I just emerged from a delightful midday session in the Conservatory, a.k.a. greenhouse, surrounded by my favorite companions, vis-à-vis tomatoes, jalapeño peppers, more tomatoes, lettuce and, of course, spinach. One thing about my photosynthetic friends…they are very quiet. I have encouraged them to open up, let it hang out. But to no avail. What’s on their little green minds? Actually, I’m afraid to find out. 

One thing high on the list might be the onslaught of a terrible rust last year. Just in case you’re not a gardener, dear reader, we are not talking iron oxide. This is a rusty colored thing that grows on leaves. It is also a thing that grows in the soul, gradually undermining the confidence of the urban agriculturalist. It cannot be eradicated. It cannot be humored. But it can eat up a considerable portion of your bio defense budget. I did find a spray on Amazon that seemed to attack the general microbial subspecies at $50 per bottle.

But don’t go there. Don’t even think about what things cost in the average home garden. Really. Instead, think about what you are doing for the soil legacy. And if you want to think about it a lot, tune into the annual Soil not Oil Conference in San Francisco. It’s in early autumn. As for being “in San Francisco” well, let’s be real. Nothing is “in” anywhere anymore. I may complain bitterly about the Internet, Zuckerberg, and so on, but post-pandemic we are going to find ourselves watching God knows what emanating from God knows where online. Always.

That’s what I like about being in the greenhouse. Particularly, closing the door on a day when the air temperature is about 55°F and the temperature under the glass is more like 80°F. It’s cozy. Things are cooking. In other words, life is going on in a way that is indisputable. Even when it doesn’t seem to be in any other sense.

Well, I overstate things. I have been known to do this. Actually, let me bow to the gods of journalistic endeavor and thank them. John Diaz, features and editorial editor of the San Francisco Chronicle, has graciously acepted my article on Amtrak. Let us sing his praise. Let us also hope he makes good on his word to publish the piece soon. Newspapers are going the way of Pangaea, although a lot more quickly, so one never knows.

In fact, I don’t think I have seen anyone under 50 years of age actually reading a physical newspaper in a long, long time. I, in fact, may soon be among the ranks of the screen readers. Turns out that any publication online is much easier on old eyes. I find it harder and harder to read the newsprint version of the New York Times. General myopia and, of course, incipient cataracts in my aging eyes are doing what they are doing.

But back to the article. It’s no secret that I am a big supporter of long-distance trains. And in writing this particular piece, I’m glad that I wrote from the heart. I mean in past drafts I had attempted to propound the usual technocratic argument in favor of rail transportation. Fuck that. I just said that trains, big old fucking heavy trains, are part of the nation’s soul. And since the nation’s soul is very much bound up in what things cost, I threw in a bit of that as well. Whatever. Now may everyone read it, all 12 persons left who actually look at the Chronicle. And now I’m ready to die.