New Day, New Look!

While black and blue American lives struggle to be heard above political rhetoric, fanatic Islamic terrorists plot their next wave of blood and hate, and Pacific Islanders (and so many others) cry out against rapidly rising tides, I wanted to take a moment to tell you there really is such a place as Camp Happiness. And the people who live there really are happy. And fun. And REAL. And wonderful. It's hard to cry when you're busy singing, hard to doubt when there's always a smile and a hug at the ready, and impossible to hate when you're surrounded by so much love. I wish there was a way to package this *peace* I'm feeling and send it out to everyone; I suspect we could all use a little Camp Happiness vibe right about now.

All I've got, though, is a new look. And a new name. I can't say I'm sold on the color scheme, yet, but it might grow on me. Regardless, I hope the changes inspire you to poke around more, read more, share more, and - ultimately - love more. No, I don't have a theme here, but I DO write about things most of us care about, like family, music, life, relationships, toddlers, prostitution, NASCAR, and Willie Nelson. I've even mentioned that Kid Rock guy a time or two.

What I'm trying to say is: If you're looking for a little distraction, there are worse places to be. And I'm happy you're here. :)

~ Dawn

I Am Your River: Part 2

(Continued from Part 1…)

From the west coast, the jam band Displace started making their way through the storm from Tampa. They were scheduled to go on at 4:00, but they didn’t make it. We’d decided to move the stage upstairs to the back house, where the equipment would be safer, and we’d still have enough room for a band and 60 or more spectators, depending on the weather. We had unplugged everything before the lightning started, and had secured the cover, thinking we were good. But, water got in, anyway. I found the microphones in a bag, sitting atop a rain-soaked rug. The speakers got a little spray, and every electrical cord and power strip we’d gathered and saved over the past two years got wet. Guests pitched in and brought everything inside. I blew on the microphones with the cool setting of a hair dryer for 30 minutes. We all prayed for sunshine.

We were expecting over 100 people Saturday night, and had anticipated collecting $2,000 or more. Instead, the rain changed everything; we started an hour and a half late, lost more than half our crowd, and spent almost zero time outside, enjoying the yard, playground, and stage we’d worked so hard to make just right. Everyone was discouraged, including Josh, whose band mates had deserted him. And then, after we fed five starving boys from Tampa and scrounged two dry power strips, the first band played.

Displace (and guest)

I met Displace and their manager in my yard in the middle of the night when the neighbors brought them home following a gig at Guanabanas. (Driving out here with strangers, to the dark back end of our neighborhood, they were surely terrified.) It was a no brainer to invite them. It was a thrill to watch them play for almost two hours in what was essentially our living room. (Loved their “GAS MONEY” jar.) Josh grabbed a stool and a guitar after the boys loaded up and headed west, and he entertained the small, intimate crowd of 30-40 for another hour or so. Again, the atmosphere was electric – magical – and we all sensed we were participating in something very rare and special.

Josh Hayden of Operative Me

Also victims of the weather, along with a grueling “Driving 95 South” tour, John Eddie and the guys arrived exhausted and three hours late. Not spying Kenny in the group, I inquired and learned about his family’s recent loss. My heart sunk, both for him and for the band as they’d be boarding the Kid Rock cruise without him. (His replacement, bassist Ethan Pilzer, played with Big & Rich and Jewel.) While guests helped carry gear upstairs, I welcomed everyone and filled them in on the changes from previous years. It wasn’t what they’d signed up for, but I hoped it would suffice, like it had for the previous bands. When the equipment was inspected, and it was determined the setup wasn’t adequate, we feared JE wouldn’t play at all.

But, he did. And it was the definition of rare and special. Among the twenty or more Kid Rock cruisers in attendance to witness the acoustic set he and P.K. performed were a half dozen or so dedicated souls who’d followed JE and the guys all the way from Jersey. Everyone sang along, and Laura knew every word to every song. She even brought a huge “who the hell is john eddie?” banner for us to hang before the show and a huger tray of hamburger cookies, with a side of chocolate and butterscotch guitars (can you say, mmmm?!). The next day, she sent me this note:

Thank you so much for having us at your party and into your home. I know the weather did not cooperate, but we had an awesome time. It was such a blessing to hear John’s real singing voice without electronics. It was truly a unique experience. Thank you again.

John Eddie and P.K. Lavengood

"John Eddie Unplugged"

Josh and Displace, like the prior bands, walked away happy with tips they never expected. Having agreed to play for donations like everyone else, JE didn’t roll on to Boca to “entertain the poor people” with much more than gas money, either. But, I was impressed he stepped up, anyway, and gave us a glimpse of himself that few are privileged to see. He also walked away with the satisfaction of knowing he’d made it possible for us to promote interaction between local musicians, help build their fan bases, expose diverse musical genres to a new audience, and support Florida musicians who, more often than not, still sleep in the van. I can’t thank him enough and am very proud to have been a part of it.

All that said, the highlight of my roller coaster weekend happened shortly after the music started on Saturday afternoon. Peanut’s daddy brought her over for a couple hours, so she could see music played for real. Her first musical love was Old MacDonald. By the time she reached the ripe age of six months, she was into James Brown and Donna Summer. Three months ago, she was mesmerized by Dorothy’s rendition of Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Lately, she loves First Kiss, but her new favorite is I Am a River by the Foo Fighters; she sings it all the time and often passes out instruments, so everyone can be in the band.

The band from Tampa had just started their set inside, in front of the bay window. Peanut was perched on her daddy’s shoulders as he hustled through the drizzle, ascended the stairs, crossed the deck, and entered the room. Her little blue eyes were transfixed. For several seconds, she didn’t move, only stared at the boys playing all those instruments in her house. Then her arms started to wiggle and her toes started to tap. When she looked down at me, still with a bewildered look on her face, I held out her blue and pink light sticks (gifts from a friend who attended Wanee with us last year). She took one in each hand and started waving them around. Her eyes twinkled, and she gave me a big grin and a tickled laugh. Then she wriggled to get down. And that was the end of that.

She spent almost the entire two-hour set dancing, singing, and playing with the band. And by that, I mean directly in front of the band (scroll up to the Displace photo). If we had allowed her past the extension cords, I’m sure she’d have crawled on top of Tucker’s base drum. She gazed, she studied, and she hysterically mimicked their “in the zone” faces (she seemed to really like Sam). I uncovered her ukulele, lighted tambourine, maracas, and princess keyboard, so she and the other two, only slightly older girls could join in. When she wasn’t front and center, she was dancing outside on the deck, or handing instruments to random people. It was priceless. We literally watched the river flow from the boys to the little girls.

I’ve always known it, subconsciously, but Dave Grohl helped me find the words: We are all connected by an invisible, underground river of music – every kind of music. My grandfather played jazz saxophone; Dad sang silly country songs whenever the mood struck, and Mom sang along with Dionne Warwick in the car; I played classical piano, sax, and percussion, with a little vocals thrown in (and I still sing in the car); my siblings played drums, trumpet, and trombone; my son plays guitar. Everyone in my family and circle of friends loves music. We turn each other on to new artists and sounds all the time, and I have met some of the finest people through those connections. And one person continuously leads me to the next. Whether we play, produce, promote, or just listen, sing, and share, music binds us and carries along its current, on to the next connection. At one and a half, our peanut has already firmly grasped hold of the raft. That makes me the happiest grandma on earth.

When the party was over and the final guests had departed, Scott cleaned out the last of our belongings from the motorhome, climbed into the cockpit, and set a course for Lorida. I followed some thirty minutes later, tired, sore, hoarse, and almost wishing I hadn’t had so much fun over the previous two weeks. On the hour and a half drive, I had time to watch the sun set and reflect. To be honest, I haven’t been this proud of myself in a while; I not only (FINALLY!) found a way to pay Josh Hayden a performance fee – he won’t take our money – we supported live, local music, made new friends, witnessed an amazing transition in our peanut, and overcame some of the most unexpected and bizarre hurdles the Campground’s ever encountered. And we did it with style.

Everything happens for a reason. I don’t know why it rained, but nothing would have been the same if it hadn’t. I don’t know why the same equipment we used last year didn’t work this year, but the evening wouldn’t have turned out like it did if it had. And, I don’t know how that beer got from the top of the table to the top of Canada’s luggage, tucked safely underneath, but…well, I guess there’s no silver lining to that one. Point is, I believe everything happened as it was supposed to; good, bad, or indifferent. And, I am a river. Just like Peanut. Just like you. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let a few rapids get in the way of flowing on to the next connection.

Listen. Play. Sing. Dance. Pass it on.

~ Dawn

I Am Your River: Part 1

“There is a river I’ve found

Into the wild

Under the ground

So here I go.” ~ Dave Grohl

“Don’t try to decipher the meaning of things...replace hatred with music.” ~ Lukas Nelson

“If you can’t see my heart you must be blind.” ~ Kid Rock

“I’ve got a real big deck.” ~ John Eddie

Our 1½-year-old granddaughter experienced a live music performance for the first time this past Saturday. And it wouldn’t have happened without Nashville singer/songwriter John Eddie. While I don’t make a habit of approaching performers on the Kid Rock cruise – or anywhere else, for that matter – I was impressed with JE and His Dirty Old Band when we saw him on the boat in 2012, and I just happened to run into him in a hallway while making a Jack Daniel’s run, so I thought, why not? To my surprise, he actually took a few minutes of his time to chat, which made me even more impressed. We bought a CD, I painted a sign for the signpost at home to direct guests to Scott’s “Real Big Deck” (named after the song), and we chalked up the experience as another amazing CTM ride.

The following year, after an interesting and unexpected chain of events, JE and his band kicked off CTM4 by performing in our back yard. With help from friends, the neighbors and I built a stage, cleaned up the property, coordinated food, snagged a local band (Operative Me) who offered to start the show and play free of charge, and – with only two weeks’ notice – put a Monday night party together that could only be described as “epic.” In 2014, for CTM5, we roasted a whole pig, had our neighbors’ oldest sing the National Anthem (she has the voice of an angel – everybody got chills), brought back Operative Me to open for JE and the band, and rocked the house again. It seemed only natural to do it a third time in 2015.

John Eddie at the "Scott D. & Dawn E. Scovill Amphitheatre at the Campground," 2014

Now, it’s worth mentioning that Scott and I haven’t been on a Chillin’ the Most Cruise since 2013. Some might get the impression our interest is waning. It’s quite the contrary, actually; through Kid Rock, we’ve discovered so many musicians, we decided to take the money we spend on the cruise and, instead, catch as many festivals and/or concerts as our schedules allow. Last year, we hit Wanee along the Suwannee River in Live Oak, SunFest in downtown West Palm, and Farm Aid in Raleigh, NC. This year, we’re heading back to SunFest and Wanee (and possibly Spirit of the Suwannee’s MagFest in the fall), plus we threw in a bucket list trip on July 4 to Washington, D.C., to catch the Foo Fighters’ 20th Anniversary show, which is a story, in and of itself...

My husband has a man crush on Dave Grohl. Until last summer, we didn’t know much about him beyond the fact that he’d played drums for Nirvana (being from the Pacific Northwest, specifically a town fewer than 100 miles from where Kurt Cobain grew up, I’m a little embarrassed to admit that). When HBO started promoting the new series Sonic Highways, our interest was piqued. Before the end of the first episode, we were converts. By the end of the second, we were worshippers. When the credits started rolling on the eighth and final episode, I made a silent, personal pledge to defend Dave Grohl, Taylor Hawkins, and the rest of the band to the death.

To quote a recent, brief acquaintance, “I might be bullshittin’ you, but I ain’t lyin’.”

Dave Grohl is a badass, and Sonic Highways – and all the offshoots it bred and will continue to breed – is a masterpiece. The concept that all music and all musicians from every city are connected through an underground river of history, sweat, vision, tears, persistence, and resistance is nothing short of inspiring. It’s also brilliantly true. For example: The first time we saw New Orleans artist Trombone Shorty was on a Kid Rock cruise. (To say I love New Orleans is an understatement.) When Shorty came to West Palm last year, we stood in the rain to watch him play Green Day’s Brain Stew, and it was the highlight of SunFest for us (yeah, that Kid Rock guy was alright, too). Learning more about his background on Sonic Highways was a treat, and we can’t wait to see him again at the July 4 show in D.C. this year as one of the seven other acts performing with the Foos.

Here’s another example: John Eddie’s bassist, Kenny Aaronson, has performed and/or recorded with a gazillion artists, including Joan Jett (also a scheduled performer July 4), Bob Dylan, Billy Squire, Lita Ford, Hall & Oates, and Brian Setzer, and he even teamed up for a year with Scott’s favorite Red Rocker Sammy Hagar – along with Journey’s Neil Schon and Santana’s drummer Michael Shrieve – and toured throughout 1983-84 under the band name HSAS. (Incidentally, for those who recognize the significance of numbers, I graduated high school in 1983, Scott graduated in 1984; once you start looking, you discover signs everywhere.) ;)

When I learned a few months ago that John Eddie might come back to the Campground, I took inspiration from Dave Grohl, Kid Rock, and JJ Grey, a back porch blues performer from Jacksonville we discovered at South Florida’s Langerado Music Festival in 2007, and grasped the opportunity to invite more local bands to join us. Thinking at least a couple would decline, I asked four bands: one from Tampa, three from here in the Palm Beaches. I told them they’d have to play for free, but I was confident we’d have a crowd, allowed them to bring/sell merchandise, and I promised to do my best to at least pay their travel expenses. To my astonishment, all four said yes.

Knowing there was no way we could guarantee a significant crowd for an entire day (and how many musicians do you think would be ready to play at 10am?), we were forced to turn our “OMG Not Another Pre-Pre-CTM Cruise Party” into a two-day festival. Room and tent reservations started pouring in. Back in November, when we made plans to borrow Scott’s parents’ motorhome for the Daytona 500, we didn’t realize the weekends were back-to-back, but – as it turned out – we were very grateful for the extra (dry) beds. For three months, and with help from the neighbors, local friends, family, and small contingencies from Michigan and Canada who generously arrived a week early to help, we clipped, scrubbed, pressure-washed, weeded, painted, groomed, nailed, glued, and screwed two acres, two houses, a playground, and a pool, all while managing to keep the baby and the chocolate boys (and their friends) fed and within the perimeters of the fence. We succeeded most of the time.

Squirrel Hollow & Enchanted Playground

The days between February 18 and 25 are a blur. My brother Jack and nephew Zachary flew in from Portland, Oregon, a day late, but we still managed to celebrate too much, stay up too late, watch a NASCAR race or two, catch a Kid Rock show, and build a stage in the yard. The Wednesday before our big party, I woke up at 4:30am (okay 5:22) and wearily drove the boys to the airport and said goodbye. Because we were expecting three new houseguests that afternoon, I knew I’d have to clean and/or replace linens in the Blue Room upstairs before they arrived, so I crawled back into bed after the airport run. Gotta say, though, it’s tough to sleep when the baby’s screaming outside the door, and you hear distant, far-off calls for “Rocko!” and “Roland!” indicating the chocolate boys had found another way out. I put a pillow over my head for a little while. It didn’t work.

By the time I drudgingly pulled my aching self away from the comfy bed, Canada had already turned over the Blue Room, and Michigan had done my laundry. I don’t think I hugged them hard enough. We cleaned (again), re-themed the back house (i.e., removed the Daytona memorabilia and switched to CTM stuff), re-stocked the fridge and coolers, finished weeding the yard, continued with the pressure-washing, took out the garbage and recycling, washed the windows, mowed the grass, fed the dog, watched the baby, and marveled that we had only two days left to prepare for what we hoped would be a bigger, badder, even more epic party than the previous two. (For the sake of full disclosure, we’ve actually hosted four pre-pre-cruise parties, but the first was held in Miami, so it wasn’t exactly the same.) Boy, were we in for a treat!

Our new houseguests arrived about 4:00, just after I tried to lie down again, and food prep commenced shortly before Scott got home around 6:30. For two days – armed with the knowledge and skill of a top rate chef – Scott and his kitchen crew brined, smoked, baked, pulled, chopped, stirred, sauced, and grilled enough food for a small army; neighbors and guests helped put the cover on the stage and set up electrical cords and lighting; our new friend with the beautiful white shepherd grabbed a shovel and went on poo patrol; I printed up flyers for guests and signs for the yard, hung banners, scrambled to finish last-minute stuff, guided the port-o-john truck to the proper location, fed (and repeatedly retrieved) two retrievers, responded to traveling guests’ questions via Facebook and phone, and tried my best to keep my blood pressure under control.

It rained a little on Friday, so we held off setting up tents until we needed them, and put the first guests in the motorhome. Luckily, it wasn’t warm that night, because – somehow, from the driveway to the yard – the power system shut down, rendering whoever slept there without lights, water, and A/C. When the first band arrived and started setting up, a section of the stage collapsed. Luckily, it wasn’t an area anyone needed, so they made due. (I understand we were also short two cables, but they made it work.) After they hit the kitchen to get poofed by the “staff,” they hit the stage. There was still a misty rain, but the crowd had continued to grow, nonetheless. By 7:00, attendance was at about 30.

First, Last & Always

Andrew Rodriguez of First, Last & Always blew us the fuck away. We’ve known Drew since he was in high school, the older brother of our son’s best friend. We hadn’t seen him in years, but we keep in touch on Facebook, I knew he had a rock band, and I thought I’d give him a shot. I’m SO glad I did! After their hour-ish-long set, Jangle Leg played for another hour or so. Scott and I first heard their folksy, bluesy sound the night before Thanksgiving last year, when we were invited by Josh of Operative Me to join them and a few other bands at a small nearby studio. The skies cleared, the music rocked, and the atmosphere was electric – with the assistance of the awesome “fairy lights” loaned to us by our dear friends in North Palm – and, while the bands had agreed to play for free, enough people threw money their way to give them all ear-to-ear grins. I was happy.

Crowd enjoying Jangle Leg

The weather was beautiful when we woke up Saturday. There were two tents and four dogs in the yard, and every room in the house – plus one bed in the motorhome – was full. The peanut was at her dad’s, and the holes in the fence had been fixed, so the morning was quiet and leisurely. Guests visited over coffee on the real big deck, petted the dogs, and made new friends. A really nice biker fixed our stage. A kind-hearted woman with a beautiful white shepherd picked up a shovel and embarked on poo patrol. Scott got the motorhome up and running for the rest of the arriving guests. If you asked anyone around me, I bet they would tell you I was glowing. And then it started to rain. And it didn’t stop.

(Go to Part 2)

Get Off My Tractor!

Neil Young is pissed, and you should be, too.

“Why?” you ask. “He’s an angry, old hippie. What is it THIS time? The government? Evil corporations? Is Big Brother coming to get me? Pffft. Whatever it is, it’s all blah, blah, blah.”

Except…it’s not. America really is dying. Look around you. When I was a kid, we used to joke about the worthlessness of Canadian money. Ask a Canadian about OUR money today. We used to pack a lunch and sit down for a home-cooked dinner. Kids played outside and got fresh air and exercise. One paycheck supported a household. The rest of the world applauded us. Water was FREE!

Were “the good ol’ days” perfect? Hell no! There was plenty for Neil Young to be pissed about then, too; racism, sexual inequality, war, poverty, homelessness, and political corruptness were rampant. And I think that’s the heart of it: we’ve taken steps in the right direction, to be sure (women and people of color can vote, whiskey and abortions are legal, the peaks of Washington and Colorado are both literally and figuratively high), but – in our country’s history – we haven’t really resolved a damn thing. Add a crumbling infrastructure, failing public assistance and educational systems, epic dependence on foreign oil, rapidly diminishing domestic resources, and the slow demise of small business at the hands of gargantuan super conglomerates, and you (we) have a BIG problem.

Somebody needs to do something about something.

In 1985, in response to a comment Bob Dylan made during Live Aid, two angry hippies and the poster child for the American Heartland decided to do what they could about an issue that effects all of us, so they gathered a bunch of blues, rock, and country friends and – with only six weeks’ preparation – performed a benefit concert in Champaign, Illinois, to support America’s farmers. They called it Farm Aid. Over 50 bands/entertainers stepped up to help, including Johnny Cash, The Beach Boys, Bon Jovi, John Denver, Foreigner, and B.B. King. Van Halen even debuted their new singer, Sammy Hagar. Attendance was around 80,000. They raised $9 million. Neil, Willie Nelson, and John Mellencamp thought they were done. Turns out, family farms in America needed way more help than anyone thought…(excerpts from FarmAid.org):

1985: To compete with exponential growth of large scale, industrial “factory farms,” and after decades of advancing technology had already forced them to “trade horses for tractors,” record numbers of family farms reported record amounts of debt

1991: Following a devastating drop in market prices, dairy farmers organized around the country in an effort to survive

1992: Farmer’s Home Administration sent out 40,000 foreclosure notices to troubled farms; every five farms that closed took one small business with them

1993: Heavy rains in the Midwest caused the Mississippi and Missouri rivers to overflow, swallowing entire towns; thousands of families were homeless; eight million acres of crops were destroyed, 20 million acres were damaged [Note: this was also the year the FDA approved the use of rBGH (recombinant bovine growth hormone) to speed the production of milk]

1994 & 1995: For two years in a row, our country lost over 500 farms a week; Ernest Krikava, a 60-year-old Nebraska farmer, was sentenced to prison for illegally selling his hogs during his farm's bankruptcy proceedings – the family had no food for themselves, their hogs were starving, and the bank refused to release funds to operate the farm; Krikava was later pardoned by President Clinton, due in part to the advocacy work of Willie Nelson and Farm Aid

1996 & 1997: A string of natural disasters, including a drought in the Great Plains, Hurricane Bertha in the Carolinas, blizzards, floods, and late frosts dealt substantial blows

1998: Ice storms in the Northeast and drought in Oklahoma and Texas contributed to the most devastating year for farmers since Farm Aid began in 1985; factory farm production continued to foster an enormous inequity in market pricing; Willie Nelson stated, "In rural America, the farm economy is the economy. If we don't pay attention right now to what's happening to farmers, we're not just going to lose them, we'll lose the thousands of schools, businesses, and churches that depend on family farming for their survival."

1999: Farm Aid is held near Washington, D.C., where hundreds of farmers rallied to protest the "Freedom to Farm" bill, in place since 1996; the bill had resulted in record profits for multinational grain traders and big food manufacturing companies, while leaving family farmers bankrupt

I’ll stop there... Okay, one more quote: In 2007, Farm Aid became “the first major music event to serve local, organic and family-farm foods at concessions and backstage. The concessions ingredients were local, organic and/or sourced from family farms. Concert-goers also enjoyed Farm Aid's first HOMEGROWN Village, which offered hands-on interactive experiences with family farmers and sustainable family-farm practices.” In Raleigh this past weekend, I had the most amazing, baked-that-morning “apple hand pie”! Our friend said it was the best food she’d ever seen at a concert. Amen!

I grew up on a small farm, and Farm Aid has been on my “bucket list” since its inception. At the time, I was 20 years’ old, broke, and freshly-moved to the San Francisco area after leaving rural Washington state to “find myself.” A few years later, I moved with Scott to Florida. Because the concert is held in a different city every year, and those cities tend to be near the center of the country, where farming is more prevalent, it hasn’t been a convenient trip. Until this year. You can find reviews online, and a lot of the concert is available on YouTube, so I’m not giving you a play-by-play. But, I’ll say this: for many, it was merely a concert; for me, it was a pilgrimage, a kind of rediscovery or reclaiming of my roots. It felt surreal being there. Some things, I’ll admit, were disappointing (after 28 years, you’d think organizers would have figured out how to open the gates on time). Some things were a surprise (I never expected to enjoy – and want more of – a band called “Insects vs Robots”). Many things, however – especially people – were inspiring; Willie kicked off the event with a welcome song that included Native American dancers; in the grass, we sat next to an elderly man with a walker who’d just lost his wife this year (he shared his all natural gummy bears, we shared our contraband); and Lukas and Micah Nelson sent me over the edge, making it impossible for me not to (finally) fall in love with Neil Young.

My dear friend, folk musician Robin Stuckert, would have been so proud.

It didn’t happen instantaneously. I already respected and admired him, not only because of his history and iconic status, but because Robin loved him and I loved Robin. (Incidentally, Robin despised Kid Rock, but I had him coming around toward the end.) Neil came on late, after everyone had been partying since noon. When he rolled into his rant about family farms and how it was OUR job, our DUTY to support them, I felt the crowd pull away. Seated up on the lawn, a few people were respectfully paying attention, but we were largely surrounded by drunks and young people who’d come for Delta Rae and Jack White and, therefore, didn’t give a shit. There was so much chatter, it was hard to hear him toward the end. That pissed me off. I wanted to tell everybody to SHUT THE HELL UP AND LISTEN! His message was why we were all there, for crying out loud. But, they wouldn’t have listened; they would have called me a bitch, told ME to shut the hell up, their conversations would have continued – only louder – and I would have walked away the bad guy, having tainted somebody’s good time. Instead, I enjoyed the rest of the concert, drove home to Florida, and spent a day on my computer, researching Farm Aid and the plight of America’s family farms. My conclusion: Shit is fucked up and bullshit.

To recap: Every five farms that close take one small business with them; in ‘94 and ‘95, the U.S. lost over 500 farms every week. (I didn’t want to do the math, but I also didn’t think I’d need to.) I skimmed through current statistics to offer you an update, but they were so depressing, I stopped. In a nutshell, large-scale factory farms have all but annihilated the family farm. That matters – to me, to you, to ALL of us – because family farms grew small fields of healthy, ACTUAL food, where factory farms grow mammoth fields of genetically and chemically modified VERSIONS of food. Why and How did this happen? I’ll break it down for you:

BIG CHAIN STORES --> BIG SUPPLY

Or (for those who need more specifics):

McDONALD'S --> BIG LAND + CHEMICALS - QUALITY = GARBAGE

Or (for shits and giggles):

            GARBAGE IN --> GARBAGE OUT

You’re welcome to substitute any (make that ALL) fast food and/or unreasonably large chain stores for McDonald's (like Walmart, for example). With few exceptions, their offerings are toxic. Why? Because they purchase fruit, vegetables, and meat on a scale we can’t fathom, forcing suppliers to produce on an otherwise impossible level. And they’ll keep doing it as long as we keep buying it. Other countries have banned GMO and other chemically treated foods. So, why are WE still sucking it up? Have you checked health statistics lately? Don’t you think, maybe, if we stopped buying and eating foul shit, we’d stop getting sick? Huh? How do YOU feel today?

If you’re still with me, let me share a few other things, too: In 1935, with a population of 127 million in the U.S., family farmers operated 6.8 million farms and supplied nearly 100% of the market; by 2007, with a population of 300+ million, there were only 2.2 million farms; most recent statistics show 1% of the population claims “farming” as an occupation (2% report living on farms); of that 1%, only 45% claim farming as their “principal” occupation; 2% of farms are considered factory farms, and they control 89% of the market; Monsanto controls 90% of the seeds…

I could get all anti-political here and bring up laws our crooked leaders have passed in favor of factory farming, but that’s a lot of research, I won’t like what I find, and I’m already mad. I could dig more into Monsanto, too, and lobbyists and fracking. I could easily tie in the big pharmaceutical companies who keep factory farms in business by helping us “manage our symptoms.” But, if I went too far, I’d disappoint Neil Young and get off message. And the message is this: BUY LOCAL. Make a pledge TODAY to substitute every other trip to the big chain store with a trip to the farmer’s market, the neighborhood butcher, or the corner bakery. If you can’t swing every other trip, try every third or fourth. When you go to the county fair, take a detour off the midway and visit the agricultural tent. Throw money in the donations buckets for the kids in FFA and 4H. Choose restaurants that source their meat and produce from local and/or organic growers. And go to Farm Aid (just be sure to bring your appetite!).

Somebody needs to do something about something. And that somebody is you. Do what you can. Choose fresh. Choose organic. Buy local.

~ Dawn

Sources: Wikipedia (Farm Aid, Family Farm), FarmAid.org, EPA.gov/Agriculture, Huffington Post (“Hormones in Food: Should You Worry?”)

P.S. To honor the struggle of America’s family farms, I'm challenging all my friends on Facebook and Twitter to share this post. It’s my hope that all readers will consider pitching in any way they can. To all who do, you have my most sincere thanks. ~ D