If You Kids Don't Behave I'll Turn This ATV Around!

Danny, the farm owner/manager, is hardworking, responsible and very hard not to like. He’s a young guy, 23 or 24, but I have no problem considering him my boss (I’m a ripe 32). I don’t know how he learned it, but he definitely knows his stuff—not only farming, but Anasazi history, identifying animal tracks, sustainable electrical engineering… you name it. No matter where we go, he routinely wears work boots, jeans, a t-shirt and a cowboy hat and has a great attitude about everything. He treats every person he meets with respect and does his best make everyone happy. At the same time, he knows when to put his foot down, crack the whip (i.e., cut the power to the Xbox) and tell people to get to work. I can’t imagine him losing his cool, and I’ve seen him put up with a lot of bullshit in the short time I’ve been here.

The French volunteers left this past weekend, so now it’s just me and the Brits. Josh and Aaron, both 20 years old, are loads of fun. They share my desire to try new things, so we have a lot of adventures together. These range from climbing the canyon walls and exploring caves to seeing how steep a hill we can drive up in the Mule without it tipping over and killing us all. They definitely add some excitement to the farm life here, but they’re also a handful. They’d blend in nicely with a class of third graders.

On our most recent trip to explore Anasazi ruins, they raced to see who could find the first arrowhead. When we had a few late-night drinks and decided to climb on top of the house, they argued over which of them could climb the highest. Yesterday, they had a hammer-throwing contest.

Our brief lunch breaks are usually stretched out over an hour because they get so wrapped up in Facebook, and they would probably go on for two hours if Danny didn’t threaten to turn off the internet for a few days unless they got back to the field. I often have to nag them to get back to work because they get so distracted trying to catch lizards. Whenever Danny drives us to town for supplies, they yell and fight over who gets to ride shotgun. That one got so ugly that Danny had to lay down some rules (you have to see the vehicle before shouting “shotgun,” no saving shotgun, as soon as you step out of the passenger’s seat it’s up for grabs, etc.).

Car trips seem to bring out the worst in them, or the most entertaining, depending on how you look at it. This is when they pester Danny the most, usually for things they see out the window. Here are a few requests I heard this weekend as we drove to Cortez. I’m not making up any of this:

“Danny, can we go to Taco Bell?”
“Danny, can we go to the rodeo?
“Danny, can we go to Vegas?”
“Danny, can we get a boat and go to the lake?”
“Danny, can we fire your guns when we get home?”
“Danny, can we go to Denver?”
“Danny, you said we could go to Taco Bell!”
“Danny, can I shoot a rabbit?”
“Danny, can you buy us some Mountain Dew?”
“Danny, can I sell an Anasazi skeleton if I find one?”
“Danny, can we get Modern Warfare 2?”
“Danny, can we go to the Grand Canyon?”
“Danny, can we go to the sheriff’s office and see if I can ride in a police car?”
“I don’t want Taco Bell anymore, I want KFC!”

For the record, my dad used to pull the car over and make me walk the last few blocks home whenever I tried to pull that stuff. I was eight then.

Don’t get me wrong—I enjoy the Brits’ company and we do have a lot of good times and good conversations. I don’t mean to bash them because they’re both smart guys and good friends. It just never ceases to amaze me how much they end up looking like Danny’s spoiled children, and it usually makes me laugh. Danny totally takes on the dad role, keeping them in line and usually answering their questions with “possibly” or “we’ll see.” And he does a great job granting as many of their requests as he can, within reason.

No, he won’t let them shoot rabbits or dig for Anasazi skeletons.

Yes, he’s going to talk to the sheriff about letting Josh ride in a police car.

I'm Going to Hell

I always assumed that if I worked on an organic farm in exchange for food, the food would be healthy and organic—or at least natural. Not so.

Danny gives us free reign of the pantry. It’s a nice perk for volunteers because we choose our own meals and eat what we want. Unfortunately, that pantry is full of processed foods, all containing high-fructose corn syrup, trans fats and Red 5. Danny isn’t big on greens; the only vegetables in the whole house are a case of canned mushrooms and a half-empty jar of artichoke hearts. Most of the meals here consist of bacon, sausage, sweet cereal, rice-a-roni and bacon. Farm-direct veggies normally make up about 70% of my diet and I’m going through withdrawal. I would kill for a fresh head of lettuce right now. And if it were organic, that would make my year, but that’s reaching for the stars.

Danny is from Santa Barbara and is very knowledgeable about the natural food industry. He did, after all, choose to grow an organic vineyard from scratch. Whenever he visits his family in Cali, he stocks up on natural foods for the trip back, but that hasn’t happened in a long time. His shopping choices here are very limited.

“Organic” is a foreign word in the Utah countryside. Even his farming neighbors don’t understand why Danny would want to grow something without pesticides, so there is absolutely no demand for natural or organic food out here. We’re also in the middle of the dessert, which doesn’t help. The nearest food retailer is a tiny grocery in Monticello, about 45 minutes away, and it’s good for overpriced staples (i.e., bacon). Fully stocking up on supplies at an affordable rate, however, requires a two-hour drive to the mammoth discount store in Cortez.

Walmart.

I hate Walmart. I despise Walmart. I wish every Walmart on the planet would burn to the ground, and I wouldn’t hesitate to light the match if I knew they would stay down. Walmart is a plague to our social, environmental and economic well-being. I spent the last five years of my life working at a natural food co-op to encourage anti-Walmart values. Last fall, I needed a new phone charger and drove 20 miles out of my way to avoid giving Walmart money for one. Yet, I’m hungry.

Danny did a shopping trip to the wretched megastore today and invited me to come along to help pick out food. I jumped at the chance to make sure something green came back. It turns out that even the Walmarts out here are sparse on veggies. And while Walmarts on the West coast brag about their huge selection of organic goods, the one in Cortez doesn’t have that demand, so they don’t supply. No bother—beggars can’t be choosers. I was ecstatic to fill a shopping cart with the cheapest and most unethical broccoli, asparagus, cauliflower and sweet potatoes I’ve ever seen.

I’m still having some guilt issues over the whole thing, but I’m snacking on a plate of asparagus as I’m typing this and damn, it’s good.

I’m sure my friends from Oregon will understand my conflict. Everyone else will probably just think I’m a snob. Whatev.