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The Goshen Market: Food and Fun The Sustainable Way
Every Saturday morning, from May to October, local farmers and artisans take over a block of downtown Edwardsville, Illinois. The street and a neighboring parking lot fills with colorful displays of fresh fruits and vegetables, handmade jewelry, and homemade pastries. Fresh-picked flower bouquets decorate tables. Local musicians take the makeshift stage on the stairs of the Madison County Courthouse. One farmer serves an apple cider slush made from his homemade apple cider. Delicious! The Goshen Market is a beautiful example of how easy, healthy, and fun supporting local businesses and eating locally grown food can be. Check out these pictures from yesterday's market.
View down the length of the market.
Handmade crafts and jewelry.
Me shopping for tomatoes and jalapeno's.
An example of the gorgeous flowers available.
You don't get any fresher than this, folks.
Handmade wood furniture- each piece unique.
My Goshen Market produce- picture perfect!
If you have a local market you want to brag about, let me know. Send me a picture and a brief description and I'll post it. Local food, local businesses, local artisans- find 'em , support 'em, and spread the word.
Just For Fun: Summer Photos
Thought I'd take a break from all the serious writing talk and post some fun summer pictures. The first ones are from City Park in downtown St. Louis. It's an eclectic little space tucked among a concrete maze of over-priced hotels, three star chain restaurants, and four story banks. The park boasts a several interesting art pieces, a couple flower gardens, and water, water everywhere. If you're in the area of the Lou, check it out.
Me with my favorite piece in the park. Isn't he adorable?
This is a beautiful statue of a woman lying about one of the water scenes in City Park.
A runner, so graceful!
Just getting a closer look in one of the gardens.
The next couple photos are of my dog Edward. Watching him experience the world is like watching a baby experience the world- fascinated by the simplest sight or sound, curious more than cautious, and incessantly eager for more.
Waiting for the picnic.
Examining ants on the table.
Enjoy the photos, and feel free to send me your own summer fun pics.
On Writing As A Universal Process
Writing is a solitary profession. I've heard that line so many times from so many members at various levels of the writing world. While I understand the act of sitting down and writing out the words is a solitary one, I don't think I agree that writing, as a profession, is solitary. I think writing is one of the most social and cultural professions available. I think every piece of any type of writing is one of those rare occasions where we get to see the merging of the subject with the object, that delightful process of two worlds intertwined as one universal representation of a whole that is greater than its parts. But I believe that universal is present in more than the finished product of the writing profession. I think the actual process of writing is a living demonstration of the dance between the subjectivity of the writer and the objectivity of all that exists around her.
Because it's most relevant to me, let's use the example of writing a book, for instance. At the basic beginning of that process, the forming of an idea for a story, we find the writer calling upon all her experiences of the world thus far, all the ways in which the objective world around her has interacted with her subjectivity, consequentially changing that subjectivity into a new, slightly altered version of itself. Each story idea represents the culmination of a universal that continues to evolve. Storylines, plot twists, happy or tragic endings- all universals carved from the innumerable ways in which the world has molded an author.
What can be a more social event than the development of a character? If a writer is fool enough to claim a character was all in his head and had no grounding in his life experiences, I suppose it best to let him live in ignorance. For the rest of us, however, let us be aware that even the most imagined character is born from a merger of an author's subjectivity and the object reality in which he finds himself. Perhaps that's the reason so many writers, myself included, mistakenly view writing as such a personal experience. We cannot create a fictional world for our story to take place or fictional beings to inhabit that world without revealing our own personal position in that universal process of becoming, that is, in order to create, we must disclose the intimate interactions between the world and our private selves. It can't be avoided, because all I am is what I've become through my interactions with the world. So while I view writing as a personal experience, the reality is it's nothing less that a universal one.
In his book, "The Philosophy of History," philosopher, G.W.F. Hegel, writes, "The state of man's mind... conforms precisely to the state of the world as he so far views it." A writer cannot write without engaging all the people, places, and experiences that have molded him before and during his time of writing. So while I sit on my couch typing this post in physical solitude, my thoughts and my words are living representations of an ongoing process that is, by its very nature, one of unity. As such, writing can no more be a solitary profession than a man can be an island.
I'm Writing A Novel, Okay?
For me, the hardest part of writing is talking about it. When asked what I'm doing for a living now, I say things like I'm writing web content or I'm writing health articles. That way the focus becomes about a website or a health topic- something industry related that moves the spotlight off of the declaration that I'm a writer. I don't know why. That evasive move comes from somewhere inside me that says I won't be taken seriously. In their heads, I imagine people rolling their eyes and acting like I just told them I want to be an actress or some other career that isn't respected until a person lands a six figure movie deal. Writing is one of those careers that, until you've written and sold something tangible and well-known, people assume is a hobby. They wonder when you're going to get a real job. Maybe that's why instead of saying I'm a writer, I point to evidence of my written work, concrete examples that I have, in fact, been productive. Unfortunately, when it comes to writing a novel, that approach is unavailable to me.
I read a statistic the other day that said out of every 100 people who say they're writing a novel, only 3 will finish one. That's not my worry. I know I'll finish. All my life, I knew I wanted to write a book. I've waited years for the right book idea to unfold itself to me. Now that it has, engaging in the process of turning this idea into an actual tangible novel is one of the most exciting endeavors I've ever embarked upon. And yet, I keep my enthusiasm on a short leash. It's hard to say I'm working on a writing a book. I guess part of it might be fear of failure. Another part is having to answer questions I'm not ready to answer or give out information I'm not ready to share. And a big part is having to watch the eye rolling and listen to the drawn out okay's.
I'm usually pretty good at holding my head high and treading onward, but something happens when the ideas of writing and, in particular, writing this book come up. There's something so personal about the writing process that to put it out there for public scrutiny and have it snickered at makes me feel like the fat kid in gym class- exposed, panicked, and helpless. Now I don't mind putting the final project on the table for public criticism. I can handle that. When the book is complete, I can deal with rejection and poor reader response. That's the kind of stuff that makes a writer write better. But during the process, when the idea is still so intimately tied to my imagination, when I have no tangible evidence to hold up as proof of my efforts, and when my task sounds more like a dream than a reality, I feel naked discussing my pursuits as a fledging novelist.
I tell myself that all the greatest authors had one thing in common. Before Austin was an icon, Dostoevsky was a philosopher, or Twain was a world-renowned storyteller, they were nothing more than people with ideas. And maybe, like me, they hesitated in sharing those ideas. At some point, though, they all decided to own their efforts. But then, they lived in worlds that valued the creative process a little more than ours does today.
I guess the bottom line is that anytime we do anything that involves putting our inner self on display, we get scared. I get scared. But if I want others to respect my ideas and my goals of writing, I have to respect my ideas and my goals enough to stand beside them. I have to own my efforts. Seems like such a simple concept, but then, the trickiest tasks always do.
Dodging Bullets: On Protecting A Dream From One-Sided Reality
Perhaps choosing to study philosophy as an undergrad should have hardened me against the rhetoric of, "Go ahead and try, but you're not likely to succeed," but it didn't. As a philosophy major, the rhetoric was more along the lines of, "You never going to get a job with that," and, "Why didn't you choose to study something useful." I guess I found (and still find) those statements to be so ridiculous, so uninformed and misguided, that I let them slide right off my back. Then it happened again.
I announced my intentions to study English in grad school, pursue a PhD in Rhetoric and Composition, and one day, maybe, teach at a university. Well, here came the naysayers with lines like, "The English field is saturated with PhD students who can't find a job," and, "Make sure you explore other options as well." What I found most interesting was that a couple of the people throwing out those words of wisdom are English professors. That's right, actual, live people with PhD's in English who have the jobs they're telling me don't exist.
Now, my most recent example of dream-crushing rhetoric: For the last two weeks I've been actively drafting an outline for the novel I'm finally going to write. With my one main obstacle, my nursing job, out of the way, I have no excuses holding me back. So, I've been character drafting, researching, and plotting my little heart out- with good results. Today I stopped at Border's to get a few tips from some of those, This Is What You Need To Do To Be A Successful Novelists books, about various outlining techniques. I started flipping through different books, reading a line here and a line there, and skimming through chapters. Guess what I keep reading in all these books written by authors who, by some shear stroke of divine intervention, found themselves with successful writing careers? Amidst all their tips and tricks, the overarching message in several of the books I picked up was that I should be prepared to never be published because most writers never get published. Well, great. Glad I didn't waste my money buying their books on how to write a novel since I won't ever be successful anyway.
I know there's something to be said for being practical. Logical decisions are impossible to make without having all the gruesome facts, but a point does exist at which gruesome facts come off as inevitable. What if someone had told one of those English professors to pursue other options because he'll never find a job? Or, what if Thomas Pynchon read one of those books and decided not to waste his time writing novels? It all comes back to my last post and the Bill Gates thing. Yes, be aware of the risks, but in the end, what matters most is not the failure of the masses but the achievements of the few.
I think because I'm older I'm better equipped to reason my way throw this rhetoric that seeks to mold dreams based upon statistics of success (where success is defined as the acquisition of a job, the achievement of wealth, and the accumulation of material possessions), but it's frustrating for me. What I worry most about is the younger crowd who don't have the life experience I do. I wonder how many of the next great artists or brilliant inventors have been or will be deterred from following their passions in the name of achieving "success." In a land where college campuses have become breeding grounds for high-priced job training and field specific skill development, how can passions ever flourish into anything more than fleeting dreams?
Page Turning and Nail Biting: On Following Paths That May Lead Nowhere
As you may have noticed, my blog entries have been a little sparse lately. I think the shortest answer is that even those of us who love to write, sometimes need a break from it. In my case, though, that answer is not entirely true and it's certainly not complete. The whole truth is the past couple months have been emotional for me. From graduating college to quitting my day job to recovering from a serious back injury, this summer has been packed with events that have tested my commitment to what lies ahead. It seems that even the most confidant person can be persuaded to second guess herself if the right questions are asked of her.
I never wanted to be a nurse. I was not driven to nursing school by some burning desire to care for others. I had no personal story about how a nurse had touched my life and so inspired me to touch others. My route to a nursing career was nothing short of practical. I was 20 years old with a baby and no means to care for either of us. I needed a secure job, and I needed it quick. Two years later and Associate degree in hand, I was a Registered Nurse. That was ten years ago, and my nursing career did exactly what I needed it to and then some.
Nursing allowed me to work Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights every week so I could be home with my daughter all week long. I got to attend every school party and all the field trips I could stand. I was available every evening for homework and family dinners. My daughter and I traveled around the country. We had reliable healthcare. Practically speaking, nursing was everything I needed in a job. I worked with great people, formed sincere friendships, and helped a countless number of patients over the years. I was successful, but I was never satisfied.
One month ago I quit my job. Cold turkey. Threw in my nursing towel. I should point out, my sudden departure from the nursing world was due to that back injury I wrote about, but my departure was coming nonetheless. I just graduated college and am about to start graduate school. I am actively pursuing a writing career. My nursing job had run its course. I knew it was time to move on. But when the time came, I struggled with the logic and the irresponsibility of my decision.
The entire world is in a place of economic uncertainty. People are unemployed. Foreclosure has become a household word. Everything costs more. Here I have a solid, steady job as a nurse (one of few occupations to remain in demand throughout this economical mine field), and I'm quitting it? And to do what? Write? Maybe teach someday? Am I crazy or just plain selfish? I mean, I have a daughter to raise. What about her and her lifestyle? Why should she have to suffer because I'm not satisfied with my job?
Those and many more were the questions I was asking myself over the last couple months. The truth is, few people ever have truly successful writing careers. And, even with a PhD, academic jobs in English are hard to come by. All of a sudden, everything I'd worked so hard to achieve felt like a pipe dream, and I felt like the worst parent ever. Depression set in. Doubt took hold, and I stumbled a bit in my determination to follow my dreams. Then I read an essay I found online about Bill Gates.
Now, I'm a Mac girl. PC's are not my thing, and Bill Gates was not someone I'd ever been at all interested in. I don't know what made me read that essay, but in it I learned a few things I didn't know before. The biggest revelation that essay bestowed upon me was the fact that Bill Gates never graduated college. He dropped out of Harvard and never went back. He wanted to pursue this computer software thing, believed in himself, and set out to make it happen. He dropped out of college to start his own business. He took a gamble on himself and it paid off.
I'm not saying I'm the next Bill Gates. That's not the point. The point is that often times the best risks in life are the ones we take on ourselves. I bet there's dozens of other people who tried to pull a "Bill Gates" and ended up as nothing more than college drop outs. But if just one of them had not had the guts to try, the world may never have had the Microsoft it has today. That's the point- all it takes is one success to make the whole bloody gamble worthwhile.
The truth is, I may never write anything anyone wants to read (I hope that's not true, but it's possible). I may never be anything more than the woman who threw away her entire nursing career. What I've learned, though, is that my success is bigger than whether or not I succeed personally. What matters is that I'm willing to try, because even if fail, maybe I'll inspire someone else who will succeed. Maybe I'll inspire the next Bill Gates.
On The Implausibility Of Virtual Immortality
About a month or so ago I had a yard sale in which I sold many of my DVD's. I'd just gotten tired of them taking up so much space on my bookshelves. One day, as my boyfriend and I were boxing the DVD's up for the yard sale, I remember saying how great it would be if someone figured out how to put movies on tiny SD cards. They would be durable, take up minimal space, and be playable in a multitude of mediums. Okay, so not the most revolutionary idea, but hold on, I'm going somewhere with this.
I have written more than once about the topics of consciousness and personal identity. My path of personal passions and interests has led me down a road of endless questions and fleeting answers about who I am, what kind of thing I am, and what consciousness is composed of. After my SD card movie idea, I began to think about my brain and whether I could fit everything in it on an SD card. Then I wondered, even if I could fit the contents of my brain on an SD card, would that card contain me?
Here's what I'm proposing: Let's say that upon my death, or just before my death, some doctor somewhere is able to transfer all of the memories, thoughts, knowledge, etc.. from my brain onto an SD card and then give that card to my daughter. My daughter takes the card home and puts it into her computer, and there I am! Through the computer, I am able to take to her, reminisce with her, and continue to be a part of her daily life even though my body has expired. If she has a problem with a friend in school, she can come home, turn on the computer and talk to me about it. I should be able to respond to her just as I would if I was there in person. The idea being that I am still alive because my brain is still functioning, but instead of living in a body, I live in her computer.
Now let's imagine that my daughter brings home a dress she bought to wear to her senior prom. She turns on the computer, describes the dress to me, and asks me what I think of it. I cannot see the dress because I have no eyes. I cannot feel the dress because I have no hands. But then, maybe her computer has a camera in it and I can see the dress. Now, I just can't feel the dress. My question is this: Am I less of myself because I cannot feel the dress? It seems to me like I am.
What about emotions like sad, happy, or angry? Can my SD card brain feel those things? If I ask myself what it feels like to be happy, I immediately start to describe that feeling in physical terms. I know I'm happy because I'm smiling. I feel a sense of contentment within me. I walk a little taller when I'm happy. I make eye contact with people. It seems like in order for me to feel anything, some sort of interaction must take place between my brain and my body. My happiness doesn't seem to exist only in my brain or only in my body. Emotions seem to require both a brain and a body. Try to describe what sad feels like without using any physical descriptions. I think, perhaps, my SD card self needs a body if it is to experience the world in the same way I did when I had a body. Without a body, my SD card self seems to be a lesser version of me.
Let's look at another example. Take Mr. H, who, after a horrible accident, becomes a quadriplegic. A quadriplegic is someone who has paralysis of all four limbs. First, let me be clear, I'm not addressing issues of personhood here. I'm taking about selfhood. Based on my SD card example, I think it reasonable to say that the quadriplegic version of Mr. H is less Mr. H than was the version who had full use of his limbs. I think happiness to Mr. H must feel less than it did before his accident. Is it possible for Mr. H to experience happiness? I think so, but he can't experience it in the same way he did before his accident. The quadriplegic version is less Mr. H than was the fully mobile Mr. H.
Now back to my SD card story. At first, the idea of my brain being able to go on forever seemed attractive, or at least interesting. But now I realize that the SD card version of me wouldn't exactly be me. It would just be the computational part of me, the logician and the storyteller but not the human being. In order to be me, I need all of me, body and brain. Certainly no one would argue that if my body was given a new brain, that being would still be me. Conversely, I think if my brain were given a new body, or no body at all, that creation would be just as less me as the new brain in my body would be. For that reason, I think my idea of the immortal brain on an SD card, while theoretically possible, is highly implausible.
The Journey Begins: Approaching My First Semester As A Teaching Assistant
This fall, I'll begin my studies as a graduate student in the field of composition pedagogy, or the teaching of writing. I will also begin work as a teaching assistant and have been assigned a freshman English Composition 101 class to teach at Southern Illinois University Edwardsville. I knew my teaching assignment was coming, and I was looking forward to it. Then, it came.
I've worked as a Registered Nurse for the last ten years. My teaching experience has come in the form of instructing patients about how to give themselves injections or change their bandages. I've talked with family members about how to help their loved ones die with dignity. I've talked with patients about the dying process and how to pass through it more comfortably. I've given instructions regarding activity levels, diet orders, and how to take medications and manage side effects. As a charge nurse, I've instructed new nurses about hospital policies and protocols. I've trained. I've mentored. I've delegated.
Here's my concern: Sure, I've trained, and I've educated, but I've trained and educated people who already had some foundational knowledge. And the patients I've instructed, what I've taught them are specific skills, nothing abstract, nothing creative. Now I'm going to be in charge of teaching eighteen plus- year olds, most of whom will be coming right out of high school, how to write. How do you teach someone how to write?
I know, teach them grammar rules. Teach them how to structure an essay. Teach them how to analyze a piece of writing, how to break it down so they can learn how it was built up in the first place. But is that teaching them how to write? I think of my own writing and how I learned to do it. Who taught me? The truth is, this world is filled with people who can't write. Just read some of the fliers that float around your company or browse the Letters to the Editor section in your local newspaper. Didn't those poor writers have to take English 101? Did they all just have bad teachers? Were they all poor students? I doubt it. What makes some people decent writers and others not? Maybe it's the same thing that makes some of us decent athletes and others not. If that's the case, though, how much of our ability is dependent upon the proper teaching and how much of it is dependent upon raw skill?
Before my actual teaching semester begins, I and the rest of my teaching assistants cohorts get to take a two week crash course in how to be a college instructor. Two weeks. After that, the semester starts, and I have to be calm and collected in front of a group of 25-30 or more students and make them believe I can teach them something valuable. So, what can I teach them? Enter my undergraduate major in philosophy.
The years I spent studying philosophy left me with many, many unanswered questions and one solid observation: most college students want to question the world around them. College is the time to explore radical ideas and ask forbidden questions. College is the place to shed who the world wants you to be and create the person you desire to be. Students want to talk and debate about how what happiness is, where we go when we die, and what's valuable about love. To guide and support those conversations, some great, old philosophical minds like Plato, Aristotle, and Kant, along with some more contemporary minds like Nagel, Hofstadter, and Dennett have written many essays and narratives. What does all this have to do with English Comp? I'm getting there.
I think if I stand in front of a classroom and say, Now we're going to learn how to write, I'll both lose the students and bore myself to death. Besides, I don't know how to teach them how to write, but I may know how to teach them how to think. If I can use my philosophical essays to keep them engaged and excited to write about topics they have questions about and are searching for answers for, then maybe I can kill two birds. The more we write, the better we get at it. And the more we write about things we're interested in, the better we write. Of those two facts about the writing process, I am convinced. So, here's my plan: I will have my students analyze various types of essays and narratives, looking for things like theme, style, rhetoric, etc... Then, I'll come up with writing exercises/ assignments to go along with them. That's bird #1.
Bird #2 is side effect of how this utopian classroom I'm building will play out. I hope that by presenting students with reading and writing materials regarding classic philosophical questions, I'll turn them on to thinking. So much of higher learning seems to be focused on learning a skill that will get you a job someday. Don't get me wrong, jobs are nice, but I don't think well-rounded students who can think critically and actively engage the world have trouble finding jobs. I want to encourage students to ask questions about the world around them. And, I want to teach them how good writing skills can help them interact with that world. There we are, full circle. Bird #1, meet Bird#2.
As my two week teaching crash course nears, I'll be posting here and there about different writing issues and teaching topics I come up with as I'm penciling in ideas about how to teach my class. Of course, any suggestions are welcomed. Advice, anecdotes,personal experience stories would be most appreciated. This is the beginning of a whole new chapter in my life. I'm excited and terrified. I guess that's appropriate. Stay tuned.
Who Am "I"?
Who am I? Seems like a simply enough question. I could start a list I don't even know how long describing who I am, or could I? Maybe it's because I'm at a point of transition in my life that I'm asking that question. Maybe it's the philosopher in me who needs to know. Maybe it's that part of me that wants so badly to understand but fears I never will. I guess it doesn't matter.
In philosophy we talk about being the subject or being the object. For example, when I look out my window at a bird sitting on my porch, I am the subject who is looking at the object I refer to as "bird." Likewise, when the bird looks back at me, the bird is the subject who is looking at the object, "me." When I refer to myself, like when I say, I am, the "I" I'm referring to is the subjective "I." Here's my problem, though, or my question: I have an idea of who I am, but if I ask five other people who they think I am, I'll get five different answers. So which is true? Is it the subjective "I" that's really me? Or am "I" a conglomerate of all the objective descriptions of me? Does who "I"am depend on who I'm asking? Or is the subjective I, the I who is asking this question right now, who thinks she's a pretty good cook but a really bad golfer, the actual me? Because if it's true that "I" am who I believe myself to be, then none of you can ever know me. None of us can ever know any one.
Think about it. None of you can ever know me as anything other than an object that exists in your world. I can try all I want to describe my subjective self to you, but as soon as I start to describe myself, I turn myself into an object. Come to think of it, as soon as I start to think about myself, I turn myself into an object. How, then, can any one ever know the "I" I think I am? All I can ever be to you is who you think I am.
Why does this matter? Because sometimes people get you wrong, right? Sometimes you get described as someone you firmly don't believe you are. How does that happen? If all I am is various versions of who people think I am with no actual subjective self to prove or disprove their opinions of me, then they can never be wrong. I am whoever someone describes me to be. If I get described in a way I don't agree with, then I must just not understand myself as well as the other person understands me.
What if that's the case? What if the idea of a subjective "I'" is a myth? What if all I am is who you tell me I am? For example, I could think I'm the most talented painter since Picasso (I don't), but if none of you recognize me as that, am I really? I can tell you I'm an open-minded person, but if no one describes me as that, am I? If it's true that there's no subjective I, then most of what I believe to be true about myself is, at best, unfounded and most likely false.
The opposite picture isn't much brighter, because if there is a subjective I, then none of us can ever really know one another. I have no access to you as anything other than an object. There's no way I can know your subjective I. All I can know of you is what I experience. You can't describe your subjective I to me. I can't get inside your head or your heart or wherever the subjective I resides. I can't ever know you, and you can't ever know me.
It's a little depressing, right?
Meat-Wise Monday: Exposing The "Cage-Free" Myth- Follow Up
Several weeks ago, I posted an edition of Meat-Wise Mondays titled, Exposing The Cage-Free Myth. In that post I discussed the importance of finding an alternate source for purchasing eggs rather than buying them from the grocery store. Eggs sold in grocery stores come from chickens raised on factory farms and subjected to an array of inhumane conditions like overcrowding, force feeding, and no medical care. After that post, I set out to find a humane source of fresh eggs for my own family. With a little help from Google, I was successful.
Now, I know you vegans out there are doing a great job of swearing off eggs altogether. For those of you who may not be aware, egg replacers do exist. No, that's not what Eggbeaters are. Eggbeaters, and liquid egg products like them, are made from real eggs. Egg replacers like Ener-G Egg Replacer take the place of real eggs in cooking and baking and contain no real egg product. Egg replacers can be found at any health food store and even some large grocery chains. But for those of you who like your eggs to come from a chicken, finding a small, local farmer is an option.
First, try searching the web for local farmers in your area who provide fresh eggs. Then, contact the farmer and arrange to come visit the farm. The farmer should have no problem with you coming out and looking around. When you visit the farm, look at the chickens and the environment in which they live. The chickens should be free to roam about the farm, and your farmer shouldn't have a large number of chickens. You don't want to find a farmer with hundreds of chickens on site. You're looking for a small-scale production. Of course the grounds should have plenty of roaming space, a clean chicken coop, and access to clean water. The birds should look healthy and, dare I say, happy.
Hens lay eggs naturally. It what they do. As long as you find a farmer who treats her chickens the way you would want to be treated if you were a chicken, collecting fresh eggs is not harming the birds. I was lucky enough to find a small, local farmer who lives within minutes of me. During my first visit to her farm I saw brightly colored chickens walking about on grass. The chickens were free to roam about the farm. They were clucking and bobbing all over the place. After researching the horrors of factory egg production, those healthy chickens were a welcomed sight.
I spent less than ten minutes searching for a humane provider of fresh eggs produced from seemingly content hens. Please, find and support your local farmers and help us put an end to factory farming.
