This weekend, Mari, Megan, and I went down to the Native Seeds farm in Patagonia, Arizona (south of Tucson near the Mexico border). It was the fall harvest “festival” which basically means that we are supposed to feel good about helping to harvest the corn and stomp the beans, and Native Seeds gets to feel good about us giving them free labor. But since Mari used to work there and my brother, Chris still does, we thought it would be nice to go down and spend the morning shucking corn and brushing ear wigs from our shoulders to be rewarded by an unknown quality of potluck lunch. Also, we happen to think that Native Seeds is a pretty vital organization in the face of mono-culture crops and genetically modified seeds with all sorts of craziness and undetermined dangers. On top of all of that, it was a perfect reason to squeeze into my beat-up, sometimes running, and always dirty pickup truck and take an hour long cruise south through the Sonoran Desert to a 60 acre farm with a perfect view of Mt. Wrightson in the Santa Rita mountain range. It was a good opportunity to give my brother a hard time and throw dried up, mice eaten, corn cobs at each other while talking about how we were clearly the best volunteers at the Native Seeds harvest festival.