St. Francois State Park in Bonne Terre, MO has a clean creek, shallow river, and great trails full of decaying trees and lead mine holes.

And they give Sustain Mizzou great deals on their surplus, which we have them deliver to the Food Bank for Central and Northeast Missouri as part of our local food drive.

Except right now, there’s not much surplus. I talked to the Stantons today at the Columbia Farmers Market as they took down their tent. They had sold out of over 400 dozen eggs a full half hour before closing time. Plus they’re getting orders from restaurants that may have never sourced locally before.

A customer said something like, “thanks to mass media.” Wait, what? I’ve been living under a big Res Life rock for two weeks and was only vaguely aware of the egg recall.

These numbers tell a story. Half-billion eggs recalled; 1,000 people sick; 5,000 fresh eggs sold. Food fears suck for the big producers and customers who buy from them, but this turn toward organic and/or local eggs is definitely a positive externality.

It’s a parody, right? Paint a windblown model green and add a tag saying “for the earth.” But as my friend pointed out, “she actually researches vertical farming and stuff.” Indeed, she does. Plus, there’s an article on the Florida wetlands that’s decent, and the photography’s pretty fly.

Here’s what Above says about itself:

Above magazine is made by and for those who recognize that the true appeal of beautiful objects and places derives from their inherent rarity and fragility. For them, desirable often means simple rather than extravagant, and living more responsibly without succumbing to self-righteousness is one of the greatest forms of sophistication.

The transcendentalist-chic rhetoric matches the content. Mostly.

Above’s latest issue featured thoughtful articles on suspension artist Claire Morgan and photographer Richard Rothman, stories about environmentalists, fashion spreads and compelling graphics which, while somewhat inaccurately presented (see the “Billion Dollar O-Gram” on page 46 for obvious discrepancies), might be the most effective way for our generation to understand information.

Some of it comes across as attractive greenwashing. Some of it’s pretty solid. I still don’t know what’s up with the extra-thick pages, but at least it’s nicely presented.

I feel conflicted about it. My respect’s high for the art, iffy for the sustainability. Anyone can bank off of environmentalism right now—it’s sexy. Really sexy. So I get suspicious. On the other hand, if they’re reaching a certain audience with good messages, it’s not a bad thing, right?

Now that my college is half-finished, I’m on the prowl for magazines that might publish my writing. Funny how that softens one’s criticism. If the world were smaller and I were a phenomenal writer, I’d just aim for Orion and National Geographic without bothering with other things. For now I’ll just aim for more skill, more exposure, and more experiences and see where that takes me.

Or I could just become a model.

He showed me his latest works in progress that already looked stunning.  We talked for a few hours about his start in music, his Welsh and Dutch heritage, the value of helping new musicians, his apprentices, how cool he thinks his wife is, and so many other things. He had great stories, and was also interested in hearing mine. When occasion arises to talk about the visit I made to Ozark, it gives me joy to tell other people about Mr. Wynn. He is truly one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I have ever had the pleasure to sit down with.

His shop was dusty, filled with years upon years of pictures, books, inlay scraps, instruments, knick knacks, tools, bluegrass DVDs, festival fliers and American flags. Here’s a video of Mr. Wynn playing “The World is Waiting for the Sunrise” with video pans around his workspace:

His talent really floored me, and he admitted it wasn’t easy. But, my goodness, the man made it seem so fluid. My grandmother nearly melted when I showed her the video, and she asked if I would put it on a CD.

I bought a mandolin last week, and my hope was, honestly, to get good enough to justify purchasing a nice one made by Mr. Wynn. I’m so sad to hear about his death, but maybe I can honor him by following through with learning how to play.  I hope to upload more videos of him as soon as I get time.

• John Wynn’s website
• News-Leader life story about John Wynn
• Tribute letter at the Bluegrass Blog

Every time I went into a restaurant in Mound City, the workers would stand up from a dining table and hop to taking my order and making my food. In Quacker’s, the waitress was smoking, but she knew everyone by name. They set the television to the Weather Channel and decorated with stuffed waterfowl, some deer, and a bobcat. I think there was a picture of Jesus holding a gun tacked next to the door, but I forgot to check on my way out.

Worth a second look. If I’m ever that far northeast again.

I want to see its eyes flash gold.

Are herons fierce?

Maybe this one died mid-sky in a heron-brawl.

MENU + 7 + 5 = ALARM CLOCK
Alarm: On
Time: 6:15 AM

At least these plants sat still for me.

So I dutifully woke up early, arrived at the park just after 7 a.m. and . . . got rejected by visitor after visitor. Some were default rejections, since most everyone bikes/runs/rollerblades/Trikkes the 2-mile loop. Others were resistant, several were avoidant, and one woman taught me to use a Trikke but wouldn’t be on camera, so made her five-year-old son do the interview instead.

Similar story at the Visitor’s Center.  Not even the travelers from Holland would talk to me.

Later in the day, five minutes before the VC closed, I asked a straggling couple if they would help and got one of the most detailed, energetic interviews I’ve done in three weeks. I then went to the park part of the park (MODOT closed the old 66 bridge, so now the park’s split in half . . .  that’s a whole other story), where only 2 cars were parked, and thought about calling my boss to warn her I’d have sub-par footage.

Then lo, I spotted a couple in the picnic area. They turned out to be huge fans of Route 66 State Park and were happy to help promote it. Whenever the wife isn’t working, she said they go there to grill, swim and ride their bikes—about four times a week. Even the sad past of Times Beach had a silver lining, as they could pick out where old houses once sat by the way plants grew. Way cool.

In addition to being incredibly nice, this couple owned sweet bikes.

They felt like they owned the park, and that’s what I fell in love with at Route 66. People use it. And if it weren’t a park, it would no doubt give way to suburban development. No, thank you.

And the place is pretty, in a quirky way, with its big sky, ornamental bushes and huge herds of deer. It’s like the high school counselor who got into psychology after he had a bad run-in with drugs but is now clean, excited, and full of rad personality. Everyone liked that guy.

We each talked about what’s true to us.  Extreme empathy, visions of peace, a desire to give, a desire to protect, dreams of changing the culture and improving education, the wisdom of nature, the restorative power of art, finding ourselves and helping others do the same. Every story grounded itself in love. We love life and we want everyone to enjoy the same feeling. Mallory tagged it a “Whistler Society,” inspired by the Falling Whistles campaign. She asked each of us to share something life-affirming.

I read exerpts from Derrick Jensen’s essay “Beyond Hope”:

PEOPLE SOMETIMES ASK ME, “If things are so bad, why don’t you just kill yourself?” The answer is that life is really, really good. I am a complex enough being that I can hold in my heart the understanding that we are really, really fucked, and at the same time that life is really, really good. I am full of rage, sorrow, joy, love, hate, despair, happiness, satisfaction, dissatisfaction, and a thousand other feelings. We are really fucked. Life is still really good.

Thank you, friends, for laying bare your passions. Such naked, fearless honesty will give us agency over the future. Let’s keep talking — louder and more often.