairie grass and peed in a plastic bucket, we noticed that the Aryans had clustered around someone at the far side of the farm. I immediately set off toward them figuring that it might be a person who could tell us what the hell all the greenhouses and garden patches were supposed to mean.
Once I got there, however, I was psyched to see that it was Wes Jackson himself. Dressed in overalls and radiating a sort of Tom Bombadil-esque air of eco-sensibility, he was explaining to the Nazi Youth why nuclear power was probably not the best option. I listened carefully, biding my time. I was determined to say something really smart, really incisive. Something that would let him know at once that (a) I was an eco-intelligence to be reckoned with, and (b) I was a big fan of his work. Eventually, the Children of the Corn stopped talking (they were saying something about how all of the nuclear waste in the world would only fill
Site of My Victory
Note how I'm white-knuckling the info sheet in my left hand. I'm only moments removed from my "That's not me" debacle. up a football field to one foot deep) and there was a brief pause. "Mr. Jackson," I said, "Didn't you argue at one point that sustainable agriculture could not turn a profit? I seem to remember you suggesting that perhaps local farmers should be supported by donations, much like monks in a monastery..." He was shaking his head before I finished. "No, I would never say something like that." I paled. "You must have me confused with someone else." But now I felt like I had to justify my claims: "I think the idea was that once you take into account an economics of scale, the environmentally responsible farmers couldn't make the numbers work...." "No," he said, squinting over the Kansas prairie, "that wasn't me."
Mission accomplished. Wes Jackson and the folks at The Land Institute now know that there is a new sheriff in Eco-Town. By the by, it may not be a good idea to try and offhandedly resurrect complicated arguments from a book you read twelve years ago. It may cause you to look like a gibbering jackass without the trace of a clue.
Nursing my wounded ego, we hopped back on the road and
Hutchinson!
Birthplace of Rod T. Taylor, Attorney-at-Law headed down to Hutchinson, KS. A few quick notes: Amish restaurants are closed on Sundays--they reserve the Sabbath for whoring and coke orgies; at Chili's, "lime vinaigrette" means neither "lime" nor "vinaigrette"--rather it means "rancid mayonnaise with light green swirl that will give you the shits"; people in Hutchinson have an unholy attachment to grain silos (see accompanying photo essay on "Hutchinson, KS: Birthplace of Rod T. Taylor, Attorney-at-Law"); and, finally, Dodge City reeks of death.
There you have it.
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betsy
non-member comment
Chad, I have seen some fine air-drumming of late, and yours is definitely among the finest. I have no doubt, of course, that just out of frame you are wearing the requisite leopard-print spandex. Why is Jessica always driving, when she's sick? Abusive husband!