Times They Are A-Changing

Every year for the past 35 or so, I have faithfully bottled tomatoes. I can never grow enough in my garden, so I always get 2-3 bushels from the farmer's market (or once, memorably, from Food Basics) and bottle them. That way I can have spaghetti sauce and macaroni-and-tomatoes all winter. It's always a handy thing to have available for a fast meal.

Two years ago, I got Romas for $17 a bushel. Last year it was $19 a bushel. This year it is $26 a bushel! So instead of going on auto-pilot, I sat down and crunched the numbers, factoring in the 50 cents for each canning lid. And discovered that, milliliter for milliliter, it's actually cheaper to buy the commercially canned whole or diced tomatoes. There is a no-salt-added brand that sells for $1.29 a can. Factor in also the time spent bottling, the energy use, and the fact that I have two grandkids underfoot, and I caved and went with store-bought this year. 

There was always something beautiful and satisfying about seeing the bottles lined up on my storage shelves. It isn't as gratifying to look at rows of cans. But it makes financial and practical sense this year.

I don't think I can bear to eat store-bought peaches, though. They are always so woody and rough. I will hold out for bottling my own, and if summer runs out before I get a chance to do it, then I will do without this year, because some compromises are really just a step too far.

The future isn't what it used to be

I was lying on a bench at the park today, watching the clouds and enjoying the breezy shade while the grandkids played in the sand, building a pyramid they swore would use up all the sand in the playground. As I lay there contentedly listening to them play, it occurred to me that even though I wasn't expecting to have the grandkids with me this summer, I'm still doing basically what I would have done with my summer anyway. I'm out in the garden, I'm enjoying the sunshine, I'm reading and going for walks and going to the lake. When I first learned I'd be babysitting all summer, I sort of assumed that meant giving up all my plans, but really, even though some things have to be postponed, the essential stuff is still happening.

I was talking today with someone who told me his daughter was studying animation in school, and how he hoped she'd find work as an animator. We discussed how, back in our day, going to school guaranteed you a job, and the job would likely support a family. But these days, education does not guarantee employment, and even if you're lucky enough to find work, it likely doesn't pay enough to live off of. While we assumed we'd be homeowners, the next generation assumes that dream is out of reach. They have much different expectations, and frankly not a lot of hope or optimism. With all that is going on in the world right now, I suspect my grandkids' futures will not end up being what I or their parents anticipated or hoped for when they were born.

Along the same vein, I heard someone the other day refer to their company's ten-year strategic plan, and I was startled. Did they really think life would be "business-as-usual" and that all was returning to normal? Did they think they could predict or control the long-range future? But then I was startled that I was startled, and I stopped to examine my own mindset. Have I really developed the conviction that we don't have ten years left as a species? How can we possibly, I argue, when we've passed so many tipping points and set up such dire circumstances for ourselves? There's really no pulling out of it. Life may continue, but not along the same old lines with the same familiar and predictable patterns, and I balk at the thought of even trying to pretend nothing has changed or will change. Rigid long-term plans will have to adapt or crumble. Sooner or later, even the most apathetic or optimistic will have to concede that "the norm" is no longer possible or even ethical.

This concept can either depress you or exhilarate you, depending on whether you see it as an ending or an opportunity to begin afresh. To redefine what we want life to be. To identify what is truly important and capture it in the way we live in the future. We can't create a new way of being, though, until we acknowledge the old way didn't work and abandon it. As long as we keep doggedly insisting on "business-as-usual," we'll never move forward into something better.

I'm not sure if this post is coherent or captures what I'm trying to say. Maybe I need to ponder it a bit more. Lying on a bench at the park, with the wispy clouds above me and the sound of children building a monumental sandcastle nearby. As good a place as any to contemplate the end of life as we know it. Somehow the idea doesn't frighten or disturb me all that much. The essentials are still possible. It's everything else that must fall away.