Home Beckons

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“I like him.” my friend said, somewhat defensively, referring to the landsman who talked with him about signing a gas lease in the Marcellus Shale. “Well, I like him too,” I shot back, “but remember, he probably won’t be around here next year, and who knows what company you’ll be dealing with down the road…

Waste water, well spacing, fracing chemicals, wildlife habitats, lease assignments – all issues worth sparring about with my friend whose eyes are firmly focused on future fortunes to be made from the Marcellus Shale. Marcellus divides us like no other topic. He, the perpetual pessimist, and I, the eternal optimist, suddenly exchange places when debating this on-coming drill fest.

Consider lease assignments… You’ve carefully researched the gas companies before choosing your best deal, becoming comfortable with your landsman, his company’s history, and its financial situation. Now, you’re just marking time until your company’s rigs arrive. Unfortunately your carefully chosen company may abandon you before the ink is dry on your contract or any time business goals take them elsewhere. These multi-billion dollar gas and oil companies craft new deals often, buying and selling drilling rights as they manage their total portfolios.

Recent deals include XTO Energy’s who announced in April plans to acquire 152,000 net acres in the Appalachian basin from Linn Energy. Similarly, Dominion Resources plans to assign drilling rights on 205,000 Marcellus acres to Antero Resources. In cases like these, landowners signed leases with one company, but now, most without any input or choice, will have new partners who possess the legal power to impact their land usage.

Even the natural life cycle of a gas well could contribute to ownership shifts. The output of a typical well drops drastically after the first couple of years of operation and then gradually lessens over the full life. If the Marcellus Shale follows the path of other gas plays around the country, older wells may become candidates for sale to smaller, less financially stable gas companies.

In a standard lease agreement, the original lease follows the sale. You will be dealing with the new company, with few, if any rights to go after the original company should things go badly – capping of old wells, gas leaks, water issues, etc. Some contracts carry addendums stating that the gas company must notify you if they assign your lease to another company. An addendum declaring that the lease cannot be sold or assigned without your approval may offer a bit more protection.

But no matter how carefully you negotiate the terms of your lease agreement, the reality is sobering: you are no longer sole owner of your land. You are no longer lord or mistress of all you survey. You are no longer in total control of what happens to your little heaven on earth. Your newfound prosperity carries a hefty cost – a dramatic loss of ownership and independence.

Consider this extreme, but possible lease ownership shift. A short Reuters article from Hong Kong appeared on-line in July. “China National Petroleum Corp (CNPC), China’s top state oil firm, is thinking of bidding for minority stakes in shale gas assets of Chesapeake Energy Corp… Chesapeake is looking to raise as much as $5 billion this year from selling minority stakes in its Arkansas and Pennsylvania shale gas properties, the South China Morning Post reported.” Will this happen? I don’t know, but it’s enough to know that it’s possible.

“Well, maybe China National is a good company,” my friend offers. “Yeah, I did some research on it,” I replied, “and it looks like it is, but that’s not the point. We’re already drinking Belgian/Brazilian Budweiser, facing Korean- or Chinese-owned GE appliances, and getting used to the idea of Abu Dhabi owning the Chrysler building. What’s more difficult to imagine is that our neighbors’ private, personal properties could someday belong to China or any other country courted by the gas companies.”

“OK, I can see your point,” my friend said, as the sun slipped from view over the hilltop beyond the valley. As I looked out over the lush, green fields bordered by century-old stone walls, I spied a couple of deer stepping cautiously out from the wood’s edge. I made a mental note to take more pictures over the next few months, capturing on paper this beautiful land as it was before Marcellus awoke.

Image by Don Fulano

Tina Turner probably doesn’t need another back-up dancer anyway. Not that I had a real shot at it, since I never took dance lessons, and standing tall, I max out at five foot one inch and just a little bit more. “Man, I’d still love to dress my sturdy thighs in fishnet stockings and dance to “Private Dancer” behind Tina,” I thought when I read through the old list. Have you seen Tina sing and dance her way through that song in her video “One Last Time in Concert?” The super-slim back-up dancer, in the red dress slit way up the side, brings her long, lean leg straight up in front of her face. Well, I can’t get my face that close to my leg while sitting down and bending over, so that to-do will have to come off the list.

I found my things-to-do-before-I-die list stuck to the back of a catch-all drawer and hidden by receipts, buttons, paper clips, matches, rubber bands, pot holders, batteries, pens, markers, locks, candles, cards, incense sticks, keys, bubbles, rolls of tape, scissors, flea collars, flashlights, and stale gum. “GTE SYL” in blue lettering caught my eye on the top fold of the paper, opening out to “GTE SYLVANIA, Quality Through People and Technology” when unfolded to full page. Written in 1992 just before GTE pulled out of Towanda, my list lay hidden for sixteen years.

So, how’d I do? Cross-country ski? Yup. After the first grueling outing, my arms ached so much from uphill poling that for three days it hurt to push down the water fountain button. Buy a 65 Mustang? Check. Great time cruising – abruptly interrupted by brakes gone bad at the top of a hill. Win a tennis tournament? Yes. Small-town, small-time tournament, but hey, the first-place trophy sits on my bookcase!

I checked off three of the ten to-dos, but what about the rest? Backpack on horseback in the mountains? Never. Take a cruise? Nope. Shoot at the national field archery tournament? Never going to happen. Learn to read German? Nein. Go to Scotland? Not yet. Write a book? Not even one page. “Wow!” I thought. “What have I been doing all these years? The Tina gig was always a long shot, but all these other to-dos were reasonable. So, what went wrong?”

Maybe nothing went wrong… My cruise ship may still be dry-docked and bagpipes wail too far off in the highlands, but I’ve roamed the streets of Berlin, Taipei, Saltzburg, Kyoto, Daegu, Helsinki, and Lisbon. My German is still limited to ordering spaetzle or spargel, but in the meantime, I’ve tackled sign language and brushed up on Spanish. A tennis racquet now feels just as much at home in my hand as a compound bow did years ago, and a recent hour-long horseback ride reminded me that I’d rather watch, smell, and clean-up after horses than ride them! Fortunately, life quite often offers excellent unplanned adventures equally satisfying as those once imagined and anticipated.

“OK,” I thought, pulling out a clean piece of paper. “I’ll make out a new list just for the fun of it. “Write a book” goes back on the list, and I’ll add my grand schemes to save the world.” A few minutes later, nine to-dos looked back at me. “These are great, but what truly serious challenge can take the place of Tina?” I wondered. Just then, as if on cue, “Whiskey River” started playing on the radio. “Yeah, that’s a definite! ” I thought excitedly as I completed the list…

#10 BACK-UP SINGER FOR WILLIE NELSON (long legs not required)

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I promise to never again ask my husband why he is taking another picture out an airplane window! I finally realize that each time he flies; he recovers, at least for a few moments, a child-like curiosity and wide-eyed wonder of what he sees. You can’t always tell when those moments will find you.

Softball games, county fairs, picnics, berry picking, swimming in the creek, riding down hill on sleds, ice-skating on the pond, deer hunting, high-school plays…all scenes from my childhood in rural Pennsylvania. My grandparents, parents, other relatives, friends, and neighbors and I lived quiet lives revolving around family, home, and community. Trips to Florida and Canada were monumental adventures, exciting events celebrated with slide shows and stories of new sights seen. Only local service men experienced exotic lands across the oceans.

My limited knowledge of Japan followed me into adulthood: samurai, sumo, geisha in kimonos, rice, Mount Fuji, and green tea. As time passed, new images of Japan pushed their way forward – Japan as a powerhouse in technical innovations and top-notch manufacturing. And then, the real lessons began with my first flight west to the land in the east.

“I can’t believe I’m actually standing in Japan!” I thought, gazing out my high-rise window at the Keio Plaza. “It just doesn’t seem possible. Who would have ever believed that I would make it from the farm on Sugar Hill to Tokyo! I wish my Aunt Belle were still alive so that I could tell her I’m here doing business with…”

Japan! Where trains run on time and people politely wait their turn in line… Where taxis have pure-white starched headrest covers and people sensibly aren’t embarrassed to break into a run when late… Where simple lunches are served with care on real china and “set” meals are served without choices of side dishes… Where toilets make cheering noises and shoes are taken off in restaurants and placed in perfect alignment at the door… Where fish guts are actually listed on the menu and every meal challenges the I-don’t-like-seafood eaters of the world!

Japan! Where a westerner stands out like a red cherry in a bowl of bings and rules for bowing are somewhat baffling… Where clerks and waiters shout “welcome” and “thank-you” and wrapping up everyday packages is an art form… Where in business, a smile isn’t always a positive and a frown isn’t always a negative… Where centuries-old temples sit peacefully among high-rise office buildings and young people grow much taller than their elders… Where 3.5 million people pass through Shinjuku train station every day in such a rush of humanity that I have to look down at the floor to keep from getting motion sickness!

Japan! Where Mount Fuji looms off in the distance and bullet trains fly low through the countryside at 186 miles per hour… Where rice fields grow right up to back doors and no land is wasted on oversized lawns… Where the heaviest people would be among the thinnest at home… Where giants Sony, Panasonic, Hitachi, Mitsubishi, and Fujitsu develop the latest have-to-haves and massive electronics stores hawk these wares with a lights-flashing, beautiful-girls shouting, loud-speaker blasting, wonderfully-chaotic style!

Japan! Where…

Even after making several more business trips to Japan, that moment when I gazed out over the rooftops of Tokyo for the first time remains forever etched in my mind. In today’s fast-paced and over-exposed world, we’re lucky to find occasional spontaneous moments of joyful wonder. Take another picture out the window, Gary. I know how you feel.

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“You’re just being pessimistic. It won’t be that bad,” my friend said, referring to my concerns about the gas boom from the Marcellus Shale. “No,” I replied. “I’m just being cautious. We know the money will be good, but there’s a whole lot more to think about besides the money.”

A year ago, I refused to sign a gas lease. I didn’t want anyone walking on, driving on, drilling on, piping on, being on…you get the picture! And, at $100 an acre, my husband humored me. Now, money calls out a whole lot louder. “We can’t stop the drilling all around us, so we might as well sign,” my husband says, as he nudges me a little bit harder. We can sign a lease with a no-surface rights clause – drill horizontally under us, but don’t tread on me! It solves the “not on my land!” problem, but I’m still losing sleep thinking about the bigger picture.

Consider what we’ve learned so far. When representatives from Anadarko, Range, Chesapeake, Cabot, Chief, and others came into the area, they acted as their shareholders expected them to act:

• Pay as little as possible to the landowners.
• Don’t advise people about the sure-to-happen-soon price run-up.
• Offer contracts with legal protections only favoring the company.
• Don’t advise the landowners to seek legal help before signing.

Like it or not, these actions are typical and legal business strategies. So, keep in mind: the gas companies, with their big bucks and heavy political clout, will always approach the Marcellus strictly as a business. Just because they act legally, does not mean that they will act in the best interests of landowners or others who live in our communities. We must be vigilant and vocal in our call for responsible drilling.

“I’ve seen a few drill sites around here over the years and you hardly notice them,” my friend said, trying to put a positive spin on the subject. I shook my head. “Those were vertical wells, and they didn’t produce much. It’s a new ball game now. Energy costs are up, plus they’re pretty sure that they can get at the gas with horizontal drilling and fracing…

Consider just two causes for concern: the impact of well spacing and surface damage due to drilling sites. Landsmen from two companies spun the same story to me: “Horizontal drilling means that wells can be further apart than vertical wells. There could be one well drilled per square mile or per 640 acres.” What they hadn’t answered yet is my question about why Marcellus will be different than the horizontal drilling taking place in the Barnett Shale in Texas. Even horizontal drilling with fracing can not capture enough of the gas in shale, so companies are increasing their recovery in the Barnett by infill drilling their horizontal wells (drilling in between existing wells) with spacing as close as one well per 20 acres.

Let me repeat that…as close as one well per 20 acres! Apparently, Pennsylvania has lax rules on well spacing (please leave a comment if you have specifics). Will we see dense drilling in the Marcellus? Probably. How dense? I don’t know, but it’s an issue that should be discussed and researched by everyone living in the Marcellus play, landowner or not.

What about surface damage at the well sites? Horizontal wells require approximately four acres of land (versus 1 ½ for vertical wells) for the drilling pad, storage pit, equipment, etc. Each pad must be placed on a level surface, so excavation of hillsides is inevitable; especially as well spacing becomes denser. Add to that the access roads carved into the land to every drill site and the miles of pipelines. And, although companies are supposed to return drilling areas to a similar state as before drilling began, if Marcellus follows Barnett’s lead, many wells will be refraced several times over their lifetime. Surface destruction will happen more than once at each site.

My scenario may be the extreme, but even with regulations, gas companies in other states have easily received variances to allow them to reduce well spacing. Remember: the gas companies will be focused on recovering billions in lease investments and on maximizing their future profits. They won’t walk away from profitable gas extraction just because you don’t want to see a wellhead out every window. If you haven’t signed a lease yet, consider this issue. If you have signed, think about it the next time you negotiate. If you don’t own land, realize that this gas play impacts you too.

“OK, OK,” my friend said. I’ve heard enough for one day!” I took a long breath and said, “OK, I’ll stop, but someday soon I want to tell you about drilling mud and produced water and the Clean Air Act and compressing stations and pipelines and lease assignments and wild life and deer hunting and water supplies and…

I mentioned my concerns to someone else last week and felt my stomach churn with his reply. “I don’t care if they ruin this area,” he said. “I’ll just take my royalty checks and move somewhere else.” He left me momentarily speechless and deeply discouraged. Later, I reminded myself that many others also love the beautiful Appalachian Mountains region of Pennsylvania. Our challenge? To find a balance between our newfound prosperity and the natural surroundings that enrich our small-town and quiet country lives.

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The window fan merely moved the stifling July air around the living room as sweat gathered on my forehead, but I still considered fixing a cup of hot green tea.

A few minutes earlier, while searching for a photo of our new house shutters to send to my aunt in North Carolina, a stray picture fluttered to the floor. “How’d that get in there with these new pictures?” I wondered, staring at hundreds of rooftops spanning out as far as the edges of the photo would allow. Tokyo! Tokyo taken a few years before from the window of my room at the Royal Park Hotel in the southern Chuo-ku area of the city – ah yes, that was the day…

“Dang, I wish I could have scheduled my business meetings all in one week so that I didn’t have to stay the weekend,” I thought, on that hot, hazy July morning in Tokyo. Though tempted to stay in my room all day, I picked up my wallet, put a city map in my pocket, and started out the door.

This was my fourth trip to Japan, but the first traveling without a colleague from the U.S. The previous four days had flown by in a whirlwind of trains, planes, buses, and taxis as our agent and I visited customers from Tokushima in the south to Hakodate in the northern island of Hokkaido. Now, a long weekend in Tokyo yawned before me as my usual sense of adventure lost out to loneliness and a strong urge to go home.

I walked aimlessly down the busy sidewalk. Gray skies and monochrome buildings towered over hoards of black- and gray-clad strangers; colors to match my mood. Should I take the train to Shinjuku or Ginza to shop? Find a temple or museum? I stopped at a corner pastry shop, but the daifuku, with its azuki bean paste and sticky rice, while tasty, only reminded me of how much I wanted a Krispy Kreme. Turning around, I started to retrace my steps. “I’ll just go back to my room, work on the computer, and watch 12 hours of CNN,” I thought gloomily.

Halfway back to the hotel, I paused in front of a small pottery shop. The open doorway beckoned to me and two old women called out a welcome in unison. “Irashimase!” The beautiful Japanese handy work lining the walls and center table also drew me into the shop. I moved slowly around the small room admiring teacups, sake sets, rice and noodle bowls, teapots, chopstick holders, and sauce plates. The two women followed me with watchful eyes.

Without saying a word, I marveled at the rich colors, mainly in multiple browns and blues, with an occasional piece in deep blood red or moss green. I admired cups and bowls with traditional Japanese themes hand-painted on them, some boldly, others delicately – sailing ships, koi fish, cranes, cherry blossoms, dragonflies, and intriguing written characters whose meaning will always remain a mystery to me.

Circling the room again, I smiled at the animals etched into the children’s ware – cats, dogs, rabbits, and dragons; all recognizable, yet with a distinct Japanese artistic twist. Picking up several items, I fingered the different finishes of the pieces; the rough stoneware and the incredibly smooth porcelain, and wondered why typical American dinnerware is so predictably smooth and symmetrical. Why not uneven, and odd-shaped, and wonderfully unique like these?

My mood softened as an hour slipped away in quiet exploration. Finally, I pointed to four small blue and white bowls with a tiny painted dragonfly flitting across each center. The women prepared them in typical Japanese style – placed carefully in wooden boxes, and then beautifully wrapped, as though intended as a present especially for me.

I reached for the package, beginning to bow and back toward the door, but they motioned for me to sit. Confused, I nevertheless, sat down, while they disappeared into the back of the shop. Several moments passed, and I began to think that I had misunderstood. Just as I rose to leave, they returned with a tray and three rust-brown teacups filled with hot green tea! And so, with sweat on my forehead, I sat and drank hot tea in silence with these two old grandmotherly women…suddenly not so alone after all and not really so very far from home.

Unable to communicate through words, these two ladies touched me by sharing their tea time with me. After finding the photo of the Tokyo rooftops, I rummaged though the back of my cupboards, finding the bowls from this memorable day in Japan. They will reclaim a spot in the front of my cupboard again – ready reminders of a good day and a welcome cup of tea.

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“What’s wrong?” I asked my mother when she told me that Lanny was coming home to stay. “I’m not sure,” she said. “They found him walking down the middle of the street in the cold with no shoes on.”

As I wrote in another post, my brother Lanny struggled with schizophrenia (see Saying Good-bye). His official diagnosis came in the mid-1970s, but putting a label on his state of mind didn’t help us to understand him or his illness. In those days, local libraries and bookstores carried little on the topic of mental illness, and most mental health professionals offered little or no information to the families. Forget finding support in the community; mental illness was locked in the closet with cancer – two illnesses kept within the privacy of home. It took people like Lance Armstrong and Susan Komen’s sister to break down the closet door for cancer; the door is still partially shut on mental illness.

Too often, caregivers to a loved one with mental illness feel isolated from their neighbors, friends, and even from their own family members who don’t understand the illness or who disagree on how to respond to the illness. Negative emotions abound: confusion, disbelief, fear, anger, frustration, embarrassment, sadness, despair, resignation, guilt, grief, regret, resentment, hopelessness… I don’t understand what his problem is. I can’t believe it happened to my daughter. What if he hurts himself? Why doesn’t he just get on with his life? What else can I do? I wish he wouldn’t act that way. I wish she could have a normal life. What will happen to him if something happens to me? I can’t do this any more. I should have done more for her. I shouldn’t have said that. My life is passing me by. He’s never going to get any better. Why her, why me?

Fortunately today, the Internet provides volumes of medical articles, scientific data and coping techniques to help families understand and interact with a loved one with major depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, or anxiety disorders. Support groups now also offer opportunities to discuss common concerns such as financial aid, housing possibilities, medication, treatment options, personal stories, and a sense of community. Despite these positive changes, the stigma of mental illness remains strong, and the road that family members travel is long and lonely.

Many people, so consumed by day-to-day care giving, find little time or energy to explore new information in books or on the Internet, to attend support group meetings, or to seek out other help. Do you know someone with a mentally ill loved one? If so, put aside your sense of uneasiness and discomfort, which is common, and do something positive! Read up on the illness. Ask them how their loved one is doing. Ask if they’d be interested in information you can gather about the illness. Offer to go to a support group meeting with them. Or, just lend a sympathetic ear to someone who doesn’t often find a willing listener.

You don’t need to become a mental illness expert to ease someone’s load. I’ve found over the years that people crave information and understanding. If you can offer either, you’ll help someone shift to a more positive outlook. You’ll be rewarded for your efforts…Now I understand why he acts that way. Wow, I didn’t know that organization could offer us help. It’s nice just to have someone to talk with about this; most people pretend there’s no problem. Maybe new drugs or treatment will be helpful. It’s good to hear that I’m not the only person who gets angry with this. Thanks for listening to my troubles; it makes me feel better.

As I wrote in the tribute for my brother: Very often, the little things that we do for others, out of love and compassion, not duty, are the very things that lighten our own spirits and refocus our lives. Let’s open that closet door on mental illness a little bit wider each day.

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“Marcellus, who’s she?” I asked. “It’s not Marcellus who,” my friend said. “It’s Marcellus what. It’s the Marcellus Shale and it’s going to make a lot of people around here really rich.” And so began my introduction to a potentially life-altering phenomenon…

The Marcellus Shale formation runs from the southern tier of New York, through central and western Pennsylvania, eastern Ohio, and through most of West Virginia. Hidden mainly 5,000 to 10,000 feet below ground level, the Marcellus slept relatively unnoticed for over 300 million years. Noticed and named just within the past two hundred years, geologists studied Marcellus and oilmen hungered after her. The rest of us unknowingly waited for an introduction.

The early ones heard a knock on the door. “Hi, my name’s Mr. Gasman, and I work for Range Resources (or Chief Oil & Gas or Chesapeake Energy or a number of other companies). There’s a possibility of getting natural gas from the Marcellus Shale that runs through this area. We’re interested in leasing your land for gas and oil drilling rights.” Many people approached in the past to sell rights for five dollars an acre or less were now drawn in by new offers of $20 or $30 an acre. Money enough to paint the barn… Money enough to catch up on mortgage payments… Money enough to buy a new truck… Money I didn’t expect… Where do I sign?

Gas. Natural gas. And lots of it. Known for years to contain natural gas deposits, Marcellus stubbornly refused to give up her stores until recently when technology and rising energy costs allied to work against her. New horizontal drilling, proven effective in the Barnett Shale in northern Texas, offered the promise of finally extracting the before-untouchable Marcellus riches. Friends and neighbors suddenly learned a new vocabulary – hydrofracing, drilling mud, coalbed methane, shut-in, pooling, blow outs, rule of capture, delay rental, sour gas, recompleting, plugging back. Offers climbed to $100, $500, $1,000, up to $2,500 per acre in a little over a year, with added incentive of future royalties from producing wells.

Good news, right? Well, maybe. Rather than a sense of excitement about the good fortunes coming to our country community, I feel a nagging sense of foreboding about this gas boom. The Beautiful Endless Mountains. The local Chamber of Commerce uses this phrase to snag tourists into our part of the Appalachians in northeastern Pennsylvania. Will that description still fit ten years from now? Besides the money, what will Marcellus bring to us and leave for us?

Will our beautiful landscape be scarred with drill sites even after the drilling is done? What is the risk for fouling our air with methane or the rotten-egg smells of H2S? How many water wells will be polluted? Will the quantity of water required for hydrofracing endanger our local rivers, streams, and ponds? What happens to the contaminated wastes generated by the drilling? How much noise do drilling and well operations create? What impact will the drilling and wells have on wildlife? What will the total price be for our new-found prosperity?

After refusing to sign last year, my husband and I will meet with Chesapeake Energy again next week to talk about our few acres. We’ll ask these questions, expecting to hear the upside and positive, while the real story plays out over the coming years. Will we sign a lease? I’m not sure, but whether we do or not, we’re sure going to get to know Marcellus.

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“Rats, I’ve really done it this time. Gary’s not going to believe this!” I started the long walk up the hill, imagining his reaction to my latest fiasco as I stared into the darkness ahead of me.

“You locked the key in the van when you stopped at the mailbox?” He asked. “Well, yeah, I must have bumped the lock with my knee. But, that’s not the only problem. The other key is in my pocket book, and that’s in the van. And there’s one more thing. The van’s still running and the headlights are on!” I smiled at him, he rolled his eyes, and we climbed into the truck to go back down the hill.

His eye roll said it all…just one more in a long line of rescue missions for Diane’s many locked-in keys or lost pocketbooks. Or, at least, it started as another typical rescue. Little did we know…

Under the truck’s lights, we circled the van trying to find a way to open the doors or the hood latch. Unfortunately, the locks on the doors weren’t reachable with a coat hanger like in the old days, and we didn’t even consider breaking a window or a latch on our two-day old Astro van. We decided to go back to the house and try to call someone from the Chevy dealer.

Climbing into the truck, Gary turned the key, but instead of the welcome sound of the engine starting, we heard, click, click, click, click, click, click – dead battery! So, leaving the truck to keep the van company, we walked the six-tenth of a mile back up the hill, still in pretty good humor considering the situation. We wondered how long the van would idle on three-quarters of a tank of gas!

We couldn’t reach anyone from the Chevy dealership, so Gary called a local locksmith, who kindly agreed to help us at that late hour. We drove down the hill to meet him in our 67 Corvette, again leaving the lights on, but this time also leaving the motor on to preserve the battery. First, the locksmith tried each of the 400 master keys on his giant ring, but with no luck. “If I can get a good look at cuts in the key, I might be able to make a key that will open the door,” the locksmith said as he shone his flashlight into the van at the key dangling down from the steering column. As he drove away to get his hand-held key cutter, we turned toward the Corvette, just in time to hear cough, cough, sputter, cough, sputter, sputter as the engine died – out of gas!

We stood looking from van to truck to car in stunned disbelief. I looked at Gary’s face in the glow of the van’s headlights, expecting him to explode in frustration, but instead, he just quietly said, “And all I wanted to do tonight was eat popcorn and watch Dallas!”

The next fifteen minutes passed in silence except for our footsteps and heavy breathing as we trudged up the hill again. An hour later, with no more wheels to choose from, Gary walked down the hill to meet the locksmith. He made several attempts at keys, but finally gave up and went home. Gary gave up too and made the final, long, lonely trek up the hill, leaving behind the idling van, the dead-battery truck, and the gas-hungry Corvette. “Is it still running? I asked as he slipped into bed. “Yup,” he said, “guess it gets pretty good gas mileage!”

The van ran all night, but by the time Gary walked down the hill in the morning, it was silent, turned off by the conscientious locksmith who returned at daylight to successfully defend his key-making reputation. By 8:00, the van, truck, and Corvette all sat safely at the house, ready for another adventure. Good car key habits – needed them then, still need them now! See Locking Keys in the Car.

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As I sat on the picnic bench in front of the Sundae Time in Troy savoring the small waffle cone of raspberry swirl, another familiar smell caught my attention. I lifted my head and sucked in the aroma and for a moment felt the heart-tug of my childhood memories. Oh, the sweet smell of cows!

My husband and I spent the next ten minutes swapping “the best of” in farm smells. For those of you who grew up on a farm, this will be a walk down memory lane. For all others, you can wonder, is she really serious! Here are my Top 15 Favorite Farm Smells, not necessarily all good, but all distinctively memorable:

House smells

1. Homemade everything – homemade bread baking; hot, bubbling apple, cherry, blackberry, huckleberry pies made from fruit picked on the farm or on the local mountain; smell of the brine in the hand-cranked ice cream maker filled with milk straight from the cow; fried deer steak and pancakes topped with boiled brown-sugar syrup; the first-blast good smells when you open home-canned jars of home-grown peaches, beets, pears, tomatoes, apples, pickles, and cherries; baking powder biscuits straight from the oven, dripping with lots of butter and homemade wild strawberry jam. Oh, yeah…
2. Bacon, sausage, home fries, and eggs frying on the stove every morning for breakfast – a hearty fare for hard-working men going to the fields and to the barn; I still love that smell on the two or three times a year when we leave the cereal in the cupboard!
3. Porter’s Salve -a traveling salesman showed up on the farm every now and then peddling the green and white tins with salve claiming to benefit bruises, rough skin, insect bites, sunburn and local irritations; recommended for man or beast. Blindfold me and wave 100 concoctions under my nose, and I’ll pick the Porter’s salve out. The smell is that memorable!
4. The dank, wet, musty smell of most farmhouse cellars – no poured concrete or cinder blocks, just field stone walls and earth floors; perfect spot for storing canned goods and produce from the garden, but no place to linger.

Barn Smells

5. Corn silage – tightly packed into a silo, the chopped corn ferments to such perfection that my husband and I agree that this one tops the list for good farm smells. Oh, to take just one strong whiff up a silo again someday…
6. Cow feed with molasses – I doubt there’s a farm kid alive or dead who hasn’t taken a taste of this sweet-smelling mixture at least once!
7. Milk powder mixed with water for calves being weaned from their mothers – easy to smell as you bent close to the pail to get the calf to drink by sucking on your fingers.
8. Whitewash, a mixture of lime and chalk – sprayed on the walls, floor, and ceiling of the main barn floor to sanitize surfaces, drive out spiders, and brighten things up; the white wash momentarily masked all the other ordinary barn smells.
9. Fly spray – overpowering, eye-watering stench for a few minutes after spraying all the cows while in their stanchions in the barn.
10. Fresh cream collecting on top of the strainer over the milk can in the milk house.
11. The granary – sweet smell of oats, sometimes dusty, sometimes musty; as kids we played in the oat bins!

Outside Smells

12. New mown hay – this still takes my breath away when I drive through the country; roll your window down next time you pass a field and take it all in.
13. Singed chicken feathers – burning the fine feathers off after plucking the main ones. Yuck!
14. Creosote added to corn before planting to discourage birds, animals, and worms from eating the kernels.
15. Manure – no, you can’t ignore this basic olfactory delight of family farm life, and I openly proclaim to the world that horse and cow shit on a small farm smells good! Sorry, but no one on the farm called it manure!

Gone are all the dairy farms that lined the roads for miles on either side of my father’s land. Barns sit empty, many with caved-in roofs and missing boards. Former pastures grow wild again with weeds and brush, with no Holsteins, Jerseys or Guernseys to graze them tidy. My generation, the sons and daughters of farmers, found other ways to make a living, most not requiring the 24/7 commitment of the family farm.

The Troy Fair opens in July, with folks from the few remaining local farms gathering with their animals and produce to compete for prizes, bragging rights, and a week of camaraderie. I’ll spend a few moments walking through the cow barns, breathing in those smells that still possess the power to take me back home again. Oh, the sweet smells of childhood!

On a more serious note, today’s huge factory farms conjure up other adjectives – pungent, putrid, unbearable, foul, and appalling. I’m a meat-lover, and have no qualms about raising animals for consumption, but I admit to a wave of conscience about the conditions that factory-farm animals endure in order for me to enjoy my steak sandwich, lemon chicken, or sliced ham. Also in question is the right of these farms to impose their nauseating smells and real or potential water pollution on neighboring properties. Sounds like this topic may show up in a future post…

Image by Cayusa

My friend Scott only half jokingly insists that the best solution to the world’s problems is a monster asteroid, a single spectacularly fiery collision with earth to wipe out most of mankind. Bad-news headlines from around the world remind us every day that peace on earth remains a distant hope. Unfortunately, much of mankind thrives on the misery rained down on others who are poorer, weaker, or less informed. Even many otherwise kind-hearted souls unknowingly or uncaringly contribute every day to the ongoing destruction of all things natural that this earth offers us: its trees, land, waterways, air, and all living creatures.

On the other hand, being a bit more of an optimist than my friend, I believe that each of us can positively impact the world. The question is, how? Quite often the biggest hurtle to overcome in beginning your own small crusade for the world is deciding what to do. I found Michael Norton’s book “365 Ways to Change the World” to be an excellent source of ideas and action plans. For each day of the year, he suggests ways to take positive actions for influencing change. Don’t feel overwhelmed by so many ideas; you can skim straight through the book, marking issues of interest or concern, returning later to narrow down your list. Or, search for your personal passion in twelve topic areas: community and neighborhood, culture and creativity, democracy and human rights, discrimination, employment and enterprise, environment, globalization and consumerism, health, international development, peace, volunteering and citizenship, or young people.

Mr. Norton’s book offers multiple possibilities for action, no matter which causes are closest to your heart. I’m starting with his entry for January 7, “Visit the HUNGER SITE.” Every time you visit the Hunger Site and click on the “Click Here to Give” button, a cup of food is donated to a hungry person somewhere in the world. Consider this statistic: every day 24,000 people die from hunger and three-quarters are children under the age of five. Clicking on the Hunger Site won’t solve the multiple causes of world hunger, but it’s one easy daily action that will positively impact a real person. Please join me in taking this one small step, one day at a time to change the world, to save the world.