My barista this morn dawns a sweet apron. It looks like pin-striped denim, up and down, with a prominent leather pocket stitched on the front. He might use this most often repairing bikes, or working a drill press, but right now, actually, to serve coffee. I ask for the Columbian. There is something sweet about the taste of good coffee on a Saturday morning. Left to explore are the origins of this particular coffee, the hands that tended the soil and the plants, the land, the finca, from which it came, the bean itself, their roasting and their slow, pleasant effect on my demeanor.
The history of Wolverine Farm Publishing has been sketched a few times. I came along and jumped on the bandwagon, mostly in the form of a volunteer stint a few times a month, with sabbaticals in between to devote time to family, home, work. It is a nonprofit that continues to evolve and make waves, and I have been fortunate enough to ride and grow along with it. I would describe it as a forum, a collective of activist voices and network of crafters and DIYers wise to the need for such a community. I can only imagine what it would look like given enough land – a farm and a homestead on which families build, create, and thrive. As it is, WFP is nestled in the back of The Bean Cycle Coffee House in Old Town Fort Collins, where it has slowly been transforming, inside its chrysalis, soon to emerge and alight with newly brandished colors. I can see a whole Quarter being established, with Wolverine Farm playing a prominent role, in this part of town, close to the old Camp Collins, now poised for a renaissance. A Gaslamp District of sorts, it might have connectivity to the Poudre, to a large community garden, a youth hostel, to open space – perhaps The River District.
My volunteer slot today runs 8-10 am. All is quiet, likely due to the Tour de Fat. This year is calling me to be available to a friend who might want to avoid the High Folly, more appropriate for another time perhaps, or in another way. One man’s elixir is another’s poison. I spy a book, a photojournal called Made in:? by Mauricio Moreno, which seems to juxtapose the haves with the have-nots, with captions in Spanish and inglés. Images were captured in Columbia, China, Thailand, and Paris. The other book I note is The Heart of Racial Justice: How Soul Change Leads to Social Change, by Brenda Salter McNeil and Rick Richardson. Both books enhance my melancholy mood, and Tour de Fat day becomes a little more introspective. What if rides could be formed based on reading certain texts? You ride, stop, read, share thoughts, and repeat. You might visit certain households or businesses to sample food and drink tea and coffee. The unfolding landscape itself is a text of sorts to be interpreted in individual ways. It is not predicated upon spectacle and charade, but on the inner, on unnoticed handholds we might need to climb, sometimes precariously, upward. A slower way to travel, and perhaps better for noticing the landscape, is walking. I seem to read closer when I walk, stop with my book, find that spot, and read. An even more purist way might be to read the landscape by imbibing it – smell, feel, and taste your landscape. That might require a good guidebook for wild edibles, else an actual guide, and a journal to record your perceptions.
My shift ends, and riding back northward I encounter the late-comers to the bike parade. I resolve to build a costume for next year, and perhaps a bike to go with the costume. I may have to craft my own amazing apron, and purchase a whip. Or make a whip, however that is done, from the leather. And create a sort of chariot to be pulled by the bike, and set my wife in the chariot with the apron and the whip, and me and possibly a friend in horse costumes to be prodded along.
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