Ben Hewitt's Blog, page 66

The Affliction

The boys made sandals with Nate. Materials: Rawhide and the coat of Scottish Highland cattle

Not long after $AVED was released, and shortly after I’d been interviewed on New Hampshire Public Radio, I received an email. The email was from a fellow who’d heard the interview, in which I’d gone into some detail regarding Erik’s and my family’s finances. He was perfectly polite, but his primary reason for contacting me was to point out, in no uncertain terms, that Erik and my family survive only at the behest of hardworking folks like himself, whose tax dollars are essential to the delivery of services upon which my friend, my loved ones, and myself depend.

In other words, that we are basically free loaders.

Of course, this issue is hugely relevant to the discussion of health care. As Tonya noted in yesterday’s comments “our family gets questioned about this often – how dare we choose to live in the way we do and have others pay for our healthcare…” 

Let me begin by saying that my family does rely on subsidized health care for our infrequent visits to practitioners who even accept insurance in the first place. Historically, the majority of our health care has been conducted outside the meme of insurance, but there have been occasions – such as the time I thought it might be good fun to depart my (long ago sold) motorcycle at speed – upon which we have been dependent on and grateful for the mainstream medical community.

Let me also say that I have complete empathy for those who feel bitter and exploited by folks like myself and Erik who have chosen a life path that is unlikely to result in the sort of financial remuneration that allows for the purchase of health insurance on the free market. It is a bitterness that is stoked and fanned from almost every corner of our culture, and one can hardly blame them from having become infected by it.

But while I have empathy for this view, I cannot help but point out that it is generally blind to the systemic arrangements which quietly (and not-so-quietly) define what our society values. It is blind to the truth that the very reason so many in our nation must depend on government for essential goods and services is precisely because we have commodified these goods and services. And in the process, we have heavily subsidized the commodity providers of these goods and services, tilting the regulatory and rule making scales in ways that enable these providers to stash billions upon billions of dollars in tax-sheltered off-shore accounts, even as they suck the true wealth of natural and human resources out of our nation’s towns and communities.

I happen to believe that health care should be a basic human right, and no more so than in a society where so many aspects of the fundamental building blocks of good health – clean air, clean water, clean soil, clean food – have been taken from us by the very same industries that are so heavily favored by tax and regulatory law. The tragic irony is that the very arrangements that are making it increasingly difficult for working class families to afford health care without subsidization are the very same arrangements that are forcing them to become more and more dependent on the health care system in the first place.

Furthermore, I happen to believe that people contribute to society in ways that are far more profound and affecting that mere dollars. I’m not terribly comfortable trumpeting my own non-dollar-denominated contributions to my community and society at large, but I am very comfortable speaking of Erik’s. And what I have seen is that Erik’s impact on the children he works with is overwhelmingly positive. Indeed, since the book came out, I have received emails from parents who feel incredibly grateful that Erik has been a part of their children’s lives.

I believe this is what Erik is called to do, and I know that the world is a better place for his doing it. I am struck by the moneyed economic arrangements that define his value to society as being less than $10,000 per year, while someone who trades in complex financial instruments, or markets the sort of superfluous consumer gadgetry that continues to erode our relationships to one another and the natural world, all the while benefiting from the regulatory and tax codes that heavily subsidize their chosen professions, is able to command more than enough income to pay for the basic facets of their well-being on the commodity market.

So yeah, while I have empathy for the view represented by the email I received and the comments Tonya gets, and I feel badly that we inhabit an economy where people are compelled to feel so ungenerous, I am entirely unapologetic regarding my family’s dependence on subsidies to afford health care. Furthermore, I am struck by the fact that both conditions – that sense of bitterness and stinginess, and the broader societal and economic arrangements that compel so many of us rely on subsidized health care – arise from precisely the same place. They are both the result of our society having become afflicted by the mentality of money. And that, my friends, is the affliction that is truly making us sick.

The Keys

Fun with garlic scapes

Over the past couple weeks, a handful of themes have come to dominate the numerous conversations I’ve had regarding money and wealth. It will probably not surprise any of you to hear that one of those themes is health care. I suppose I could have anticipated this, although frankly, I didn’t. Which is only indicative of yet another of my privileges: To be healthy and to have a spouse and sons that are healthy.

At the risk of giving away the whole darn point of this post in only the second paragraph, let’s be very, very clear: Our so-called “health-care” system is much less about keeping us healthy, as it is about treating and profiting from the numerous preventable diseases and conditions that prevail in 21st century America. Ironically (or maybe not), many of these conditions are the direct result of having monetized practically every aspect of human well-being. What’s that? You’d like an example? But of course.

Let us consider diabetes. Right now, the global market for diabetes drugs is currently in the $40 billion range, and is projected to reach $118 billion over just the next half-dozen years. And get this: The incidence of adult diabetes is projected to double by 2050, to the point where it will afflict one in three Americans. One can only imagine how much profit will be realized when fully one-third of us depend on diabetes treatment simply to live. For those of you whose moral compass is pointed due south, to the gates of hell, here is my advice: Diabetes. It’s a growth market. Invest now.

Why are we becoming so damn sick? Could it be because we have chosen to feed our populace from an ethos of quantity and profit, rather than quality and reverence? Yeah, I’d say it could be. Could it be because many of us feel as if our lives have been hijacked by debt and by the social pressures that compel us to assume a particular lifestyle, one that simply does not allow us the time to feed our bodies and spirits in a manner that is truly nourishing? Yeah, I’d say it could be. Could it be that one of the factors that keeps us from living in a manner that is truly aligned with our belief system and spirit is – get this – our fear of losing health care benefits? And that by not living in accordance with what we truly believe and know to be true, we become increasingly vulnerable to the omnipresent messaging that what we truly believe and know to be true is, in fact, false.


It’s certainly not just diabetes. Consider that between 2006 and 2010, sales of behavioral modification drugs like Ritalin and Adderall increased 83% to over $7 billion annually. Why? Does anyone really think there was an 83% rise in the incidence of the conditions for which these drugs are prescribed over just four years? And if that were really the case, wouldn’t our so called “health care” system – if it were truly interested in keeping us healthy – be as invested in figuring out why such an increase was happening as it was in treating the resultant symptoms?


Here is the truth: We do not have a health care system. We have a profit-care system, because that is what it truly cares about: profit. The manner in which we care for the health of the people of this nation has been perverted by the mentality of money. Just as the manner in which we feed the people of this nation, or govern the people of this nation, or educate the people of this nation has been perverted by the mentality of money. And so long as we continue to fatten the profit-care system with our money and our spirits, it will only continue to rot from the inside out.


This is all cold comfort to those who are already dependent on the dominant profit-care system. I realize that, and I have tremendous empathy for those who can see no alternative but to continue working a job and inhabiting a lifestyle they know is killing the spirit simply so they can keep the body alive. This is the true tragedy of the commodified arrangements of our time: They turn us into both curators and dependents.


But for those of you who are so blessed as to have choices, I urge you to do everything in your power to support the alternatives that exist outside these bloody rotten institutions that view us as no more than pockets to be picked. I urge you to do everything in your power to maintain your good health and vitality, along with the clarity of your belief that your worth as a person is not one iota dependent on capitulating to social pressures around the clothes you wear, the car you drive, the house you inhabit, the friends you keep, the education you get, the forces you should fear, what constitutes security, and so on.


I urge these things because they are, in so many ways, the keys to your freedom.

Filthy Tired Rich

The past few days have been among the most hectic, rewarding, and flat-out delightful of my hopefully-not-yet-even-half-over life. On Thursday we got the call that our help was needed in the field, so the four of us skedaddled across the valley, where I commenced to fire up Martha’s big John Deere and ted hay (this is the process by which mown hay is whirled and spread with an egg-beater like attachment known as a “tedder” so that it might better dry under each precious minute of sun). I love tedding; it’s the most brainless of all haying tasks – a freaking monkey could do it, which makes me particularly suited for the job – and basically consists of riding long, looping circles through the field under the high, hot solstice sun. Hell, yeah.

Whilst I tedded, Penny and Martha raked the dry hay into windrows, and every so often, I’d catch a glimpse of one of them atop the old Farmall’s, sitting tall in the seat, the rakes leaving endless dusky green waves in their wake. The boys, I knew, were fishing in the little pond at one corner of the 25-acre field, and for a couple of hours I was blessed by the sense that every little thing in my life was exactly as it should be. A field full of hay, a sky full of sun, my boys terrorizing the local population of perch, my wife waving from across the field, even the old, hot, snorting tractor beneath me: What more, really, could I even want?

I departed the field in early afternoon, en route to dinner with Jim and Wendy and a reading at Battenkill Books, in the profoundly lovely little town of Cambridge, NY. The post-reading conversation was exactly as lively as I’ve almost becoming accustomed to, and I was tremendously pleased to finally meet the indefatigable and hugely inspiring Jenna Woginrich, along with Jon “I did five blog posts before you even woke up” Katz. By a quarter to twelve, I was pulling back into our driveway and past Melvin’s hayfield, where, at the far end of the field, I could just see the lights of his big New Holland. Haying at midnight. Here’s an idea: Don’t ever complain about the price of a gallon of milk again. Not that you would. Just sayin’.

By 5 the next morning, we were deep into chores and preparing for a huge day. Twenty-five acres of square bales ain’t no joke, particularly since Martha’s baler does not have a kicker, the contraption that hurls bales high into the air and (usually) into the wagon behind. I’ll cut to the chase and just say that by 9:00 that night, we had each and every last bale off the field and under cover, at which point we collapsed into our beds, bodies still covered in the souring, half-dried sweat of our exertions, to which innumerable bits of chafe had become stuck.

Friday, I was up early and on the road to Woodstock, NY for Barnfest, a wonderful event made all the more wonderful by the surprise appearance of a friend I had not seen in nearly two full decades. I had not even known he lived in the area, and we spent five full hours chatting and eating and drinking and again I had that sense of all the odd little pieces of my life slipping into place, like the completion of a puzzle you didn’t even know you were putting together.

I suppose there is no real point to this post, which is probably indicative of the fact that I am currently walking a ragged edge of exhaustion. But it is a good exhaustion, a tangible sense of satisfaction and gratification for a barn that is full of hay, the work that put it there, the blessing of being invited into so many conversations, and friends that appear after decades of absence. So, yeah, I’m tired. But as the subtitle of $AVED suggests, I’m also feeling like the richest guy in the world.

And in a strange way, I know that even my fatigue is part of my wealth.

Light Shines Through

See that waist high grass? That’s the return on last year’s investment of minerals and manure

Quick reminder: I’ll be at Battenkill Books in Cambridge, NY tonight. 7 pm. Come on out! 

The launch of $AVED has gone far better than I could ever have imagined, particularly given that the book has not yet captured the attention of the national media. As I wrote in the shamelessly self-promotional post that I then removed, this is in some ways ok: There are many ways for a book to find readers, particularly in this era of Interwebs connectivity, and I suspect $AVED might just be one of those word-of-mouth books that never really gets a big media boost. On the other hand, if you’re reading this Oprah, I’m game.

Of all the things that have happened over the past week that have made me feel as if this book was worth the effort, the one I’m most pleased about was an email from an instructor of the Financial Literacy program at a local high school. He’s thinking of assigning $AVED to his class and is wondering if I might come in and talk to his students when the fall semester commences. Well, hot damn: Impressionable young minds. Really, what could be better? And to think, this was the very high school I dropped out of 25-odd years ago. Life is such a strange and interesting journey, is it not?

It is amazing how frequently the subject of children and education in the context of money and economy has come up over the past couple weeks, and most often in conjunction with yet another aspect of our society’s desire to accumulate far, far more than we need: Fear. In short (and of course it is far more nuanced than this, but hey, this is a freakin’ blog post, not another book!), parental fear regarding our children’s future compels us to force them into educational arrangements that we flat-out know are not honoring their human spirit but which, we dearly hope, will prepare them for the sad realities of the 21st century economy. This is the exchange: Spirit for solvency. Passion for prosperity. But of course it is merely a conditional solvency and prosperity, hinging on institutions that will keep us solvent and prosperous only so long as we can afford for them to.

I understand why parents feel compelled to make these choices. There is little support for an alternate view. And yet, over the past week or so, having had innumerable conversations about these very issues, I see that cracks are opening in so many assumptions regarding money and all the ways it defines our relationships with the facets of our well-being. With what it means to simply be human.

And do you know what happens when cracks open? That’s right: Light shines through.

Investing For Fun and Profit

Fin spent two hours making a bee-catching box, caught a bee, fed it sugar water, and settled in for some good ol’ fashioned entertainment

Last night, after I returned home from a reading and an interview on VPR’s Vermont Edition, Penny – who’d listened to the interview – dressed me down a bit. “You didn’t talk about our investments,” she said, and for a moment, I was a little puzzled, because like most people, my definition of “investment” has been hijacked by the mentality of money. In other words, exactly what investments was she thinking I should have mentioned? The $50 in small bills we have stuffed under our mattress? The half gallon jar of pennies sitting on my desk?

As should be entirely obvious by now, Penny is infinitely wiser than me, and therefore able to clearly see that the realm of investing needn’t be solely about money and finance. It needn’t be about flipping condos, or precious metals. It needn’t be about stocks and bonds and convoluted financial instruments that are generally rooted in the assumption that’s it’s perfectly ethical to screw someone else or ravage the environment in the name of profit. I mean, hey, we live in a dog-eat-dog world. If you ain’t getting yours, someone else is.

But of course these are not the only things we can invest in. I am starting to wonder what the world would look like if we applied the same ingenuity we apply to investing in money and finance to investing in the things that really matter, the things that provide true, unconditional security, not the strictly conditional security of that comes of relying on institutions that are both too big to fail (which almost certainly means they ultimately will) and beyond the sphere of our personal influence. Because let’s be crystal clear: These institutions care for you only so much as you can afford to have them care for you. It’s like paying for love, and we all know how that generally works out.

So the next time I have an opportunity (today, as it turns out: I’ll be on KERA’s Think program at 12:00 central, if you happen to be hanging in Texas and wanting to talk about this stuff) to discuss my family’s investments, here’s what I’m going to say:

Yes, it is true that we do not have much in the way of investments, in so much as investments are assumed to mean money and other assets that can readily be exchanged for money. But this does not mean we are not investing. Indeed, we are always investing: In our land, in our relationships with friends and neighbors, in our children, and in the skills that enable us to thrive outside the realm of money and finance. The tragic irony of monetary investments is that they inevitably divest us of the unconditional security that comes of immersing ourselves in family, community, skills, and the natural world, because if we spend the bulk of our waking hours in a quest for financial accumulation, there is little time or energy remaining to invest in anything else. So yeah, some people buy stocks and bonds in a quest for security. Me, I’m planting trees, putting up hay with the neighbors, and learning how to use hand tools with my boys. And darned if these don’t feel like the most profitable investments I could be making. 

Do I Dare Make a Stupid Joke About Driving a Ford? And the Winner is…

You know, you go your whole life thinking you ain’t never gonna amount to much. Your parents telling you that if you don’t get your act together, yer gonna end up living on a little hill farm in northern Vermont with a couple of wild-ass children and some half-baked “career” as a writer or something, spending all your spare time slopping pigs and mucking out barns. Your teachers tell you that if you don’t apply yourself, you’re gonna end up dropping out of high school and never going on to college, and then… why, who knows what awful fate awaits you? Goodness, you might wind up spending your days ruminating on the meaning of money and education and whatnot, making $30k or so per year if you’re good and lucky, and heavens knows you can’t live on that. (BTW, my parents never told me this, nor did any of my teachers. At least not explicitly)

And then. Then, on a magical day in your 41st year, this poster arrives in your inbox. And it’s you and the man you’ve always felt such a deep and abiding kinship to, right next to one another (although isn’t his picture just a bit bigger than mind? I’ll have to talk to the designer…).

Anyway, truth is, this poster cracks me up. I place little-to-no stock in Hollywood celebrity, but I have to say, if there’s any Hollywood celebrity I can sort of enjoy sharing a poster with, it’s Chevy. Or maybe Steve Martin. Now, that would be pretty cool. Maybe next year…

Other stuff this week:

I’ll be on VPR’s Vermont Edition today at noon and again this evening at 7.

I’m reading at Bear Pond Books in Montpelier tonight at 7 (I was worried how this was going to work out until it was explained to me that the evening VT Edition is actually just a rebroadcast. Whew)

Thursday evening, I’m reading at Battenkill Books in Cambridge, NY. Never been there, but they tell me it’s nice.

Saturday, I’ll be chillin’ with Chevy and Jayni at Barnfest. Hope they don’t come at me with that pitchfork.

Hope to see some of you!

Oh yes, and the winner is, for sheer originality and effort and because I’m a sucker for a good story, Anne Kretschmann! Thank you all, and for those of you who didn’t win and can’t afford to buy the book, please consider asking your library to get it.

The tale of twenty-five dollars begins two months ago in a messy barn on a 200 acre farm as far north as you can get without being either in Lake Superior or Canada. We had what felt like an endless spring, the snowiest in over ten years with snow halfway up the buildings into April and the ice remaining on the lakes into late May. When the spring snow finally melted, mud season in red clay country began in earnest. At the crowning peak of this pleasant season, the pond overflowed its banks, diverting itself through the pole barn providing enough water for two geese and a wood duck pair to spend their days swimming between wagon tires. 

The barn was also ‘home’ to a hundred beef mamas and calves with more on their way. The cows were not yet allowed on pasture due to its achingly slow growth. On a miserable, rainy day, a calf chose to make an ungraceful entrance into not only the world but into a flooded messy barn. It is unclear how she landed when she was born (face down?) or if mama simply abandoned her to eat some hay leaving her to flop in the slop. All that is known that when found, she looked like a brown tootsie roll that a child sucked on for an hour, black, covered with brown slimy manure-water. Dottie, the black angus mama, distinguished by a white dot next to her eye, a fairly young cow was already on notice from her prior pregnancies, one of which resulted in a breached dead calf (subsequently becoming a good foster mom to a neighbor’s Holstein calf for which she received another chance.) We quickly loaded up the soggy new calf into a sled for a rough ride to an older drier barn (with pens for new moms and calves to bond in) with Dottie following after a few persuasive human yells.  

For three days, the little black heifer calf and her mama were the picture of happiness and health. Then, the calf contracted the dreaded ‘stomach bugs’. It’s a wonder she survived, but her will to live was great. She got better, then worse, then better. We named her Yo-yo, because she went back and forth so much. Dottie was put on further notice of bad things in her future should the calf die. Then, inexplicably, the stomach bugs turned septicemic, going into her joints and causing partial paralysis to her rear half. Dottie, ever patient, stood over her allowing her to drink without the calf having to stand. 

The calf’s stomach got better, but now it was on to multiple times a day ‘physical therapy’ in the barn, lifting her, making her stand, rubbing her back legs. Eventually, she would try to walk, however her back feet knuckled over and we forced her to straighten them as part of her therapy. Despite our efforts, she developed scabs on the tops of her back feet. 

This is when the real fun began. One evening, several weeks ago, one scab split open revealing black bones indicative of gangrene. A plan was hatched to amputate her hoof, and the following morning she took a pleasant ride in the truck the two miles to the vet. She loved the truck ride as it was her first experience out of the barn, there was plenty to look at, and the breeze felt good. The vet poked, prodded, and her pastern bone came out in his hand, completely black. After some disagreement about where to amputate, her hoof was removed at the dewclaw. The following day, the scab on the other foot split.

For the last three weeks, every night we lay her on her side with one of us holding her 180 pound body still. We’ve discovered that she likes to have a boot to lick while we play vet. We clean both feet and treat them with honey which draws out the infection and silver which sooths and heals. Then, we wrap them with a menagerie of gauze, maxi pads, diapers, stretchy flex wrap, and tape. Yes, I’m sure that the women at the grocery store in town were very perplexed by my shopping cart. She is healing, but everything with this calf is a process. 

The end of the tale of twenty-five dollars is a ‘boot’ contraption made out of a creative combination of a child’s Velcro shoe (cut in half), gorilla glue, and a yogurt cup. That is what twenty-five dollars shall get me in this day and age, a homemade prosthetic hoof for an unfortunate calf with a heck of a will to live. Here on this farm, we honor that will.

The Left Hand

For those of you wondering where yesterday’s post disappeared to, after only a few short hours of life, well, as it turns out, I’m not quite as comfortable with overt self-promotion as I thought. Henceforth, I return to my regularly scheduled broadcast of subvert self-promotion. You have been warned. 

A few nights ago, at my reading in Warner, NH, a young fellow introduced us all to the term “left hand economy,” a reference to the underground economy that prevailed in Soviet Russia in the years before the union disintegrated. I like the term, in part because Penny is a leftie, and I’m keenly aware of the extent to which my personal economy is dependent on her hard work and support, but also for what it stands for: A way of life and commerce that occurs on the fringes of the dominant economy. To me, it speaks of subverting the hierarchal moneyed economy, and if there’s anything that gets me out of bed on those mornings when I’d so much rather drift back into the soft, halcyon world of my subconscious, it’s subverting the hierarchal moneyed economy. That’s actually not entirely true, but I like the way it sounds.

There were two small events from the previous week that I wanted to share, both of which quietly (and hearteningly, I’d say) point to the existence of a left hand economy in my own small corner of the world. So settle in: A little story-telling is about to commence.

On Wednesday morning, our 17-year-old Subaru began to emit a wall of noise from the point at which the exhaust connects to the manifolds. Now, our poor car is challenged in myriad ways – excessive oil consumption, non-functioning door locks, a passenger window that does not lower (which is good, because if it did lower, it would not raise), a sizable rusted-out void in a rear frame member, and so on – but all of these we’ve learned to live with until we stumble across something better or until the car simply disintegrates beneath us. But the exhaust noise? Egads. Awful. And me with many miles to travel over the next few weeks. Even Rush’s 2112 turned up to 11 would do little to sooth the sonic roar emerging from beneath our horseless carriage (as the boys are fond of calling it).

So it was that I found myself in Shon’s garage at 8 on Thursday morning. Yes, he was busy, and had no time to fit me into his normal business hours, but if I came down early, he said, we’d have us a look. Shon is fast, and knows what he’s doing in a way that is almost graceful to watch. He had the manifold studs off, the deficient gaskets smeared with gasket compound, and the whole thing bolted back together, car on the ground and idling quietly (well, as quiet as the ole girl gets) in no more than 30-minutes. “Shon,” I said. “How much do I owe you?”

He squinted at me through the smoke rising off his cigarette. “I don’t know… you got five bucks on ya?”

The next day (and this is again motor related, which does make one wonder, does it not?), our neighbor came over to help diagnose a frustrating and recurrent problem with the sawmill, involving frequently fouled spark plugs. We puttered for little while, before he determined that I had a bad right side coil that was not providing sufficient spark to the plug. “Here’s what you need to do,” he said, and showed me exactly how to replace the coil and set the appropriate gap between the flywheel magnet and the coil itself.

“Luke,” I said. “How much do I owe you?”

He glanced over at our little sugaring rig, which is situated within spittin’ distance of the mill. “You got a spare quart of syrup?” he asked. Indeed, I did.

I think a lot about the extent to which it is possible to live wonderfully rich and contented lives on the margins of the moneyed economy. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how I might move my own work into these margins. I have this fantasy – which may never be realized, but then again, maybe it will – that someday I will be able to offer my services on a pay-as-you-are-able basis. How cool would it be if I could simple give away copies of my books, and readers could pay me based on both ability, and what they felt my work is worth to them, personally? (Of course, this raises the thorny possibility that I might actually start receiving bills from those readers who felt I had so utterly wasted their precious time with my drivel).

For now, of course, I remain tethered to the traditional model of publishing: An advance paid out, a book produced and marketed, price affixed to its glossy cover, with no room for negotiation. For now, when someone asks me to come speak at an event, I feel compelled to charge a particular fee, which I will be paid whether or not half the audience winds up slumbering in their seats (for the record, I’m fairly sure this has never happened). How might it change the experience – for me and for them – if I were to be paid based not on what the market has determined is the value for a speaker, but instead on the extent to which my talk enriched their life experience?

In a few days, if weather forecasts hold, we will embark on our annual haying adventures with our dear friend Martha. As I wrote in my keynote at the PASA conference a few months back

the story of our haying with Martha is a story that strikes back at the myth of reliance on industry and corporation for the simple essentials of our lives and it comforts me precisely because it shows how we can survive and even thrive outside this myth. 

The older I get, the more I understand the extent to which the full richness of my life is dependent on all the small exchanges that are, for lack of a better term, part the left hand economy. And I suspect this is true for many, if not most of you. The moneyed economy does not want us to recognize, acknowledge, and participate in this realm (indeed, did you know that barter is actually taxable? Assuming you report it, that is…), but of course that is only because the masters of the moneyed economy have not determined how to profit from these exchanges.

And that, my friends, is a beautiful thing.

Still Free, And Maybe Easier Than You Think!

Due to overwhelming response and a lack of references to classic rock memorabilia, I have extended the “how-you’d-spend-the-$25-you’d-save-not-having-to-buy-$AVED” contest through the weekend. Enter now, operators are standing by!

Stuff and Whatnot

We rocked it out at Warner, NH’s MainStreet BookEnds last night. What an unbelievably awesome place, and I sure did love listening to a little hometown bluegrass in the minutes before my reading. Thanks to everyone who came out!

For those who can’t make it to a reading, and are wondering what all the fuss is about, here are a few recent links to interviews. And a review. Which I haven’t read, but I’m told is favorable. Also, I’ll be on VPR’s Vermont Edition on Tuesday, 6/18 at noon-ish. Upcoming readings and so on listed here.

http://www.concordmonitor.com/home/6791281-95/keeping-my-eyes-open

http://www.nhpr.org/post/author-ben-hewitt-and-his-new-book-saved

http://www.markjohnsonshow.net/in-the-news/tues61113

You’ll Get What You’ll Get

It has rained for so many days now, it is almost impossible to imagine a time when walking down the pasture to move the cows didn’t result in pants soaked to the knee and feet shriveling in the water sluicing through any one of the numerous holes in what was once, many moons ago, a pair of waterproof boots. On most of the fields around us the first cutting of hay still stands, growing taller and thicker by the minute, in precise disproportion to its overall quality. With first cut, you can have quality or quantity, but you can’t really have both. Given all the moisture in the ground, we’re going to need at least four straight days of sun to put up good square bales, and I don’t see that coming any time real soon. Ah, well: As my mother used to say “you’ll get what you’ll get and you won’t get upset.” Actually, she never said that, but I sorta wish she had. It seems like just the thing a young fella needs to hear from time to time.

Last night was the launch of $AVED at my favorite book store in the galaxy (heh. That’s pretty funny). I try very hard to have no expectations going into these sort of events; I’ve done readings in front of hundreds and maybe even thousands of people, and I’ve done them in front of a handful. Both are rewarding in their own way, although it’s true that it can be a little dispiriting to be talking at a bunch of empty seats. So when I arrived at the Galaxy 20 minutes or so before my reading, I was a bit alarmed to see the number of chairs they’d put out. From the perspective of my fragile psyche, I’d far rather read to 10 people sitting in 8 chairs (however they’d manage that), than 15 people sitting in 25 chairs. Whenever Sandy and Linda and Diane weren’t looking, I quietly folded up a chair or two and placed them out of sight. Actually, I didn’t. But I sort of wanted to.

By gum, we packed the place. I’m tempted to say it was standing room only, but that sounds a bit self-aggrandizing, so I won’t. But it was darn close. Best of all, Erik, the main protagonist of $AVED, showed up, and we had a rousing conversation – me and him and many, many of the folks in attendance – about money and wealth and nature and education and inequality and… well, about everything, it seemed like. At the end, after a solid 90 minutes of conversation, I received perhaps the biggest compliment of my so-called professional career when someone in the back called out “I think you guys should just keep talking.” Penny, I could see, was nearly aghast: Someone asking me to keep talking? Did they have any freakin’ idea what they might be getting themselves into?

Of course, this is not how it will be for all of my events. At some point over the next month or so, I’m likely to find myself standing in front of 15 people and a couple dozen chairs. Or even 5 people and a couple dozen chairs. That’s ok. It’s great, even, if only because we all need a bit of humbling now and then, a reminder that we’ll get what we’ll get, and that furthermore, it is almost certain to be just enough.