Strike from the Void

One peaceful Sunday morning on the island of Oahu, American sailors gathered for breakfast and went about their routine, enjoying the pacific calm before church service.  Incoming B-17 bombers were scheduled so planes in the distance went unnoticed.  

Heavy clouds hung low as the first wave of planes approached from the north/northwest, descending low, opening fire.  Two waves of aircraft – torpedo bombers, dive bombers, horizontal bombers and Mitsubishi A6M2 Zeros – 353 aircraft in total unleashed a fusillade of fire in a stunning display of strategy.  

300 years earlier Miyamoto Musashi’s “The Book of Five Rings,” a classic guide to samurai strategy and the way of the warrior, taught one must “strike from the void.”  Pearl Harbor was its own strike from the void: unexpected, devastating, and brilliantly executed.  19 American naval ships, including 8 battleships, were destroyed or damaged, 188 aircraft lost or severally damaged, 2,403 American sailors and soldiers killed.

The next day, December 8, 1941 the United States declared war against Japan.  On December 11, 1941 Germany and Italy declared war on the United States, prompting the U.S. to enter the European conflict.  The world was at war.  

War is good for business and the military-industrial complex kicked into high gear.  Henry Ford, at his River Rouge Complex, halted all civilian automobile production.  The plant’s employment surged to roughly 120,000 workers converting raw materials into tanks, engines and military vehicles.  The total American industrial output built 297,000 aircraft, 86,000 tanks, 124,000 ships, 2.4 million military trucks and 2.6 million machine guns.  

The Axis powers were overwhelmed, fascism was defeated.  The “Greatest Generation” rallied to the cause, put everything aside, took seriously its task.  My father’s three older brothers all volunteered for the Army Air Corps, but the oldest, Danny, was assigned to Iwo Jima where he was killed, stabbed in his heart by Japanese swordsmen while sleeping at night.  Many paid the ultimate price.  The fortunate, however, lived to see the end and then return home.  

William Levitt was a Lieutenant in the Pacific Theatre who served in the U.S. Navy Seabees’ “Naval Construction Force” with motto “Construimus, Batuimus” (“We Build, We Fight.”).  Levitt managed a construction unit in Hawaii, as well as in Norfolk, Virginia, where he mastered military logistics and rapid-building techniques.  As war is good for business, the war was transformative for the Levitt family business.  

Approximately 15.6 million service members survived and returned home alive from World War 2.  Housing demand skyrocketed to millions of homes needed.  William Levitt had met his market.  As Henry Ford had mastered assembly line automation at the Rouge River Complex, so Levitt mastered assembly line housing with Levittown, first on Long Island and next in Bucks County, PA.  Levitt could build an entire house in less than six weeks, sold for as low as $100 down payment.  

The cover story on Time magazine for July 3, 1950 pictured Levitt with the tag line “For Sale: a new way of life.”  The commodification of housing, the American Dream on steroids, everyman could have his suburban castle with white picket fence.  

As the crow flies, New Hope, PA is 23 miles from Levittown, but as a philosophy of building it is worlds away.  George Nakashima was a Japanese-American woodworker and architect who launched his studio and workshop there.  Before the war he studied at MIT then, in 1931, went abroad using a round-the-world tramp steamship ticket.  

In Paris, France he was introduced to Le Corbusier, one of the titans of modern architecture. They shared thoughts on architecture as a spiritual activity, with a moral obligation to society.  In Japan, he worked on the Imperial Hotel and took time to study Japanese architecture.  In Puducherry, India he was a construction consultant for an ashram dormitory.  He made furniture for the first time.

He returned to the United States just before WW2.  Because he was Japanese American, he and his family were arrested and incarcerated at the Minidoka War Relocation Camp in Idaho.

In life, it seems, the good you seek is seeking you.  While locked up at Minidoka, Nakashima was tutored by a man trained in traditional Japanese carpentry.  He mastered hand tools and joinery, gained the discipline slowly to focus on perfection every step of the way.  Where Le Corbusier spoke of building “as a spiritual activity, with a moral obligation,” at Minidoka Nakashima grounded those ideals into practice.  

William Levitt and George Nakashima, both builders of the Greatest Generation, left starkly different legacies.  Levitt shaped the physical landscape of millions of lives, casting the blueprint for assembly-line post-war American suburbia.  Homeownership was made possible for millions of families, but at a dependence on the automobile.  The thought of purchasing one of his homes for $1 down is a relic of the distant past.

In the pantheon of American craftsmen, George Nakashima is a towering figure, who ranks among the founding generation of “Studio Furniture” makers.  His influence is profoundly broad.  His work honors the “soul of the tree” – making as a spiritual practice.

Levitt addressed, and solved for his time, the need for affordable housing.  Nakashima brought to the market objects of exquisite natural beauty, heirlooms worthy of generations.  Now is my time to work through these questions. 

I am a carpenter.  I work with my hands.  I make things for my bread labor.  I have built handcrafted furniture for Thos Moser and cabinets for private commissions.  At times I have been on crew building custom castles by the sea, other times renovating a working man’s home.  I have fabricated and installed multiple Public Art projects.

A teacher of mine once wisely said, “You need to go out and break your heart, and then you will come back to what you love.”  As a young man I worked in the Chicago commodity markets – the old “open outcry pits” – then spent a decade on a vision quest pursuing humanitarian finance, an oxymoron, my version of “a spiritual activity, with a moral obligation.”  Like Icarus I flew too close to the sun, crashed and burned.

Learning to walk again, I met a German woodworker of the Studio Furniture tradition.  I managed his Apprentice program and taught woodworking to adults.  I came to building late, after failure, but this work has grounded me.  

Building is my bread labor, but my full time job is homeschooling my son.  I am a Boomer homeschooling a Zoomer, at the dawn of the post literate age.  

COVID haunted my son’s 1st grade year, and I homeschooled during the shutdown through 2nd grade.  Nationwide, the return to public schools brought a surge of disruptive behavior, absenteeism, and mental health challenges.  Locally, an epidemic of teen suicide raged through our town.  

Middle school was a huge adjustment – his 5th grade moved to the same building as 8th graders – and although his experience started off well enough, intense bullying could not be controlled.  Finally, he made the call and our DIY experiment began. 

The picture-postcard paradise of Levittown’s affordable American Dream shaped the world that my generation, the Boomers, inherited.  For my son and his Zoomers, however, that seems outdated, unachievable, a dystopian mirage of mass marketing.

Homeschool is not for the faint of heart.  But nor is felling a tree, to mill and dry its wood, to handcraft a family heirloom, passed down through the generations.  

As with a chisel, I shape wood into a chair, so with words, numbers, ideas, and patience, I shape my son’s mind.  Together we learn.  He teaches me about his world of AI and online gaming, which makes me reflect upon the starkly different forces that shaped my generation. 

From where did we come?  To where do we go?

Father and son.

The summer ends. Greek, Latin and English languages are on deck. Our 8th grade is set to begin.

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Lead photo by Milo


Bones of the Building

We bought this old house at foreclosure, a distressed sale at a very low price plus 20 years of hard labor.  I was able to find an angel to buy it while I renovated and then refinanced it conventionally through a bank.  We made it work.  

My wife was in her third trimester with our second child so time was of the essence; I hired a crew and we descended upon the main house, opening all of the walls, building double stud walls and super insulating, redoing the electric, heat and new kitchen plumbing, removing the dust and debris in 76 days.  We tore down the original barn.  10 days later my son was born and came home.  

Five years later, a gift from a deceased Uncle, allowed me to rebuild the barn, making the house large enough for us to stay here.  The Ell – the summer kitchen as it was originally called – we never touched; we had neither the money nor the time.  It has now come time to begin that work. 

The carpenter’s adage holds that the two most important things in a house are the foundation and the roof. Everything else is framing and finish – livable space – but the foundation is the cornerstone while the roof sheds water, locks the walls in place, adds rigidity to endure strong winds.  

The foundation of our Ell is crumbling.  Thirty years before the Civil War, at the time of the Indian Removal Act, a carpenter with initials C.D.W. and a crew of thirteen set to work on this plot of land.  They hand dug a trench down to the frost line, then foraged the fields for boulders, using oxen or draft horses to haul and drop the rocks into the trench.  

The rubble is “loose fill” – no mortar – but jagged edges of rock do lock in place over time.  200 years is plenty of time.  When the rubble foundation reached just above ground level, they mixed a lime mortar and set bricks upon which the farmhouse was built.  

Lime mortar allows moisture to evaporate and is softer than the 19th century bricks, meaning the mortar will decay before the bricks.  Lime mortar does not age well.  

Carpenters speak about the bones of the building, of which the foundation is key, and the timing of rebuilding our home’s foundation while I recover from a total hip replacement is symbolism of striking proportions.  After 65 years the cartilage of my left hip decayed, has gone, leaving bone-on-bone.  “It will not get better, it will only get worse,” said the Doctor.  After 200 years the lime mortar of our foundation has decayed, leaving loose bricks, entire sections missing.  It will not get better, it will only get worse.

For the foundation work, I hired a journeyman mason.  For the hip replacement, I hired a surgeon. Each was the appropriate choice. Neither seemed a do-it-yourself proposition.

The mason began laying bricks at the age of 15.  Fast and strong, he could make far more per hour than his peers working retail or in an office.  At college he majored in structural engineering and business, then hung out his shingle and has never looked back.  He specializes in old houses.  

Our Ell has settled about 1 inch over 27 feet.  Not bad, all things considered.  When we built the addition we did jack up the Ell as possible, but then we locked it, using heavy duty lag screws, into the foundation of the new addition.  The slight unevenness will remain, an eccentricity of age.  

In September 2024, I toiled in the Ell crawlspace bracing the floor system.  I set ten concrete pads, upon each of which a post was hammered into place with a gusset to lock the posts and prevent movement.  I brought everything up to code, with 36” to 16” of working space.  Each concrete pad was difficult, while several were incredibly challenging.  I had two choices: either mix concrete in the crawlspace and then bucket it into location or pull a pre-cast block, weighing 130 pounds, into a pre-dug hole.  Given “pick your poison,” I chose the latter, the pre-cast. 

The crawlspace is macabre and surreal.  Spider webs and carcasses hung everywhere overhead, covered in a white mold/fungus on the exoskeleton.  Rats have lived in that crawlspace and in the dirt lay remnants of former lives in this house: shards of broken china with pastoral scenes, an oyster shell, shoe leather, a glass bottle of “Medicated Worm Syrup” made by Hobensack’s in Philadelphia circa 1845, and two lego pieces.  I wrote then, “Let me be clear: never would I do this as paid work-for-hire.  But for my wife and children I will and I have crawled on my back and my belly, with minimal leverage, to move concrete pads into place, hammering posts, affixing gussets to make stable the floor system.”

My work done, the mason is focused on the present, creating a bridge between 19th century loose-fill and 21st century masonry.  The carpenters arrive first.  Before they remove the bricks, cribbing is needed under the sill plate, to support the Ell during the masonry work.  

Inside the crawlspace they find more china and old dried bones, from a large rodent, one of the residents over the centuries.  Bones as metaphor and as literal dry and dismembered brought to mind scripture, “The Valley of Dry Bones” from the Book of Ezekiel ”…and set me down in the midst of the valley which was full of bones, and caused me to pass by them round about: and, behold, there were very many in the open valley; and, lo, they were very dry.”

This passage inspired “Dem Bones,” the classic African-American spiritual with the easily memorable lines:

Toe bone connected to the foot bone
Foot bone connected to the heel bone
Heel bone connected to the ankle bone
Ankle bone connected to the leg bone
Leg bone connected to the knee bone
Knee bone connected to the thigh bone
Thigh bone connected to the hip bone…

This truth is literal.  The Ell’s rafters are notched at the eave end to rest upon the top plate, which rests upon the studs, which transfer the load vertically down to the sill plate.  5” wide x 6” thick x 14 feet long, fashioned of hemlock, locally felled and hewed by hand, C.D.W. laid these plates long ago.  The sill plate rests upon the bricks, which rest upon the rubble.  To remove the bricks without cribbing would be like cutting a man down at the knees. 

Cribbing in place and the bricks removed, the mason will next apply a thick layer of N-type mortar and set cinder blocks to lock the new into the old.  Considerably larger than bricks, fewer blocks will be needed speeding the process.  N-type mortar uses both lime and Portland-cement for strength and durability.  Our concern is stability rather than historic accuracy.

Portland Cement is from the Isle of Portland off the coast of England, not the city across the bay.  Invented in 1824, it had not made it to Maine when this house was built.  The “discovery” of Portland cement was but a footnote to building history as it was the Romans who perfected concrete over 2,200 years ago.  No one has come close to matching the strength and durability, nor even understanding what the Romans did. The formula remains a mystery.  Like Pompeii.  

We don’t need 2000 year concrete; we need the right material and Portland Cement and lime will do the job.  The mason will push his crew and the work should move quickly.  During the entire process I will recline on my bed, icing and elevating my leg.  The analogy between their process and my healing bears striking parallels.  

My new titanium hip is uncemented into the femur bone. The implant has a porous, textured surface into which the bone cells migrate creating a structural lock, a biological fixation.  

The masons’ N-type mortar combines cement, hydrated lime, sand, gravel and water.  As the slurry hydrates and hardens it flows around every piece of stone and block, creating a rigid monolithic mass, locked into place.  

Both the new hip and the new foundation each satisfy the needs of load distribution, structural integration and mechanical interlocking.  But the body, magnificently, goes one step further.  

Concrete is static, once cured it is rigid and fixed.  Entropy begins.  

Bone is dynamic, living tissue that continually adapts to mechanical stress.  

Wolff’s Law states that healthy living bone adapts to the mechanical stress and load placed upon it.  The bone density changes according to the stress: “Stress it, and it strengthens; ignore it, and it weakens.”

Applied science is happening at the art farm.  While I lie in bed, allowing bone to grow and attach to the titanium, the mason and crew hustle to rebuild the foundation.  

My children observe it all, lessons in science, history, and place: 1830 C.D.W. and crew set out to build this farm.  2012 we began the renovation.  2017 we rebuilt the barn.  2024 I toiled in the crawlspace to stabilize the floor joists.  2026 the mason and crew rebuild C.D.W.’s work.  From the 19th to the 21st century, building, decay, repair, and renewal unfold around them.  

Entropy happens.  

Preservation takes work – intervention, ingenuity, judgment, and skilled hands.  

A house survives because people decide it is worth the effort, and then figure out how to save it.  A body is much the same.  

This is our homeschool lesson: on planet Earth, things do not just keep working at the push of a button.  People come together to make them work.  We study what came before, diagnose what is failing, gather the needed tools and the right people, make a plan and go the distance, whether that is a work crew slinging mortar, or the achingly long nights of bedrest.  

The only way out is through.

And, if we are lucky, we pass it all on to the next generation.  


The Harvest: Potatoes & Words

In August, the summer vacation season peaks.  Somewhere around 20.5 million people stop work in France, 18 million in Italy, approximately 3 million come to Maine, to vacation at the peak of summer.  This has been a scorching hot summer both in Europe and across the United States.  What better moment than this to pause and relax at the ocean?

Almost no one goes to the operating room, but I, thinking differently, seized the moment.  

My summer plans most certainly did not include surgery, but one day in May the pain in my left hip was too much and so I called the orthopedic surgeon.  Like a nuclear reaction, a chain of events was set in motion.  

This was my second total hip replacement.  The first was done during COVID, and that surgeon has since retired.  I needed to choose someone new.  That is one strange a la carte menu.  

A friend mentioned that he had been diagnosed and cured – twice – of heavy metal poisoning, metallosis is the official term, resulting from metal-on-metal, an old school hip replacement.  I confirmed that my first replacement involved a ceramic cup with titanium shaft, so there was no possible metal-on-metal in my body.  The surgeon who helped my friend was, ultimately, a fine choice for me as well. 

I had a meet and greet with that Doctor, and so, based upon five minutes’ conversation, made my choice.  

I was given a date in mid-September, which seemed odd because I had been certain I would have the surgery in August.  But then, the next day there was a cancellation, and I was offered the very much earlier date of 10 August.  

At first I panicked, that felt far too soon, but within a few hours everything settled out, and it became clear that it was better to move full speed ahead, than to wait, endlessly until early autumn.  

Like cogs in the modern medical machine, the surgeon’s team leaped into motion.  I met with nurses, had bloodwork done, cancelled dental work and requested clearance from other doctors, began daily exercises, and signed, with Notary and Witness, my Last Will & Testament and Advanced Healthcare Directive. I rallied the home team – my children – to finish chores around the house and yard.  

We harvested all of the potatoes.  

There is no way I will be on hands and knees in late August and September, and so we pulled them all now: Reba, buff skin with white flesh; Red Norland, the classic “new potato;” and Russian Banana Fingerlings, that heirloom, crescent-shaped tuber we grow every year.  

“All hands on deck!” I ordered, as my manicured-nail daughter grabbed the potato hoe and shovel and hopped to it.  

The sun blazed hot and I reminded her, “This is your Irish heritage.”  

I skipped the lecture on autochthony, from the Ancient Greek word αὐτός (autos) “self”, and χθών (chthōn) “soil.”  Locavore chefs speak of terroir as the specific taste resulting from soil, climate and geography but they only get it half right.  Given the human animal’s nature, the Greeks went further, asserting that the self is of that soil; place as the essence of identity.  

The Irish lineage seemed concrete enough for my daughter to get the point.  Perhaps I will chat about that while we grill and then eat those luscious tubers.  

In the mornings we toiled in the garden, but in the afternoon I scoured the public library to assemble a reading list for the next six weeks of recovery.  Of no surprise, the list is rather broad, encompassing philosophy, Indigenous authors, magical realism, and the seething anger of a deep ecologist, who was influenced by Jacob Needleman.  

Letters to a Spiritual Seeker, Henry David Thoreau

Money and the Meaning of Life, Jacob Needleman

A Sense of the Cosmos, Jacob Needleman

To Hell with Culture, Herbert Read

The Way to Rainy Mountain, M. Scott Momaday

Wisdom Sits in Places, Keith H. Basso

Building: A Carpenter’s Notes on Life & the Art of Good Work, Marc Ellison

Rust Belt Boy, Paul Hertneky

Blood Orchid: an unnatural history of America, Charles Bowden

Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Common Sense for the Healing Arts: Essays by Robert M. Duggan

The harvest gathered – potatoes and words – I began to enter the silence.  

A friend, an elder, sent me this advice, which I found deeply centering:

Give your body a heads up that it is happening. Do some visualization to it and travel around the inner scape with your love and gratitude. Thank the left hip for its years of service and amazing performance. Have a conversation between the left and right hip. Travel through the body with color and joy and appreciation. If there’s a way to take an hour to tune in uninterrupted, take it. Let the anatomy be informed. Cast a love circle around the medical team. Enter the theatre with awe, wonder, curiosity, grace and welcome. Love to you is coming from many. Ride the ride, brother. …

As I learned from my Mother, “We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.”  

This week’s events brought that concept into a simple clarity.  It allowed me to prepare both to go under the knife, and to return through the light.  On the other side of surgery, now I surrender to this healing, which is a gift.

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The Knife and the Light

When I was a child we would eat fish on Fridays, scrambled eggs and bacon at Sunday brunch, charcoal-grilled eight-and-a-half-minute hamburgers on weekends, and in the scrum that was an Irish Catholic family dinner, cross talk by everyone at once, the push-pull of ideas, food passed with the caveat “Don’t spill the milk!”  From her end of the table my mother would speak up, raising the mystery of duality in humans, “we are souls in animal bodies.”

In her college days, my mother had read Teilhard de Chardin; he was the pioneering but controversial French Jesuit scientist and priest, while she, wearing a beret and smoking cigarettes in the greenhouse, had been a young radical artist.  By the time I entered the story, she was married with children but still encouraged us to ponder the great mystery.  The dinner conversation would rapid fire move on – my extrovert father quick with puns and one liners – while my mother was quieter, introspective.

We are endowed with spirit within a mortal physical body.  A very long time ago Aristotle explored the material world in his Physics before turning to first principles in his Metaphysics.  The task of reconciling the two still is left to us.  

We live at the crossroads of duality: mind and body, male and female, good and evil, past and future, animal and divine.  The divine cannot be superior nor the animal lesser.  Wholeness depends upon their balance, the fuel required to build consciousness. That is a most challenging place to be, in a culture obsessed with the rational, material and physical – the quantitative – much less so with awe, stillness, and the intuitive mythopoetic – the qualitative.  

We have perfected the machinery of output, efficiency, optimization, and hyper-rational self-interest.  Jacob Needleman, the philosopher and religious scholar, observed, “we have come to know the price of everything, and the value of nothing.”  We increasingly live in a culture of Mammon.  We deify money.  Human life is cheap. 

How do we find our way out of this rabbit hole?  The challenge is to remember, always, that we live in the present through consciousness, which is experiential awareness.  The rational cognitive mind excels at analysis, but on its own, it tends to zero-sum binaries: us versus them, profit versus loss, winner versus loser.  This is the outward focus.  But consciousness is personal and internal, functioning in the present moment, receiving meaning and feeling.  Consciousness is a light; the rational mind is a knife.  We need the knife but cannot live by cutting alone.  Consciousness, like a fulcrum, can balance the duality, and feeling is key.  

In Money and the Meaning of Life, Needleman wrote: “It is far better to understand a central truth with the whole of oneself than it is to know many things only with the mind.  When one knows only with the mind and the feelings are not integrated into the knowing, then the knowledge one has becomes harmful.  Technology without ethics is the result of having knowledge without developing the instrument of ethical perception, the feelings.  As it was said long ago, ‘The mind is for seeing what is true; the feelings are for understanding what is good.’ ”

What is needed is to restore the qualitative.  When we say the purpose of life is healing, this is the qualitative path.  When we value the relational over the transactional, this is the qualitative path.  When we resist the dopamine of doomscrolled outrage, and replace it with a silent presence to the friction between our animal selves and our spiritual longing, this is the path to a simple, grounded sanity.  

If the quantitative goal is accumulation, the qualitative goal is wholeness. Healing is not about erasing our animal limits or eliminating the tension between sacred and profane; it is about bringing them into harmony, a peaceful coexistence. It is learning to stand at the fulcrum without demanding that one side destroy the other.

Facts easily divide people, while cultural stories can unite.  When we rely only on the rational knife, myth becomes its necessary counterpoint.  I was fortunate, at college, to study Classical Languages, reading the Iliad and the Odyssey, but also, to meet and hear Joseph Campbell speak.  His work on comparative mythology showed that cultures across time share common narrative forms of consciousness – the hero’s journey to transformation and truth.  

From Gilgamesh to Odysseus, from Arjuna to King Arthur: stories of departure, initiation, and return bearing newfound wisdom.  The renewed fascination with The Odyssey seems culturally telling.  As dissent and argument build to a crescendo, I can’t help but wonder if we the people are simply yearning for any path forward.

“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.”  This saying attributed to Teilhard de Chardin captures the supreme adventure of creation.  I was awakened to this mystery at my childhood dinner table, and it challenges my mind still.  Now raising my own children, we begin the story by breaking bread together.  

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Lead photo by Elena


Ignorance or Arrogance

When I was a boy, a common saying was “A man’s word is his bond.”  I haven’t heard that spoken in decades.  Today we speak of fake news, deep fake AIs, identity theft, accusations of fraud, corruption and cover ups.  We liberally condemn each other with name calling like a grade school playground, but to speak of integrity seems increasingly uncommon.  Our culture, it seems, wants to fight to the bottom.  

Talk is cheap but we are accountable.  Actions have consequences.  This week’s homeschool lesson was a moral equivalent of Newton’s Third Law of Motion: every action has an equal and opposite reaction.  Rather than give my son a lecture, I bought him a chain saw.  My goal was to teach personal responsibility not as an abstraction but as a tactile physical experience.

I was not qualified to teach this class.  My father was a wordsmith, who didn’t know a hammer from a nail; his tool was a typewriter and thesaurus, with which he was exceptionally skilled.  He and I never bonded over power tools.  I learned use of a chain saw through on-the-job-training: “this is the brake, here is the trigger, hold it like this.  Go.”  With a chain saw I am competent, but most certainly I have no command.  I would have been pushing my limit to teach this course.

Often a boy learns best from an unrelated teacher, so I hired a journeyman; a 240 pound, 6 foot 3 inch tall, tattooed, muscular, shaved head white male who grew up on a homestead in the woods of New Hampshire.  He has been using a chain saw since he was ten.  A carpenter by trade, his skills are many, including plumbing and electric, a licensed firearms instructor, with training as a field medic.  A published author, he is “The Everything Man.”

He required my son to buy and wear personal protective equipment: a helmet with face screen and ear protection plus chaps to protect his legs, steel toed boots and gloves.  The class began at the back of his pick-up truck where an array of tools were laid out: a camp axe and a felling axe, his handmade bow saw, a machette and two gas powered chain saws.  My son has an electric 16” chain saw and a pole saw. 

A chain saw spins between 12,000 and 14,500 RPMs at full throttle, which is more than 6 times the RPM of an airplane propeller.  You must respect that the blade will cut you down in an instant. During a brief opening lecture the Man explained that mistakes are caused “by ignorance or arrogance.”  On the one hand is the lack of information, knowledge or training, while on the other is an excess of pride, a lack of respect for the tool.  The class was designed to avoid the first problem, while the teacher’s humble honesty addressed the second. 

Dressed in his protective gear, my son and the Man walked to the backyard to cut down a rotting maple tree.  It is located outside our fence line, beside the sidewalk along a busy road.  I had asked the town to take it down, but the arborist replied that it was our responsibility, and, once brought to his attention, it was on his list of trees to watch.

The trunk is thoroughly rotted.  One large section fell years ago – before we owned this house – while the remaining branches reach over the fence, stretching almost thirty feet into our back yard.  One large limb, about 14” diameter, grows straight up and becomes enmeshed in branches of other trees.  This tree was a challenge, a lesson in strategy and gravity.  

My son could use the pole saw to reach the lower limbs, but he needed to be mindful of where the limb would fall and then stand behind that.  By cutting from above, the branch would fall down and his saw would not get pinched.  A saw can get pinched, though, and that can become a serious issue.  I was once cutting down an invasive maple, 8” diameter and 40 feet tall.  A friend was holding a rope to pull the tree, but the rope was not firm enough and as I cut deeply, the tree swayed back pinching the saw.  The saw could not cut, nor could I remove it; a frighteningly serious problem.  I knew you cannot leave a tree halfway cut through the trunk.  But I had no axe.  I had ignorance.  But thankfully, I had a neighbor who knew what to do, had a tree rope and chain saw, and saved the day.  The Everything Man ensured my son learned from my mistake.

Once the limbs were on the ground, my son was handed a razor sharp machette and taught how to swing that blade, to slash cut away the smaller limbs, removing the clutter before using the chain saw.  There is a logical process, moving from the smaller branches to the larger end, when cutting for firewood.  The 16” blade equals the length of logs usable in our wood stove, and my son was shown how to use the blade as his measuring stick, for cutting to length.  This work went quickly, but the tree was so rotted, we gained little useable firewood. 

An electric chain saw is surprisingly quiet, while gas powered saws are ferociously loud and aggressive, commanding immediate respect.  Its raw power leaves no room for carelessness. 

The final exam came when The Everything Man got out his gas powered Stihl chain saw.  He reviewed all the features, then handed it to my son.  In learning how to handle such a powerful tool, my son grew in confidence.  He experienced what it meant to command his tool, making each cut under his control.   This lesson of accountability was a direct physical experience, not theory, not logic, not gaming online.

That one limb, 14” diameter, growing straight up into the canopy above, we left in place.  That requires an arborist who can climb the tree, using tools beyond what we had.  It would have been ignorance or arrogance, or both, to attempt to fell that, so our prudence was its own lesson of setting boundaries. 

When the cutting was done, the class returned to the pickup truck, for a discussion about cleaning and maintenance.  The Everything Man showed both how to dismantle the saw to clean wood chips from the inner parts, and how to sharpen the blade.  It is a slow methodical process, three passes at 30 degrees, essential to maintaining the blade’s sharp edge, which is another form of integrity, of accountability.  The teacher gave examples of one chain lasting a lifetime, or needing to buy new chains frequently; the only difference is care.

“Chop wood, carry water” is a maxim of Chan Buddhism, that teaches life is lived through ordinary work, not abstractions.  Much about life is repetitive, dull, and unremarkable.  Integrity is forged in the care of our tools, the honoring of our words, and the acceptance of responsibility.  The chain saw was the lesson this week.  I said very little.  He repeatedly said “thank you.”


Yellow Sky

Yellow skies press down from the Great Lakes to the Northeast.  From Minnesota to Massachusetts air quality issues abound.  “Code Red” and “Code Purple” alerts sound in the Mid-Atlantic, Detroit’s Air Quality Index (AQI) hits 724, while Duluth, MN skyrockets to 924, an environmental emergency far exceeding the threshold for “Hazardous” air.  The concentration of fine particulate matter is so dense that it poses immediate, severe health threats to every person, regardless of their health status.  But real men do not wear N95 masks.  

More than 1,000 Canadian forest fires are the cause of recent events.  Science shows industrial activity and fossil fuels contribute to this weather, but politicians express outrage at forest management practices.  A warming climate is just another Chinese hoax, or, to use the popular cliche, “it is what it is.”  Or, is it symbolic?

This week our July Book Club read “The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky,” a short story by Stephen Crane, one of the most innovative authors of his generation.  In 1895 he published “The Red Badge of Courage” to critical acclaim, what H.G. Wells called an “orgy of praise.”  Crane’s storytelling prowess was so fine that he crafted “The Red Badge” entirely in his imagination, since he had no experience on the battlefield.  The use of color and chiaroscuro are vitally present in his writing, and scholars compare his writing not only to Impressionist painting, but suggest that he influenced the painters.  Vivid, that is.

Yellow Sky is the name of a fictional town in western Texas at the end of the wild western frontier.  In “The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky”, the town marshal, Jack Potter, has gone east to find a bride, to embrace domestic life.  As the story opens the bride and groom ride west in a train, from San Antonio.  The plush car is no stagecoach.  They dine in the parlor car – cost is no concern – where the Negro Porters wait upon them.  “They were evidently very happy.”  Potter was “…a man known, liked, and feared in his corner, a prominent person….” who trades his twin revolvers for a suit and silver pocket watch.  He went East to court a woman, no longer to fight with men. 

During his absence, several men drink in the town bar, when a drunken man named Scratchy Wilson appears to terrorize the town.  The barkeep explains, “You see, this here Scratchy Wilson is a wonder with a gun—a perfect wonder; and when he goes on the war trail, we hunt our holes—naturally. He’s about the last one of the old gang that used to hang out along the river here. He’s a terror when he’s drunk.”

Behold the classic myth of the American west manosphere:  the man in the white hat fights the thug dressed in black, rugged independence everywhere abounds in a frontier wild, open, and free.  Western movies, foundational to American culture, commanded almost 30% of all Hollywood films in the post-WWII era. With 50 Westerns debuting annually and saturating television with serialized shows, the genre established a new cultural temple of patriotism and masculinity just as we Boomers were born.

“The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky” speaks of the end of an era, of change.  Railroads, the “Iron Horse,” thundered West bringing consumer goods, fashion and ideas from the East. The wild west changed when self-reliance was replaced by shared modern culture.  Jack Potter’s bride from the east represents feminine grace, his rough edges smoothed; no guns brought to court her.  Their homecoming represents family, home and permanence, the antithesis of a home on the range.  The “yellow sky” represents sunset, which is an ending, lights off, curtain down.  

This week’s short story bears striking relevance to the world in which my son, and his peers, come of age.  Our society seems to teeter on the edge, both sides of the political aisle locked in an endless struggle of “us versus them,” divisiveness all the rage, tempers hot, like the climate, only get hotter.  Masculine aggression is on steroids, like cage fighters dueling on the front lawn, modern heroes of our wild west.  

Scratchy Wilson enters “into the middle of the main street of Yellow Sky…in either hand the man held a long, heavy, blue-black revolver.”  He is dressed “in a maroon-colored flannel shirt, which had been purchased for purposes of decoration and made, principally, by some Jewish women on the east side of New York.”  The last of a dying breed, even he wears the clothes from an Eastern city.

Looking for a fight, he begins shooting at a dog.  “At sight of the man, the dog sprang up and walked diagonally away, with a sullen head, and growling. The man yelled, and the dog broke into a gallop. As it was about to enter an alley, there was a loud noise, a whistling, and something spat the ground directly before it. The dog screamed, and, wheeling in terror, galloped headlong in a new direction. Again there was a noise, a whistling, and sand was kicked viciously before it. Fear-stricken, the dog turned and flurried like an animal in a pen. The man stood laughing, his weapons at his hips.”

Scratchy Wilson wants more violence, and so he sets off looking for the town marshal, Jack Potter.  The myth of the isolated individual is built upon the illusion of separation, of “divide and conquer.”  This is the dying breed, to my son’s generation, when science increasingly shows that a forest is not separate solitary trees but an integrated ecosystem, while studies of humpback whales suggest they adopt complex songs from neighboring groups; an animal form of cultural transmission.  Research continues, showing interconnectedness is a growing theme.  

For millennia, many societies have celebrated an ego-centered dominance, a focus upon conquest, violence and material quantity, rather than healing and an internal quality.  There is reason to wonder if the excessive preening among authoritarian-minded males today is not their yellow sky moment, their plaintive war cry of a dying breed, the end of an era that has lasted too long.  My son reads “The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky” in this context.  

On the topic of myths from the manosphere, consider this combat search-and-rescue prayer recently recited at the Department of War:

“The path of the downed aviator is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of camaraderie and duty, shepherd the lost through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to capture and destroy my brother. And you will know my call sign is Sandy 1 when I lay my vengeance upon thee, and amen.”

Contrast that to the words of the Aramaic-speaking radical, from 2000 years ago, of deeds such as walking on water, raising the dead, multiplying loaves and fishes, “These and greater things ye shall do.”  This teaching speaks of elevating reality toward a unified healing life, not an aggressive combative individual struggle.

Amidst signs of social decay, the New York Times bestseller “A World Appears, a Journey into Consciousness” writes of a Copernican Moment of awakening.  There is good reason to pause and consider what might be possible, where we collectively are now, how we choose to go forward in an awakening consciousness. 

If life imitates art, then the outcome would be already known.  In “The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky” the climax occurs when bad man Wilson intercepts the marshal Potter and his bride.  But the shoot out does not happen.  Potter, already married and unarmed, has moved forward leaving Wilson to wallow in his lost past.  The old code of the Wild West was never to fight a married man, so Wilson, dressed in boots with “red tops with gilded ornaments, such as are used by little boys” is adrift.  The bad man always was just a buffoon.    

But our moment now is not the climax, our outcome is not yet known, because symbolically, we are earlier in the story, when the bad man Scratchy Wilson is terrorizing the town, shooting at dogs.  This is the lesson for my son to learn as yellow skies hover low as he reads the short story.  

My generation, we Boomers, have been trained, generation after generation, to obsess over the climax of conflict, high drama of a courtroom, the cavalry charging in a Saturday matinee, the pistol drawn at High Noon, killings in the streets, the hyper-masculine male at the podium, finger raised, barking at the moon: the court jester of Camelot whose time has passed.  The Zoomers and generations to follow will live entirely with an awareness of – and can choose to build community through – ecosystems that are interconnected and interdependent.

My son and his peers must learn to distinguish noise from message, must look past the clown parade of politicians’ false promises, must find within themselves a deeper feeling of purpose simply in being kind and thoughtful; the long journey of healing and restoration.  My role, and the purpose of our July Book Club, is to give him a vocabulary to help him on that path.  

About those July yellow hazy skies, we can only hope that all people on Gaia wake up to their new reality. 

_______________________________

The lead photo was taken in July 2026 by a community member (such as Chance Paavola or Wayne Wastaken) fleeing the Namaygoosisagagun First Nation (Collins First Nation) in northern Ontario, Canada, as a massive wildfire overran the area. The image was used on Bill McKibbens’ Substack “The Crucial Years.”


Failure

Here at the Art Farm Homeschool, summertime living is easy, but not idle.  We have created a July Book Club, in which the Magister zooms in, via telecomm, to discuss with my son a short story masterpiece.  My son’s recalcitrance to join any club with peers, his aversion to leaving the house, his preoccupation with online gaming left us no choice.  The book club is only 4 weeks, while summer break is 12, so the balance of time is definitely skewed to his leisure, but this month, like a fulcrum, he will engage in reading and thoughtful discussion. 

This week’s short story is “The Egg,” by Sherwood Anderson.  The story is set in the first decade of the 1900s in the fictional town of Bidwell, Ohio.  The story’s narrator is a young child, and its protagonist, “the Father,” was “a cheerful and kindly man” whose work was idyllic as a farm hand on a pre-industrial farm.  Once married, he “became ambitious. The American passion for getting up in the world took possession.…”

Their path to success was to raise chickens, but the venture fails badly.  Having lost that farm, they move into town to start over.  They borrow a horse and wagon, load their “cheap chairs” and a crate of live chickens, on top of which, like a crown jewel, the narrator’s baby carriage.  “Why we stuck to the baby carriage I don’t know. It was unlikely other children would be born and the wheels were broken. People who have few possessions cling tightly to those they have. That is one of the facts that make life so discouraging.”

The father rode on the wagon, while the Mother and son walked the long eight miles into town, “…a tiny caravan of hope looking for a new place from which to start on our upward journey through life.”  The scene eerily foreshadows Steinbeck’s “Grapes of Wrath,” when the migrants flee the Dust Belt, traveling Route 66 to the promised land of California.  Long is the dark shadow of the American Dream.  

Sherwood Anderson revolutionized 20th-century fiction with a probing and unsparing prose.  His stories are set during the Second Industrial Revolution, the transition from steam to electricity, from iron to steel, assembly line production, urbanization, corporate consolidation.  His core theme was the lonely, isolated individual, whose youthful truth had grown hardened, an unfulfilled longing, struggling for connection.  

During the First Industrial Revolution, seventy years before Anderson, Henry David Thoreau railed at the “Iron Horse” of the Fitchburg Railroad, the tracks laid one-third of a mile from his beloved Walden Pond.  The deafening roar of industry intruding on his idyll, he wrote, ”We do not ride on the railroad; it rides upon us.”  He warned the machines were becoming our masters, rendering people into an impotent servitude, “The mass of men lead quiet lives of desperation.”  

From Thoreau to Anderson the Industrial Revolutions had completely altered the American landscape.  And yet the American Dream held firm, the myth of upward mobility, that each generation would succeed its parents; the tireless labor of one’s youth to acquire wealth, spent in later years to regain health.  “Most of the luxuries, and many of the so-called comforts of life, are not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind.”

As a child, I remember family discussions, at the Kitchen table, about the American Dream.  For my generation the realization has been remarkable.  Nearly 90% of Americans born in the 1940s and 50s earned more than their parents.  Because of compounding asset growth in real estate and an essentially bull market since the 1980s, the Baby Boomers hold over $85 trillion in household assets.  

The Third Industrial Revolution, the advent of semiconductors and the internet, unfolded during the careers of we Boomers.  Since 1993, when the browser Mosaic was launched, catalyzing widespread access to the world-wide-web, the stock market has surged 3,100% further widening the gap between the have and have nots.  

Now the world of algorithms and artificial intelligence represent the Fourth Industrial Revolution, during which my son’s generation, the Zoomers, come of age.  It goes almost without question that the American Dream fades, the thought of upward mobility increasingly out of reach, while the mental health epidemic spikes.  

A recent study published by the Dove Medical Press, an open access peer-reviewed journal, found that “17.14-24.19% of adolescents developed AI dependencies over time, while studies consistently show that mental health problems predict subsequent AI dependence, with social anxiety, loneliness, and depression serving as primary risk factors.”  The isolation that Sherwood Anderson wrote about, and the desolation of which Thoreau warned, have only increased.  Jacob Needleman, the high school teacher my son learned about in May, cautioned, “When thought races ahead of Being, a civilization is racing towards destruction.”  

My son will not read juvenile fiction this summer.  The short stories that the Magister has chosen are considered masterpieces, and their hard edge is appropriate for a young man coming of age.  Among his age peers, suicide rates have increased 62% since 2007, with boys having significantly higher rates, while Black youths ages 10 to 17 have increased 144% over the same period.  

My son comes of age in a conflicted time, an age of skepticism.  Sitting on the front porch, we discussed the American Dream, to which he replied, “That may be what it was supposed to be, but that is not how it is.”  He is already aware that the American Dream was, at best, a cultural myth, or at least an historical aberration.  

It is a sad irony that bankruptcy is used with increasing frequency by older individuals.  According to the Consumer Bankruptcy Project, in the last 20 years, the number of people 65 and older filing for bankruptcy has increased to become its fastest-growing demographic group.  We Boomers have enjoyed an economic abundance of historic proportions, but now aging, increasing numbers are falling behind.  

At the age of 44 I declared a Chapter 7 bankruptcy.  Mine was the good fortune to fail while young, to still have time to start over.  I learned that forgiveness lies at the core of civil jurisprudence, and failure can bring a “fresh start.” 

The legal doctrine known as the “Fresh Start” came from the 1934 landmark Supreme Court ruling in Local Loan Co v Hunt, 292 U.S. 234, in which the unanimous opinion, written by Justice George Sutherland, reads,   

“One of the primary purposes of the Bankruptcy Act is to ‘relieve the honest debtor from the weight of oppressive indebtedness, and permit him to start afresh free from the obligations and responsibilities consequent upon business misfortunes.’ … [It] gives to the honest but unfortunate debtor… a new opportunity in life and a clear field for future effort, unhampered by the pressure and discouragement of pre-existing debt.”

A financial reset is a civil right, but an interior reset is a human necessity.  The depth of my experience redirected my life and taught me that the purpose of life is healing, forgiveness a means to that end, which stands in stark contrast to American culture.  Jacob Needleman commented,  “The root of materialism is a poverty of ideas about the inner and outer world. Less and less does our contemporary culture have, or even seek, commerce with great ideas, and it is that lack that is weakening the human spirit. This is the essence of materialism. Materialism is a disease of the mind starved for ideas.”  Our antidote to the isolation that AI and gaming breed is for my son and the Magister to read short stories during July and exchange ideas.

“The Egg” is told from the perspective of the son, as a grown man, remembering his Father’s failures.  My son, a keen observer, forms his own thoughts now, which will include his reflections on my failures.  His inheritance from me will be moral more than material.  My task is to teach him skill with his tools, depth of character, and an informed view on the isolation plaguing his generation.  What he chooses to do with that will become his healing story.  

My career advice, should he ever ask, shall come from Thomas Carlyle, who influenced Thoreau and the Transcendentalists, “Make yourself an honest man, and then you may be sure that there is one less scoundrel in the world.”


Red Cherry, Black Crow

The 7th grade has officially been completed.  This week Our Aristotle, a State of Maine certified teacher, completed his annual assessment which I delivered to the School Department.  

The interim Superintendent had quit, having been replaced by an Interim-Interim Superintendent.  A new Superintendent reportedly has been hired and will begin later this month.  They never confirm receipt; I am like a paperboy throwing news into the void, but regardless, we go forward.  To reach their office – their sanctus sanctorum – I had to go through two sets of high security doors, that required someone to buzz me in; if our homeschool is relational the School Department seems transactional.

It is summertime.  These days the living is not so easy, but the pace here has slowed.  We have been working the garden and spreading straw to suppress weeds.  Potatoes are thriving. Pole beans snake up the trellis. Tomatoes form on the vine. Coneflowers shout to the sky. Lavender abounds with bees. In the kitchen we have begun making pickles.  

Each summer we plant one cucumber seedling, of the pickling varieties, which provides more than we can keep up with.  As the roots go down, the shoots sprout up, flowering and bringing our bounty.  

Several years ago I worked at the Chebeague Island Inn.  The chef had a stellar recipe for Bread-n-Butter pickles, which hotel quantity had to be scaled down for a family of four.  This one is a keeper, to be passed down generations.

Slice 4 cucumbers at about 1/4″ thickness, then in a sauce pan combine:

  • 1/2 large, onion, sliced thin
  • 1T + 2t salt, kosher
  • 1/2 C + 1t white vinegar
  • 1/4 C + 2T + 2t apple cider vinegar
  • 3/4 C + 2T + 2t sugar
  • 2 1/2 t mustard seed
  • 1/2 t red chili flakes
  • 1/4t + celery seed
  • 1 cinnamon stick
  • 3 allspice berries
  • 3 whole cloves
  • Pinch turmeric
  • 2 1/2 dried chilis 

Bring all to a boil, let it cool. Into a one quart Mason jar add the sliced cukes, then pour in the brine.  These BnB pickles will keep in the fridge for several weeks.

In other news, the sour cherries have been abundant, more than we can pick, which inspired this haiku:

Red cherries, Black crows

A murder, in our orchard

All sour, no sweet 


Urine

Our homeschool topic, “What is a Person?” was motivated by an Elder in our community, who has a storied history of decency, civility and commitment both to community and to the Earth. 

As a young man, the Elder worked with Helen and Scott Nearing, the grandparents of the back to the land movement.  During the March from Selma to Montgomery, the Elder managed the crew of Seminarians who set up all the tents for the Marchers’ daily meals and sleeping.  After the March, he stayed and helped build the Selma Free Public Library.  

During the Vietnam war he organized protests, then was exiled to Canada where he managed large scale urban construction projects.  In 1973 he was arrested, on his return to the United States, for violation of the Selective Service Act.  Charges against him were later dropped.  He worked in various Union factories, and became, in 1980, a labor activist for the AFL-CIO.  In 1987, he helped organize the historic Jay, Maine Paper mill strike against International Paper Company.  My son studied this in depth.  

The Elder lives off-the-grid on a homestead powered by solar energy, with houses, barns and workshops all built by hand. He and his wife grow their caloric needs raising legumes, chickens, bees, all varieties of annual and perennial vegetables and a forest farm of berries and nuts; they do, though, buy dairy, oils, nuts, seeds, and citrus when needed.  

In May I drove my son to their homestead, eagerly anticipating a vital discussion about “What is a Person?”  I was stopped by a most unexpected issue: urine.  

In keeping with his frugal, wholly integrated living with the natural environment, the Elder saves all their urine, and in the spring, dilutes it with water at a ratio of 1:10 and then applies it to the garden’s root zone as a free, highly concentrated nutrient rich source of nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium (NPK).  Consumers at Big-Box garden centers pay between $1 to $3 per pound for NPK-rich organic fertilizers.  Since bombing began on the Fertile Crescent, birth-place of agriculture, the cost of fossil fuel-based fertilizers has jumped 30% to 40% in the past three months.  The Elder is no fool.

Like almost 90% of American citizens, my children have been raised on city water, using flush toilets on a sewer, so this organic frugality was overwhelming.  What to my son seemed a bio-hazard used to fertilize food was a brew too toxic, he was rendered catatonic.  After a tour of the gardens, the Elders shared home pressed apple cider and muffins but his appetite was gone.  I carried the conversation.  

In fact, this was an essential learning opportunity.  Here at our Homeschool Academy, I raise my son to question authority, ground his opinions on fact, and consider all sides of a topic.  To the mainstream this is a “cringe” factor, but “pee cycling,” the technical term for this practice, is the vanguard; large-scale grassroots community programs are under way in Sweden, China and Vermont.  For my son’s Zoomer generation, this will be an increasing issue.  

The Global Water Monitoring Report released by the World Bank in November 2025 reported the world is losing 324 billion cubic meters of freshwater every year, enough to meet the needs of 280 million people annually.  The US Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) estimates that roughly 27% of indoor household water is used just to flush toilets, and four out of five flushes are solely for urine.  Human urine makes up less than 1% of the total volume of municipal wastewater, yet it contains roughly 75% of the nitrogen and 55% of the phosphorus. 

Municipal waste water systems in the United States pump, treat and distribute more than 39 billion gallons of water per day, consuming 30% to 40% of municipal government energy use while emitting greenhouse gasses, discharging residual nitrogen and phosphorus into local watersheds, catalyzing algae blooms that choke out oxygen, creating dead zones.  

My son needs to learn there are two sides to every story, and the fact remains that prior to the advent of modern sewage systems infectious diseases like cholera and dysentery killed millions of people around the world.  Arguably, indoor plumbing represents one of the major success stories of government.  Even today, India has battled cholera, dysentery and diarrhea and so in 2014 Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s Clean India Mission was launched to modernize solid waste management.  More than 100 million latrines have been installed, with nationwide practices to ensure safe drinking water supplies.  The World Health Organization has estimated that Water, Sanitation, and Hygiene (WASH) interventions prevent an estimated 1.4 million deaths and 74 million disability-adjusted life-years annually worldwide.

Municipal waste systems come at a high cost. The Congressional Budget Office reports that, in the United States between 1956 and 2014 – the Boomer generation – federal, state, and local governments have spent over $4.1 trillion (adjusted for inflation) on operations, maintenance, and capital infrastructure of water and wastewater utilities.  That aging infrastructure increasingly leaks water, and becomes less efficient.  The AWWA estimates updating drinking water infrastructure will cost $2.1–$2.4 trillion over the next 25 years (2026–2050), a cost my son’s generation will bear, in addition to national debt exceeding $39 trillion.  And growing. People complain about fraud and government waste, but then flush it all down the golden toilet.

In January, the United Nations University Institute for Water, Environment and Health (UNU-INWEH) published “Global Water Bankruptcy: Living Beyond Our Hydrological Means in the Post-Crisis Era,” declaring the dawn of an era of global water bankruptcy.  For my son and his peers, this issue will be not abstract but omnipresent.  Creative solutions will be needed.  

Reclaiming urine reduces the consumption of water while converting a major pollutant into a free hyper-local resource.  If “pee-cycling” seems outrageous now, its time may be near.  ScienceDirect, a scientific research platform operated by Elsevier, the respected academic publishing house, conducted a multi-national survey of 3763 respondents at 20 different universities across 16 countries asking “people’s willingness to consume food grown using human urine as fertilizer.”  68% of the respondents favored recycling human urine, 59% stated a willingness to eat urine-fertilized food, and only 11% believed that urine posed health risks that could not be mitigated by treatment.

With urine as number 1 on our list, the number 2 topic is feces.  A hyper-local solution is readily available in the “humanure” movement.  Recycling human excrement has been practiced for thousands of years, including “night soil” collected in towns of China, Korea, and Japan.  Evidently it was common throughout the Middle Ages, but fell out of favor around the 19th century with the advent of flush toilets and municipal water systems.  Since the mid-90s, however, “night soil” has regained traction.  

The Mother Tree, who teaches my son “biogeochemistry” – a/k/a Soil Science – is at the vanguard of the “humanure” movement.  In 2008, she launched the “Humble Pile” project as a nutrient recovery project in dense urban Chicago.  She recruited 22 volunteer households, providing “dry bucket toilets,” snap on seats, and sawdust to eliminate odors and catalyze the carbon-to-nitrogen balance.  Her goal was to “transform waste into fertility, pollution into resource, and isolation into connection.” 

For three months she personally collected the buckets and transported them – by bicycle – to a location outside the city, for the high-heat composting process, to ensure pathogens like E. Coli were killed off.  In total, she diverted 1,500 gallons of waste from Chicago’s water treatment system.  And in the end, “The Great Giveback” returned the nutrient soil back to the volunteers, in parcels, for use in their gardens.  The cycle was complete.  Community, connected.  

In 2009, Time Magazine published “Humanure: Goodbye, Toilets.  Hello, Extreme Composting” that described projects in rural Pennsylvania; Austin, Texas; Marin County, California; as well as Chicago’s “Humble Pile.”  The Mother Tree was introduced as “…a self-described radical ecologist” and quoted, “I’ve sent a sample in for a coliform test.  There is zero detectable fecal bacteria.”

In Arthur Magazine, she was quoted, “I’m not treating it chemically. I trust microorganisms to do it for me.  As an ecologist, I don’t expect law to keep up with me—it’s more important to get this done.  I’m just interested in people understanding that their body is producing soil all the time, and there’s no reason not to return it back to earth.”

My son’s visit to the Elder was not a waste, but an awakening.  Where I hoped for dialogue, he experienced a basic physical truth, uncomfortable as that may be.  To the mainstream, we live on Planet Earth.  The Anxious Generation has been trained to experience life through a screen.  But the Mother Tree and the Elder show him we live with Planet Earth.  

In terms of “What is a Person?” they each demonstrate, quietly and profoundly, in my son’s presence, that a person is not a passive consumer, but an accountable participant in our community and ecosystem.  To the consumer, life is linear, a constant quest for accumulation of more, regardless of the waste left behind.  To the steward, life is circular where recycling creates nutrient rich soil, to grow nutrient rich foods to nourish the body; by owning the full consequences of living, an environmental pollutant is converted into life-giving food. 

Humanure is but a humble lesson in entropy: heat – 135 to 160 degrees F – kills off the pathogens, creating bio-rich soil, sweet smelling, as fresh as the forest. Complex organic matter is violently broken down in thermophilic (hot) compost; fragmented, and disassembled. Humus is left behind —an incredibly stable, chemically complex, and highly organized soil matrix. The stuff of life. Giving off heat, the microbes build a structured, nutrient-dense masterpiece in the soil.

The Second Law of Thermodynamics states the total entropy of the universe always increases: the “Arrow of Time” points ever forward. But through stewardship, my son’s generation can return the cycle to a restorative, nurturing future: waste converted into growth, into nourishing food.

Any city-raised boy can learn this lesson.  Very likely all the Zoomers will need to learn this humble lesson.  This will be our 8th grade lesson.


Hanging

“You can get used to hanging, if you have to,” my father would say so often, when I was a boy.  I grew up in the era of free love, but my Father was of a different era, of the Silent Generation.  

He had grown up in Kentucky, in an extended family generations of whom worked on the railroad, as Laborers, Shop Foremen, Section Supervisor, although his Father had risen to be an Engineer.  The saying is “beneath every railroad tie lies a dead Irishman” and I can only imagine how hard those times must have been.  My Father was silent on that. 

My Father’s oldest brother, Danny, broke the mold, at the age of 26, when he became the Business Manager of the Calumet Farm, in the thoroughbred bluegrass region. During the championship years when the legendary Whirlaway ran like the wind, Danny managed the operation, winning the Triple Crown – the Kentucky Derby, Preakness Stakes, and Belmont Stakes – in 1941.  While Danny worked, my Father, age 13 (my son’s age now), would idle away the hours, reading under the Bur Oak, Blue Ash, or Kentucky Coffeetrees towering overhead; an idyllic, wildly exciting, and defining era at the iconic racing stable.

After the bombing of Pearl Harbor, in December of 1941, Danny enlisted in the United States Army Air Corp.  Old enough not to go, he volunteered, such was his Code of Honor.  Eventually he was sent to Iwo Jima where he was killed, stabbed while he slept, on March 26, 1945.  Japanese kamikazes were hiding on the island, and struck in the dead of night, when the Marines’ guard was down. 

The US Army Messengers drove to the family’s house, then walked to the front porch to deliver the news.  My Father, home alone, would have greeted them, his world crushing down upon him, his world slipping away.  Danny had been like a father to him, they shared a very close bond, and this news must have been devastating.  Which he received in solitude, standing on the front porch, in Paris, Kentucky.  

“You can get used to hanging, if you have to,” my Father would say so often, but I could not fathom the generations of pain that lay buried behind those words.  My Father never spoke of Danny.

Even during the “make love, not war,” era when I came of age, the ethos still, voiced by every male authority figure – coaches, Priests and teachers – was “no pain, no gain!  Play through the pain!”  My generation’s masculinity was forged in a cauldron not so very different from my Father; among alpha Boomers, dominance seems on steroids these days.  

For countless generations a set of unwritten, unspoken rules have largely defined masculinity, with the emphasis upon toughness, stoicism and emotional suppression.  Referred to as the “Boy Code” its core tenets are:

  • The Sturdy Oak: be not vulnerable and project strength
  • Give ‘em Hell: aggressive, competitive risk taking is the key to success
  • The Big Wheel: the alpha male, driven to dominate, and achieve status and power
  • No Sissy Stuff: thou shalt not show emotion, nor any feminine traits
  • The Cowboy: self-reliance needs no help

Increasingly I am convinced that this Code, and its dominant alpha males are the dinosaurs, flailing as their “no pain, no gain” and “money is the measure of the man” ethos begins to crack, fail, and fall.  The “Copernican Moment” of multi-dimensional consciousness is coming.  

The futurist Alvin Toffler famously argued that the public educational system was designed during the Industrial Revolution, training obedient, punctual workers for assembly lines, rather than creative, independent thinkers.  The industrial model used three symbols: the bell, the authoritarian teacher, and repetitive work.  The bell taught when to begin and to end, like a factory shift.  The hierarchical top-down model of authority taught obedience, not to question authority.  Straight rows, grouped by age, rote memorization taught to the standardized test, molded children to an imposed order.  Such was my generation’s educational model.  I vividly recall in my 8th grade, the smell of mimeographed math worksheets, a teacher who smelled of whiskey endlessly passing the damp purple pages down the straight line of desks, her worksheets replacing engagement with rote repetition.  

Toffler famously said, “The illiterate of the 21st century will not be those who cannot read or write, but those who cannot learn, unlearn, and relearn.”  As to what this “continual learning and relearning” means I turned for advice to Our Aristotle, who provides the annual assessment for my son’s homeschooling.  

Our Aristotle works on the front lines of the local public school system.  Over six years, he has worked in three different local school districts, teaching all ages from K through middle school.  He values connection, and holds the high distinction of being fired 30-minutes before the end of the school year, for refusing – at the order of an authoritarian Assistant Principal – to abandon his students on the last day, their final minutes, refusing to change classes to be mere marshall for a different class.  Our Aristotle stood his ground, and so the Assistant Principal fired him, but gained nothing.  

At his most recent position Our Aristotle was chastised for being not stern enough, not “cracking the whip,” being too playful. He values connection, empathy and relationship, but the administration wants to impose order, strict rules, shaming.  

In his first teaching position he was a “Special Needs Ed Tech,” lowest on the totem pole, which also meant closest to the front line; working daily with children on the spectrum of ADHD, ADD, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder and Oppositional Defiant Disorder.  His mantra was:

Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, …to me.

He learned patience.  He taught connection.  He got on the floor and played.  He saw, and sees, the educational system as a broken and outdated model, teaching to the test, to metrics designed by accountants and economists, to inculcate ever-increasing efficiency from the next generation of worker bees; pliant cogs in the industrial machine.  

His approach is relational, emotional, about belonging, to which he explains, “…students will not care about things unless they seem relevant to their lives. Like learning about probability via poker or … about elements of the periodic table alongside welding.  School should provide opportunities for students to see how their learning applies to their reality, and it can also be used to connect students with their communities. That’s impossible when they feel that school itself is alien to their lives, and it feels alien because they have to learn about concepts and ideas in a vacuum in order to score well on assessments. All that knowledge goes out the window post test since it isn’t grounded in anything real.”

Our Aristotle’s approach is grounded, historically, in the writings of Lev Vygotsky, from the 1930s, whose sociocultural theory emphasized the role of social interaction and culture in learning.  Vygotsky taught that the “More Knowledgeable Other” guides the learner forward, along their path.  The role of the Other is to observe and find the optimal spot where the young student can proceed independently, while receiving guidance and encouragement from the avuncular Other.  Not an authoritarian dominant master, but one offering encouragement, a sense of belonging; agency in a cooperative affirming way.  

In terms of my family, Great Uncle Danny – stabbed as he slept on the black rocks of Iwo Jima – was the “More Knowledgeable Other” shaping my Father’s childhood. 

The old guard of stoic accountability and testing continues to hold sway.  Margaret Spellings, a secretary of education when the No Child Left Behind Act was signed, advocates to restore “the muscle of accountability, the muscle of assessment.” 

“The Nation’s Report Card” shows that 8th-grade reading scores on national assessments are currently at their lowest point since 1990.  But metrics of failing accountability are vastly different from a student flourishing.  Danny was there for my Father, but many children today – boys especially – lack the “More Knowledgeable Other.”  

The Center for Disease Control data shows that 40 percent of high school students report persistent feelings of sadness or hopelessness.  One in five had seriously considered suicide; nearly one in 10 had attempted it. 23% of students were chronically absent in the 2024-25 school year, far above the pre-pandemic rate of 15%.  The SNF Agora Institute at Johns Hopkins found that 40 percent of Zoomers believe political violence can be justified, compared with 11 percent of Boomers. 

Science and history support the fact that life and learning are cooperative.  Suzanne Simard is the groundbreaking forestry scientist whose Mother Tree Project teaches forests are deeply interconnected systems, not just Darwinian collections of individual trees.  Yuval Noah Harari is a historian trained at Oxford University, whose books have sold forty-five million copies in sixty-five languages.  His core thesis is simply that cooperation is the key to human societies; our ability to create collective stories is unique among animals thereby guiding diverse humans to cooperate flexibly.  

When compassion becomes key, then “spare the rod and spoil the child” will no longer pertain.  The change from the “Cowboy Big Wheel” to a cooperative culture will be a long slow transition, its realization not preordained.  Certainly not in my lifetime, maybe not even in my son’s, but a cooperative nurturing culture is a goal worthy of pursuit.   

I am homeschooling my son.  My task is to prepare him for his future, not my past; I can be as a hinge, this moment a fulcrum, my role as “Knowledgeable Other” to provide my son with a grounded sense of belonging, in a culture when competition gives way to cooperation, to continual learning and relearning, to a shared flourishing. 

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