A Line Down The Middle—The Landscape of Garry Winogrand’s Photograph, New Mexico 1957

 

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New Mexico 1957 by Garry Winogrand

By Neva Knott

Preface: each term in my composition classes I assign a photo analysis. I wrote this as an example for my students. The photo and the exercise allowed me to blend two of my loves–black and white photograph and nature, specifically thinking about the relationship between human spaces and landscapes.

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A landscape divided. To the left, the carport and driveway of a small ranch-style house. To the right the flatlands and hills of a desert. A baby stands at the top of the driveway, having just emerged from the dark carport. The child’s tricycle lays abandoned on its side further down the drive. The desert in the foreground is dry and only partially covered in patches with shrubbery. There is one larger tree just to the right of the driveway, as if put there for landscaping decoration. The hills in the distance are also dark, shadowed by clouds that gather above them. A cloudscape covers the mountains and also floats above the roof of the house. There is a sense of anticipation in the photograph. The sharp contrast between the human area and the natural area in this photograph, taken by Garry Winogrand in New Mexico, 1957, suggest that humans might be out of place on this desert.

The baby is the brightest object in the frame. She is dressed in white and is standing in front of an almost solid black opening to a carport. Because of this stark contrast, her spot in the photograph becomes the focal point.  White is universally considered a color of innocent, nascence, and hope. While it may be incidental to this photograph that she is dressed in white, when I consider the baby within the setting of the photograph—in front of a new house in a presumably new development—I can infer she is part of the package of, and symbolizes, the pathos of beginnings for this family.

I begin to explore other aspects of the photograph to gain a sense of context for the baby’s positioning. The house stops at the left edge of the image. It covers most of the left of the frame, from bottom to almost the top.  The driveway runs along about three quarters of the bottom edge of the image and dominates the foreground. It is an upward-sloping drive; my eye is drawn along it to the baby and the faint shadow of another person behind. The house is also positioned in front of the picture, though most of it is cut off. The carport is in full view, but only the corner of the house to which it attaches, the edge of a bank of windows on the front of the house, some stones that seem to mark a planter, a patch of dirt not yet planted with grass, and part of the roof, show.  Bare soil extends from the driveway to what I can surmise is the lot line. The house is simple and sparse in design, suggesting that it is a starter home—the type first purchased when a couple begins their life together.

On the right of the carport there is a partial wall that’s held up by a simple ground-to-roof post. The house number, 208, is attached to the post. This low number designates this house as one of the first in the development and furthers the impression of new beginnings.

The partial wall forms a boundary between the house and the land, yet the desert and hills are visible through the space between the wall and carport roof. Beyond the carport wall, four aspects of the desert are depicted. Closest to the driveway is barren except for a few clumps of weed and one decorative palm. A few yards out, presumably at the lot line, some sort of scrub brush grows, standing just a couple of feet tall. Beyond the scrub, a sand pit comprises the middle distance of the image. More vegetation grows around its edges. Just past the sand pit the mountains rise up and meet the sky—just at the top third of the image. The most defined line of mountain peaks  are darkened by cloud cover. Along the side of the foothills is a U-shaped clearing that looks like a road and cul-de-sacs for a future housing development.  In looking at the vegetation surrounding the house, it is easy to see this is not a place that readily supports life.

The clouds are the only element in the photograph that span both human and natural spaces. They run along the top border of the image, whereas the rest of the image is abruptly divided by the line of the driveway and edge of the carport. There is no transition between the house and landscape except for the partial wall in the carport; furthermore, there is no overlap in use of space—the human side is devoid of anything natural, and except for a child’s wagon off to the right, there are no human elements on the natural side of the image.

Aside from the baby and the shadow figure in the carport, the house itself, the driveway, and the U-shaped clearing, the only human elements in the photograph are a child’s tricycle and wagon—both of which were left tipped over, one in the middle of the drive, and one along the lot line, just at the boundary between home and landscape—and an oil spot on the concrete. These indicate a haphazard regard and lack of care for one’s possessions. Toys are not put away, and cars are not maintained. The house itself is quite plain and appears to be kept tidy, but is obviously low-cost. Might the inhabitants be living beyond their means in taking on home ownership and parenthood? If they don’t care for the child’s toys or their own car, will they care for this delicate landscape upon which they live?

A desert is classified as such because of limited rainfall, yet a desert is a hardy landscape. Plants and some animals that live in such places have adapted to manage periods of drought, and extreme temperatures both cold and hot. Humans do not have the capacity to adapt so must convert their homes and man-made spaces to accommodate limited water supply, winters and summers. Humans are naturally unequipped to live within the carrying capacity of a desert landscape. The harsh line in the photograph made by the driveway and edge of the carport creates the impression that the people who live in this house intend to keep separate from the life of the desert, yet the clouds that cross over both parts of the photograph remind the viewer that nature surrounds them and its effects are inescapable, regardless of this delineation. The only connection between the house and the surrounding landscape is one of darkness. The carport is dark as is the line of mountain peaks in the cloud’s shadow. While the baby in her white clothes works to symbolize hope from within the darkness, the darkness of the clouds suggests that nature is the controlling force in this place.

Garry Winogrand is one of my favorite photographers. From my study of his work I know that it was not his practice to set up a shot—he took pictures of what he came upon, of what was in front of him. He chose subject matter based on what he felt would make a good photograph. In studying his work, I’ve come to realize that much of it documents some sort of incongruity between people and the places in which he found them. In this photograph, the incongruity draws my attention to the rationale behind suburban development, and begs the question, at what point must a homeowner consider livability of locale? Moreover, I’m analyzing this image 57 years after its making, at a time in human history where issues of water availability are critical. Photographs capture a moment in time, yet exist in the present and into the future; in this way, Winnogrand’s photograph of a starter home in the New Mexico of 1957 can speak to the importance of choosing a place for one’s nascence that can support life.

 

 

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Nature Walking around Capitol Lake

 

Polaroid of the Capitol from Across the  Lake

The Capitol from across the Lake

By Neva Knott

The Lake’s bottom has been exposed at low tide since the snow storm. Rocks, muck, and detritus are exposed about six feet out from from the shoreline. Today, Sunday, I saw a pair of Mallards pecking in the muck, duck behavior I’d not seen before. I’ve been watching Mallards since I was a little girl living on a different lake, here in Olympia. They were the first wild species I knew to recognize.

Today, Ted–my little black dog–and I are making our way around Capitol Lake. It’s a man-made lake that sits at the mouth of the Deschutes River as it meets Budd Inlet, part of Puget Sound. Before it was a lake, this waterway was tide flats, an ecosystem of river and brackish water. The path we take extends from the Capitol grounds on the south shore hill, weaves down switchbacks that open to a view of the Olympic Mountains far north, and then circles the lake for about a two-mile walk. We’ve been snowbound for over a week, so today I seem to be walking with renewed awareness of nature and place.

During the storm I pondered the importance of snow. I like how it forces quietude and a slowness of human busy-ness. I like the silent softness of a snowy night. I know the importance of snowpack in the water cycle and health of watersheds. This week, I pondered the importance of snow in the climate cycle and how it might work within the structure of global warming. I researched and learned that the snow’s reflection, its albedo, reflects solar radiation back into the atmosphere, helping to keep the planet cool.

Capitol Lake was built in 1951 as a reflection pool for the grandeur of the Capitol building. The Lake has done its job well. Not only is it a spot of beauty at the city’s center, it has always been a gathering place. Each year, Lake Fair plays out in the shoreline park. As a teenager, I loved the carnival rides as they swung out over the water. When I was a little girl, we swam in the Lake, right from the shore down town.  Boating was allowed then, too. Even on a winter’s day like today, walkers, runners, families, and people with dogs circle the water. I feel a part of my community each day we make the trek.

Today, the ducks whose species name I don’t know, those with the velvet black heads, white shoulders and grey side panels, floated in a battalion, in formation across the lake’s surface. Then, on a mysterious cue, they’d take turns diving down, synchronized like swimmers in a show.

Some days, as the tide turns, the ducks float in a cluster, the whole bunch of them moving in circular motion as the water moves.

I wonder what the cold does to them.

Some days, in the ticket just along the shore at the bottom of the switchbacks, I see a blue heron. Today, as we rounded the edge of the lake near the road, a heron flew by, low to the water, magnificent wing span flapping. I’d had a feeling we would see one today.

What creates the lake is an earthen dam and concrete spillway at the north end. This is also where a bridge crosses the waterway, connecting down town to the west side. In college, in the late 80s, my housemate and I fished the salmon run from the “legal” side of the bridge. We were poor and happy to fill our freezer for winter with each day’s limit.

Many days, I see river otter near the spillway. Just one was there today, having toddled out of the water to nudge around in the bramble along the shore. There’s a bridge on the south end of the lake, too, and almost daily I count on seeing three or four otters there, swimming, playing, and when they notice us, watching Ted.

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River Otter, Christmas day

The lake has served good purpose in blending the beauty human architecture and natural. Not only has it reflected the values of community here, it also stands to reflect the changes–and challenges–in environmental science from then to now. Several decades ago, the lake was closed to swimming because of fecal matter from storm water. Too-warm water in the summer months increases algae blooms and makes for poor fish habitat. In 2009, New Zealand mud snails were discovered in the lake and it was closed to boating. And, because the river cannot pulse and flow through as it would in an estuary, sediment–the muck my Mallards were pecking in–is taking over the contents of the lake. As environmental science, particularly wetlands science, as advanced, it has become clear that blocking off river flow is detrimental.

In 2016 the State Legislature began drafting a plan for better management of the Lake. One idea is to take apart the actual lake and let the river remake the land as estuary. There is talk of a “hybrid plan.” And there is the option to leave the Lake as it is. Until change comes, Ted and I will circle the shoreline, watching the ducks, heron, and otters and the ebb tide at sundown.

Ted, exploring the shoreline bulkhead

Restoring the Johnson Creek Watershed with Native Plants

By Neva Knott

Restoring urban watersheds is an important part of developing a city’s green infrastructure. These streams and surrounding landscapes comprise an important ecosystem for wildlife and humans. Urban watersheds are habitat for fish, animals small and large, birds and plants. They also provide important ecosystems services, like filtering rain and groundwater and capturing carbon and other air pollutants. Urban watersheds are landscapes that connect people to nature within the business of city life.

Last Saturday, I donned rubber boots and rain gear and headed out to the Lower Powell Butte Floodplain along Johnson Creek, part of the Johnson Creek Watershed in Portland, Oregon, to lead crews of volunteers for Friends of Trees in planting several species of native trees and shrubs to restore a section of the creek bank.

Map of Johnson Creek

Map of Johnson Creek Watershed

Project History, provided by Friends of Trees: “In partnership with the Johnson Creek Watershed Council and Portland Parks & Recreation we will be planting native trees and shrubs to improve the creek side native plant community.  This project is supported by the East Multnomah Soil & Water Conservation District and Metro. PP & R has been working for a number of years to treat invasive species in the area, primarily Reed Canary Grass, to prepare the site for replanting. This planting will be the second at the site and will expand upon the area planted by Friends of Trees in 2014. FOT has performed summer maintenance and monitoring for the past two seasons to keep invasive species down and help previously planted natives become established. The native trees and shrubs planted here will provide greater wildlife habitat, increase native plant diversity, and enhance water quality by filtering pollutants and assisting with erosion control along Johnson Creek.”

On Saturday, the FOT crew and volunteers planted 690 native trees and shrubs–Black Hawthorne, Oregon Ash, Black Twinberry, Pacific Ninebark, Thimbleberry, Swamp Rose, and Snowberry. These species are often used in stream bed restoration because they tolerate wet-to-dry conditions.

Plant Flags

Each flag identifies where a shrub or tree was planted

My team was in charge of getting the Black Twinberries into the ground. We planted starts–each plant was just about four inches tall, dormant with no leaves or fruit yet, but with vibrant root systems. Thimbleberries grow rapidly though, and form dense thickets up to seven feet tall. The mature shrubs function as habitat in that they provide food for many types of animals, cover from predation for small species, and regulate ground, stream, and air temperature. When our thimbleberries mature, they will bring wildlife to the area–to include several bird species, rabbits, beavers, deer, coyote–helping to create a once-again functioning ecosystem along Johnson Creek.

Teaching volunteers to plant trees is something I enjoy and value because it allows me to help people interact in a very intimate way with the ecosystems we depend on. This past Saturday, I had several seven- to nine-year-old scouts on my team. Planting with children is extra fun; they are so simply in awe of the effects of their own efforts. And, they love finding worms.

Working with Friends of Trees not only allows me to help others connect to nature, understand ecosystems, and find worms, it allows me to learn more about plant species. I am intrigued by ethnobotany–the study of the relationships between plants and people. This cultural value of native plants is another important reason for using them, and is an aspect of plants that can connect the past to the present. A source I regularly look to is The Wild Garden: Hansen’s Northwest Native Plant Database, where I found that First Nations groups harvested thimbleberries for a variety of uses:

  • The leaves were mixed with those of wild strawberry and wild trailing blackberry to make tea
  • The sprouts were collected, peeled, and eaten raw as a vegetable
  • Berries were eaten fresh and dried, sometimes with the addition of clams and pressed into cakes, for winter use
  • While still pink, they were harvested by some tribes and placed in cedar bark bags, water was sprinkled on top and they would ripen in the bag
  • The leaves were also used as padding to line baskets
  • The boiled bark was an ingredient in soap
  • Dried, crushed leaves were laid on burns to prevent scarring

Native plants are most of the choice in restoration work. They allow for a sense of place and let flourish the botanical uniqueness of the region. They attract and feed native insects, birds, and wildlife. Their genetic design allows them to flourish with other native species in the same environment and in that particular set of conditions. And, native plants require fewer inputs–fertilizers and extra water–because they are attuned to the soil and weather of the region.

One of the goals of the restoration work along Johnson Creek is to improve water quality for the salmon who navigate through the watershed to breed and spawn.

Muddy Johnson Creek

Muddy Johnson Creek with clean rainwater in adjacent gully

Johnson Creek is unique in that it is the only salmon-bearing stream in the city. This is significant because salmon are a keystone species in the Pacific Northwest, supporting 137 other species. The viability of salmon is an indicator of watershed quality and health. Salmon also holds high cultural value in the region because it is a traditional ceremonial food of the Native tribes and has long been an emblem of Pacific Northwest culture and cuisine. Salmon definitely is a food that connects past to present and it is a fish species that pulls together the peoples of the region across ecological, economic, and cultural boundaries. A regional ecological concern is water quality for salmon.

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Salmon in stream

The ecosystem services watersheds like Johnson Creek provide serve wildlife and humans; more importantly, watersheds connect nature and humans and remind us that much can be gained by looking to nature for solutions to particular problems of urban (and non-urban) environments. Whereas technological structures, such as sewer pipes underground in a city, serve as solutions to many environmental problems, plants can provide cheaper and more readily usable solutions. Green infrastructure is forward-thinking, often more effective, and always less costly that man-made infrastructure.

There’s a lovely walking and bike path along the creek and our planting area, next time you need a break from hectic city life. And, the thimbleberries ripen in late July.

Media Credits

  • Map of Johnson Creek Watershed: US Geological Survey
  • Thimbleberries: The Wild Garden
  • Salmon in Stream: US Fish and Wildlife
  • All other photographs by Neva Knott

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One of the World’s Largest and Oldest Sustainability Projects

After the difficult winter of 2015, many of us have our hearts and minds transfixed on outdoor gardening activities. In my gardening research, I came across a huge success story in the world of sustainable living. I hope this information will inspire you, as it has me, to begin using a fertilizer brand for your lawn, vegetable and flower gardens that comes from the oldest recycler in the United States.

Over more than 85 years, the City of Milwaukee has undertaken one of the world’s oldest and largest recycling projects. In 1913, the City of Milwaukee created a sewerage commission to clean up the city’s waterways. By 1919, The Milwaukee Sewerage Commission’s laboratory formally adopted a new process for responsible recycling of biosludge. By 1921, all municipal sewers were connected to this system and processed in a central location at Jones Island, on the shore of Lake Michigan. In 1923 construction began on the first large-scale activated sludge plant in the world.  In 1925, the Sewerage Commission concluded that the disposal problem they faced could be solved by producing and marketing fertilizer. In 1974, the Jones Island Wastewater Treatment Plant was named a National Historic Engineering Site by the American Society of Civil Engineers.

Jones Island in 1926. Photo courtesy of the Milwaukee Metropolitan Sewerage District and Michigan State University Turfgrass Information Center

Jones Island in 1926. Photo courtesy of the Milwaukee Metropolitan Sewerage District and Michigan State University Turfgrass Information Center

Specifically, this new sewerage treatment process was the production of solids – the microbes left over from the treatment process and there was one problem. There were 50,000 – 70,000 tons of dried microbes left after the process and no one thought it responsible or even prudent to dispose this volume of waste and potential valuable resource in the landfill.  So the Sewerage Commission joined forces with the University of Wisconsin College Of Agriculture, where Professor Emil Truog and O.J. (Oyvind Juul) Noer began investigating uses of activated sludge as a fertilizer.

Noer determined that the average nutrient analysis of the material was 6.2 percent total nitrogen, with 5.17 percent being water insoluble nitrogen (83% WIN); 2.63 percent available phosphate (P205) and 0.4 percent soluble potash (K20). In his literature review, Noer found that the available nitrogen generally resembled so-called high-grade organic nitrogenous fertilizers and gave superior growth results compared to manures and chemical fertilizers of the time.

Noer experimented with field crops and vegetables and on golf courses, the use of this organic nitrogen fertilizer and found it superior and one-third the cost of other fertilizers commonly used at the time. Also, there was no danger of burning the turf even with over-application and it produced a dark green dense turf without causing excessive top growth. Noer knew he had a commercially viable product when word traveled throughout several golf clubs.

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Courtesy of the Milwaukee Metropolitan Sewerage District and Michigan State University Turfgrass Information Center

Following are examples of how Milorganite has adopted to market changes over the years. In 1926, most of the Milorganite was sold in bulk, but by the mid-1930s it was also packaged in 25, 50 and 100 lb. bags. In 1955, packaging changed to offer 40 and 80 lb. bags and again in the 1970s as 20 kg bags were introduced with the movement to metric in the U.S. Today, Milorganite is sold in a distinctive 36 lb. bag and a 5 lb. bag exclusively for the retail market, 50 lb. bags for the professional market, and reusable bulk bags for large area applications.  The blending market continues to be important as other companies find the nutrient analysis to be a valuable addition to their products.

Milorganite continues to help fund many important research projects at universities across the country including projects that study nutrient leaching and run-off, the effects of different fertility regimes and sources on irrigation requirements, and the effect of Milorganite phosphorus in the environment.

Milorganite summarizes its success as follows:

  • Since 1926: 9.5 billion lbs of waste diverted from landfill to re-use
  • $308 million dollars generated, providing tax relief for residents of Milwaukee
  • 8 million tons of Milorganite sold
  • Milorganite is regulated by the EPA and complies with the most stringent requirements
  • Milorganite uses alternative energy sources such as solar, landfill gas, and digester methane.
  • The Milwaukee Metropolitan Sewerage District (MMSD) is leading the nation in “Green” solutions.

For more information and to determine where to purchase, you can visit Milorganite’s web site. You can watch this video to learn more about the product as well.

7 things to know about California’s drought

Grist

This story was originally published by Mother Jones and is reproduced here as part of the Climate Desk collaboration.

There’s been a lot of talk lately about the drought in California, especially since this past week, when Gov. Jerry Brown introduced mandatory water cuts for the first time in the state’s history. So what exactly makes this drought so bad? And what are people doing about it? Here are a few important points to keep in mind:

Drought is the norm in California. How bad is this one? There are always wet years and dry years, but the past three years have been among the driest on record — and state officials worry that 2015 will be even drier. Last week, for the first time in the state’s history, Brown imposed mandatory water restrictions, requiring all cities and towns to cut their water usage by 25 percent. Though agriculture…

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Chipmunks and Carbon Storage

Sometimes the best positive stories of the environment come from our own backyard. When you sum up the effects of millions of backyard naturalists, the positive impact is significant for the planet. The personal story I am sharing here will hopefully inspire, enlighten and encourage the development of even more backyard biophiliacs.

Last March, several trees were downed in my front yard by a heavy ice storm. Many other trees had significant loss of limbs. The clean up required a professional. Fortunately I am childhood friends with someone who married a certified arborist. He gave me a few options, when possible. One of the options was to either dig up and grind stumps for some pine trees that did not fully erupt from the Earth or to just saw them at the bottom and let them sink back into the Earth as much as possible. Two factors influenced my choice: the price to my wallet to dig and grind the stumps versus the price to the environment to dig and grind the stumps. The price for both was pretty steep.

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Conventional wisdom always chooses to make our lawns “pretty,” often with little regard to the effects of fertilizers, insecticides, pesticides and selection of native plant species instead of ornamental non-native plants. Non-native plants often compete with native plants and rob wildlife of hosting sights and food resources which can only be provided by native plants. Also, one man’s yard trash can be a critter’s mansion. With that in mind, I opted to keep the stumps. I can see the grove of pine trees from my home office window and enjoy watching a great variety of wildlife supporting their lives there on a daily basis. Last week, I had the joy of watching a chipmunk sunning himself on one of the stumps. Chipmunks hibernate and the cutie had emerged from the den beneath the stump on an unseasonably warm day. Smart rodent.

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Wildlife habitat was not my only motivation for keeping the stumps. If you recall the biology of photosynthesis, you know that plants absorb energy from the sun and carbon dioxide from the air around them to fuel themselves. Plants store the carbon that is obtained from the break down of the carbon dioxide molecule and, in most cases, release the oxygen back into the air. Those of you with lungs probably already understand how vitally important oxygen is to all non-plant life.

Graphic from the creative commons.

Graphic from the creative commons.

When vegetation, large or small, dead or alive is made into smaller pieces through chopping, grinding, sawing, mulching or most any other type of processing, it immediately releases a large amount of carbon. Of course, vegetation naturally rots and releases carbon but much more slowly. If you consider that deforestation is occurring on a global scale, thereby decreasing the amount of trees producing oxygen, and couple that with net carbon release because of these activities, it is clearly not a sustainable practice that will support a well-oxygenated planet. When you understand this, you never look at a stump, downed tree, logging operation or old wooden furniture in the same way. In my mind, all these kinds of items have a large invisible label that reads CARBON STORAGE (open with care).

Eastern bluebird fledgling just moments after leaving the nest, perched on stump about 30 feet from bluebird nesting box.

Eastern bluebird fledgling just moments after leaving the nest, perched on stump about 30 feet from bluebird nesting box.

How can you help? Keep that old adage “think globally, act locally” in mind when you engage in lawn and gardening activities. Piles of limbs, old logs, even leaf litter can be used by many animals for many purposes. For more tips on how to make your lawn and garden friendly to wildlife, check out tips at the National Wildife Federation’s website.

The Local Yolk–Beer, Backyard Chickens, and the Business of Building a Sustainable Food System

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By Neva Knott

When the environmental movement began in the 1970s, the focus was on protecting and honoring nature instead of depleting it for human consumption. While this same protection of nature is still at the core of environmental advocacy, a new environmental perspective has emerged recent years, a more personal movement–that of food sourcing.

I’ve heard that the easiest way to go green is to green your food source. It’s certainly the most immediate and possibly the most effective.

To eat within your foodshed, to eat the 100-mile-meal, to know your farmer are practices that benefit your health and promote a green triple bottom line–people, the planet, and profits. In graduate school at Green Mountain College, I learned that most food on the American table travels 2,000 miles before eaten, a shocking and disheartening statistic. John Emrich’s new book, The Local Yolk–Beer, Backyard Chickens and the Business of Building a Sustainable Food System, tells stories of the “good food movement,” the alternative to commercial, bland, environmentally exploitive, well-traveled food.

All writers here at The Ecotone Exchange hold Master’s of Science degrees in Environmental Studies from Green Mountain College. John is no exception–he was one of our cohort there. Previously an investment banker, he now runs Backyard Chicken Run, an urban chicken supply business in Chicago, and gathers stories of other entrepreneurs looking join the local food movement. Though I haven’t yet convinced John to join our team at the EE, I did get his permission to share a segment of his book here.

When I first read The Local Yolk, my heart was warmed by the case studies John had collected, putting faces to the ideal of greening your food source. What most impressed and enthused me, though, was John’s explanations of how to make growing and sourcing good food–sustainable agriculture–a profitable venture. Profitability is story not yet told in, and one that is often easily lost in the check-out line when buying organic, local food. With John’s permission, I give you an excerpt from Chapter 17, Tao Theory: Zen and the Art of Investing in Sustainable Food…

“In my prior life, I had owned shares in one of the publicly traded fertilizer companies, so I understood the “bullish case” for fertilizer from the perspective of the chemical companies: a billion or so people in Asia were moving to the middle class and would switch from a rice diet to a protein diet (i.e., a diet with more meat), generating rising demand for the grains to feed livestock and therefore the inputs of chemical agriculture that made monoculture grain-growing viable on a massive scale. At the time I met with the fertilizer manufacturer, the company was forecasting that the United States would become an exporter of corn to China the following year. The future was bright.

“As I tried to put a value on the organic farm, the light bulb went on. The chemical companies’ gain was the farmers’ pain. The chemical inputs of nitrogen, phosphorous, and potassium were all either directly or indirectly tied to natural resources that would become increasingly scarce and expensive over time, but farmers had to have them to succeed in conventional agriculture. Moreover, industrial farmers buy seed from a monopoly. The two things that an industrial farmer or farm investor could say for sure were that they had no control over their costs, and their costs were going higher. Farm subsidies are often criticized for being a gift to larger corporate farms. They would be more accurately described as a subsidy to the chemical companies and industrial buyers of grain (food processors). The conventional farmer, big or small, is getting little more than his costs reimbursed over a lifetime of work.

“The sustainable farmer doesn’t have the same exposure to cost pressure. After the sun itself, manure is the ultimate renewable resource, replacing the increasingly costly fertilizers. Yet, because I believed in the secular trend towards organic food, the sustainable farmer would continue to benefit from rising market prices for organic crops (for example, organic grains) over time. I was concluding that sustainable farming was a good business investment.”

John writes on to explain the mechanics of Impact Investing and Micro-Lending, and how these strategies can promote the good food movement while providing economic opportunity and promoting environmentally sound agriculture.

The Local Yolk is a smart blend of case stories, anecdotes, background knowledge, and research. You can follow The Local Yolk and Back Yard Chicken Run on Facebook and can learn more about the book at www.thelocalyolkbook.com.