Stop. Look. Listen.: 2011

I originally picked up this book looking for inspiration on starting my very own CSA (community supported agriculture), but instead, found myself inspired to be a better person. That's right, grab your trash bins and a wet wash cloth, as I am sure you will be vomiting at the cliches and idyllic language I use to describe Kristin Kimball's treasure, A Dirty Life: A Memoir of Farming, Food, and Love.

Kimball's poetic use of words, whether describing tastes of a raw, earthy meal, beautiful in its preparation and presentation, or the butchering of a hog, using it's blood for a pudding, is not only intriguing and engaging as a page-turning device, but like music: free flowing with a heartbeat, up and down, undulating as a wave of emotion and passion for farming, food, and life. Her journey of becoming a farmer and a lover of the world around her, inspired me to know more of what life has to offer. Her poetry inspired me to be a truer and more honest person, like the farm that I grew up on in Marcellus, Michigan; straight-forward, interdependent, and fair.

And then there were times that were not so poetic. As you get to know more of Kimball and her story, you encounter bumps in the road, sometimes very bumpy. But with every bump, there is a familiarity, something that you can relate to. It is with this that she kept my attention and stoked my desire to engage my life with tenacity and perseverance.

Never before have I felt so connected with a memoir. If you are looking for a good friend, someone whose story will comfort you and reaffirm your life's aspirations, Kimball is waiting for you.

This is just a little piece I wrote while on our family vacation. Enjoy!

Tollroad to Bedford Social
By Seth Carlson

The beds weren't incredibly comfortable, but I was happy enough to finally find a place to rest. It was a comfort to escape the dreadful right-wing billboards about embryotic heartbeats and "No-bama." It comes with the territory, I kept telling myself. We were driving through the set of "The Deliverance," after all.

I was traveling with my family, returning to hay and manure after a family vacation in North Carolina, another red state, but with a little coastal tiki-flare. The sun shone brightly on our beach rental and I walked away with a tan that would put Bob Barker to shame. The trip down had been relatively uneventful, so we had the same expectations for the return. The interstate had taken us as far as our bladders could travel for one day, and the only hotel within a fifty mile radius with two vacant rooms was the Quality Motel. Usually my family follows the rule that if any overnight accomodations have tacky and cliche adjectives in their names, stay away from them, for they usually represent the epitome of it's antonym. But for tonight, we made an exception.

Dinner, like most of the drive, seemed to be lacking spice and pizzaz. My niece, only a month old, grew a strong distaste for the decor and the flavorless, overdone prime rib, and threw a short-lived tantrum. General Hoss's Steak and Sea offered a a large spread on the salad bar and buttery shrimp and salmon for pescetarians like myself, but it was a dine and run experience since it was already encroaching on eleven and we wanted to get back to the rooms before little, baby Elle threw her bottle at the feaux-floral arrangements and called Martha Stewart to whip the General into shape at her color-scheming and staging boot-camp.

After waking up and showering in what I thought to be an 80's designed Mermaid clam shell, we packed our forty-thousand bags and turned in both room keys, only one of them having worked. Before the forty-thousand bags could burst out of the truck bed and cover the entire parking lot at the Quality, we booked it to breakfast. The mousey blonde at the front desk directed us in a most un-front-desk-staff-way to our free continental breakfast by using a map taped to the fuschia desk. I couldn't help but feel sorry for her. Not because I pitied her, but because I almost felt the pain and anxiety in her voice, probably from being verbally battered by an overweight, twice-divorced, red-headed woman, wearing a fanny pack and tropical print cotton dress, distributing her spat equally between the motel staff and her four rotten ginger-children. "Good luck to you, Sarah," I thought as we walked outside towards our Quality breakfast, "Don't let them steal your voice or your dignity."

The lobby was not large enough in the motel for warming plates full of scrambled eggs and overdone bacon, but there was a restaraunt next door, only about 200 feet away, which Sarah had pointed to on the map. There were signs all over the entrance and the outside of the building that read "Not Open to Public. Motel Breakfast Only." We opened the first set of doors and I could see that we were walking into a place that did not fit the typical metal sheet siding and decaying brick facade it's exterior displayed. Upon opening the second set, I realized we were walking into a different dimension. For anyone who could afford the overpriced Disney World ticket, a similar feeling can be achieved at the Hollywood Tower of Terror. It was the Twilight Zone to a 'T'.

To our left, we saw the empty chair lining the liquor-less bar, and slightly beyond that, a seating area that resembled the smokiest cigar room from any of the Godfather films. I was left standing in awe of the deep mahoghanny trim and the gaudy gold schonses that lined the dark-mauve walls. It was only until a waitress by the name of Beatrice asked for our room number and party size, that my trance was interrupted and my mind was taken from 1940 to the smell of syrup and french toast.

As Beatrice seated us in the eerily quiet dining area, I struggled to gather my thoughts and make my way to the breakfast line. I say "line" as a formality, when in reality there was no line at all. But I felt that any display of informal behavior would be frowned upon in such a remarkable place, empty as it may have been.

If there had been a slight piano tune playing in the background, it would have most definitely distracted from the awkwardness of the silent room, but certainly would have contributed to the story the Bedford Social had to share. As Beatrice brought coffee and water to our formally plated table, only lacking a live floral arrangement, I yearned for more history of what resided within the dimly lit walls. My parents could sense my desire for more information about to burst and interjected an inconspicuous question about whether the Bedford Social was also open for dinner. "No," Beatrice said in her raspy, firm voice, "We only run breakfast for the motel. The Bedford was sold quite some time ago, but remains open for Quality's breakfast." As she turned away and headed toward the next table, I sat and thought "How could a place like this be associated with a lacking-Quality Motel?" I wanted to ask more, but couldn't piece together my words intelligently enough to form even a muddled question for Beatrice. She was, after all, the only waitress in the entire place and would probably be annoyed with my Yankee imagination.

Instead, I sat there, wishing for a three piece suit and a crowded bar. Drinks flowing. Cigars smoking. Laughter and gossip spreading like wildfire. Sherry, bourbon, and gin as drinks of choice. Time as the only governor of the night. No emails. No social network notifications. Only the Bedford Social. In all of it's glory.

Someday, I hope that interstate is full with traffic, heading to the Bedord Social, of course. The only place to be, where quality is modesty for elegance.