Did the little piggy really cry wee wee wee all the way home?

Three years ago, the Educational Farm at Joppa Hill thrived. It reported $105,000 in revenue in 2007, and executive director Lin L’Heureux said she even received donation checks by mail.

But since the recession hit, the farm has fallen. No sign was more depressing than the most recent anonymous donation: a bag of old hamburger buns left on L’Heureux’s doorstep last week.

“Things are worse than they’ve ever been since I’ve been here,” L’Heureux said, who started working at the Educational Farm when Bedford bought the land about five years ago. The farm is a nonprofit organization and has been a huge part of the community since it started providing summer farm camps for kids.

Mark Hayner, treasurer for the farm, said the organization has only $2,300 available in the bank, and it takes at least $4,000 to cover a single month of the 35-acre farm’s operating costs.

All current bills have been paid, he said Monday, but the farm could end the year with a $12,000 deficit and only $60,000 in total revenue – a 43 percent drop since 2007.

“We can’t spend more money than we bring in,” Hayner said, “but we still have costs that we can’t eliminate.”

The farm’s expenses include heat for the animals, electricity to run the milking equipment, insurance for the animals, buildings and payroll for the farm’s only employee, L’Heureux, who gets paid for 28 hours each week but says she logs nearly 60.

L’Heureux said it would be a “tragedy” if the farm were forced to close. Hayner said the possibility is real.

“We have a lot of dedicated people who love the farm, but we’re all in a little bit of denial,” Hayner said. “As the person responsible for the finances, I have to let them know the situation is dire.”

L’Heureux hopes one of the farm’s big fundraisers, the Fall Fair, on Sept. 26, will delay the farm’s concerns for a few weeks, but the reality of the problem is harsh: There’s just not enough income coming in or enough money in the bank to keep the farm going as it stands now.

“The things that we would need to make a financial plan come to life require capital investments that we don’t currently have,” Hayner said.

He said the majority of the farm’s revenue comes from its summer camp, where kids ages 4-11 come for a week and get hands-on experiences while learning about farming, ecology, conservation and veterinary care.

But as enrollment numbers, grants and donations all continue to dwindle in the tough economic conditions, Hayner and L’Heureux aren’t sure where to turn for help.

Hayner said in the past, the Educational Farm has used their good relationship with their creditors as an advantage.

“They’ve allowed us to float in the winter the past couple of years when we don’t have any income,” he said. “We tell them we’ll repay our debt in the springtime, and they’ve allowed us to do that.

“But we can’t keep living on the good graces of our creditors. We need to find places for the animals. We need to have an exit plan.”

The farm’s board of directors met Sept. 2 with members of the community to develop ideas on how the farm could be saved, but Hayner said even the best ideas won’t create quick cash flow. He said the group of Bedford High School students who volunteered to start a club connected to the farm could help bring in more money through fundraisers or public exposure.

“People start to recognize the value of things when it’s the young people who start bringing it to light,” he said.

Hayner mentioned that there are other ideas to generate additional income, including selling ice cream at the farm, but he said the farm doesn’t have the money to buy new equipment or services to make those ideas tangible.

Right now, the farm’s only source of income in the winter is its raw milk program, which L’Heureux said offers some relief. The farm sells about 35 gallons a week to local customers, but sometimes those numbers can drop even further if the cows don’t produce enough milk or if the loyal customers don’t return every week. Horseback riding lessons also run throughout the fall until the ground freezes for winter.

“It’s a treasure,” said Pelham volunteer Jessica Edwards. “Kids don’t see cows, sheep and horses on a regular basis. It’s educational to see conservation in action.”

L’Heureux said the farm still needs help every day and budgets 14 volunteer shifts per week for people who come before or after work to feed the animals or milk the cows.

At the farm, there are horses, goats, sheep, cows, chickens and a 1,000-pound pig named China that was adopted after spending much of his young life trapped in a closet at a Boston-area Chinese restaurant.

She said a handful of the dedicated volunteers are developmentally disabled adults, including a man named Ray who visits regularly to clean out the chicken coops. She said working on the farm can be a huge help for adults who can’t hold a regular job due to their disability.

“It gives them an opportunity to get good exercise while working outside in the fresh air and immediate gratification because when you leave, you can see what you’ve done to help these animals,” L’Heureux said.

She said the Educational Farm at Joppa Hill offers something that locals can’t find in any of the surrounding towns.

“There are all sorts of camps,” L’Heureux said, “but not a lot of farm camps. The whole idea of playing outside is gone.”

Last Thursday, Sarah Ray, 4, and her sister Ana, 2, visited the farm with their nanny and happily fed the goats and cows. Victoria Plumpton, 26, of Manchester, watches over the two sisters and often brings them to the farm on Thursdays because the young girls always ask to go.

“The girls love to come here,” Plumpton said. “I think it would be a big loss if Joppa Hill was gone.”

L’Heureux said she really has no idea how to save the farm. She said it comes down to help from the community and the economy. If it turns around, she could see that moldy bag of hamburger buns transform back into donation checks. If not, the outlook remains bleak.

“If we don’t get any help, the farm will continue to deteriorate,” L’Heureux said. “The animals would all have to be placed in other farms. It would be really sad."

Story can also be found on the Telegraph website, here.

Planet Fitness: A Grammar-Free Zone

I joined Planet Fitness two months ago. It's been a great place to run and work out after my day shift, and even during the busiest times I have no trouble finding an open treadmill. It only costs a pocket of change per day, and I get free haircuts to boot from the stylist on staff. Yes, you read that right. I get free haircuts from my gym. I could even look like the Danish Danny Zuko over here if I asked for it.

Overall, it's been a great experience. The best I could ask for out of a gym. It's open all day and all night from Monday to Friday and has reasonable hours on the weekends.

But there's one tiny thing that has been driving me crazy for weeks now, and I finally decided to write about it.

See, Planet Fitness has this idea in mind where anyone in the world can come to their gyms. They attract the sharks that bite through a bench press and the whales who come up for air walking two on the treadmill.

It's an honorable venture. It works, too. I like going to a gym where most people are there to stay healthy or lose a few pounds. It's a positive atmosphere. And their motto reflects that:

Planet Fitness, the Judgement Free Zone.

They even copyrighted the phrase. (Probably because if you say judgement-free zone, it's supposed to have a dash because judgement-free is acting as a compound adjective, and they don't want to deal with the mess of proper grammar hence their own copyrighted version, the bastards).

And part of that judgement-free zone is trying to keep the body builders quiet and respectful. The big guys who GTL like (insert Guido name here) are still welcome at Planet Fitness, but only if they don't grunt, heave their weights to the floor or "judge" others.

If they do, an alarm goes off. There are sensors in the floor and supposedly something else that picks up on excessive noise. The alarm is a loud wavy noise, sort of like what you hear at some hockey rinks when a period ends.

And Planet Fitness has their own name for it: the lunk alarm.

But that's not what irks me. They can have whatever gimmicky noises they want while I'm there; I'm blastin' Empire State of Mind over and over again. I'm jammin' out mahn, with mah bass.

No, my problem is the definition for their made-up word and the ridiculous sentence they have beneath it.

As you can see from the photo, it's not at all Planet Fitness locations, but here's what it says at the one in Nashua:

Lunk (lunk) n. [slang]: one who grunts, drops weights or judges.

Then, in italics below:

[Ricky is slamming his weights, wearing a body building tank top and drinking out of a gallon water jug...what a lunk!]

This single sentence drives me crazy. First, as a minor aside, these Planet Fitness people have no fucking clue how to use a compound adjective. Body-building tank top. Seriously, I don't think even a full season of Schoolhouse Rock would save them. The CEO needs to take a lesson from my girlfriend and hire an English major on staff.

Second, read the sentence again. To me, it sounds like Ricky is just your average guy with a shitty name who likes to wear tank tops and has a dehydration problem. And maybe he likes to use the word slammin'. I see no evidence of grunting, dropping weights or judging.

If Planet Fitness is going to make up their funny-sounding slang words [note the correct use of the compound adjective] with definitions, they should at least be able to use them in a sentence correctly. All they're showing me with this line about Ricky is their own prejudice against gym rats and that they'd be really bad as National Spelling Bee judges.

Planet Fitness CEO: OK Shoshana, this is for the championship. Your word is, Hebrew.

Little Shoshana: Can I have the definition please?

Planet Fitness CEO: A member of the Semitic peoples inhabiting ancient Palestine and claiming descent from Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

Little Shoshana: Can you use it in a sentence please?

Planet Fitness CEO: That man over there counting his money is wearing a funny hat and has a hook nose...what a Hebrew!

Little Shoshana: F*** you.

And they have the nerve to call this place a judgement-free zone.

Now Skeeter, he ain't hurting nobody...

As a journalist, my emotions climb high and sink low on a daily basis. Some days I'll be assigned a happy little event with happy people and happy friends and all sorts of sources who just can't wait to talk to me (perfect example).

But today was not one of those days.

Today I covered my first murder trial. Well, I covered the arraignment that will eventually lead to a trial, but you get the idea.

The story is that yesterday, a 19-year-old guy stabbed a 21-year-old guy who was later found dead on the scene. Pretty big news for Nashua, certainly. And I was the lucky one picked to cover his subsequent arraignment this morning when the usual morning cops reporter had an ill-timed dentist appointment.

So I woke up before 7, scooped up a hearty bowl of Wheaties and made my down to the courthouse. And if Nashua is any indication, the smaller courts of America are understaffed, overworked and cranky. They zip through arraignments and have little sympathy for people who show up late or want to give "their side of the story." I can't imagine being a clerk at one of these places right now. No wonder they want reporters to drive down to the courthouse to make copies of a document instead of finding it for them and reading the information over the phone.

The arraignments start at 8:15 sharp. Amidst all the craziness to find the right courtroom, meet up with my photographer and figure out who I should be talking to, I manage to find the father of the accused. He doesn't want to talk to me, but he's not angry. He manages to squeak out a offering of condolence to the victim's family but couldn't comment on more. His sullen face looked like he'd been up all night, worried for his son and terrified for his future.

I moved into the courtroom to wait for the judge. My photographer and I moved up to the front row and sat next to a couple guys from WMUR. We heard whispers in the pew behind us. I turned around slightly and began to speak with the man behind me. He turned out to be the victim's best friend since the two were five years old. The victim was this guy's best man at his wedding. He couldn't say much either, but his face told the story. Shocked, angry, depressed. Completely overcome with emotion. He did an amazing job to stay composed, but the three girls he sat with were in tears for much of the two hours I sat there.

I asked how old this guy was. He said 22. I'm 22. Same age, except this guy just found out 12 hours ago that the best friend he's ever known was murdered. I can't begin to explain what a chilling realization that was.

Our conversation came to a slow stop. There was no "See ya later," no "Thanks, have a good one." It just came to an eventual end. He told me what he could and how he was feeling, but after that the words dissipated.

Arraignment after arraignment came through. A woman who didn't speak English pleading for something. A young guy and a costly speeding ticket. Two women fighting for a restraining order against the other. One by one for at least an hour.

I looked to my left. The father, the guy I spoke to outside for a moment, had his head on his hands, resting against the pew in front of him. Totally lost. The only expression that comes to mind is sheer disbelief. Shock and awe that the kid brought out in handcuffs with his.

This is all pure observation. The room is silent, save for a few sobs and sniffles from the family behind us. When the accused appears through the doorway and walks to his seat, there's no dramatic hush or shouts of fury. There's not much sound at all. The scuffling of feet and the clink of metal. A photographer's shutter cl-cl-click-clicking away. He doesn't say anything. Just a whip of his long black hair and a stone cold look that hints he might not have had much sleep this night.

The two sides in suits say very little. No details are released of the night's events. The only question here is what bail to set. And, since a court so small cannot set a bail so big, the judge lands on "held without." A probable cause hearing is scheduled for Sept. 1. The court sealed the affidavit and thus kept all important details from surfacing until the matter goes to trial.

Done. Next case. Just like that.

No one else could muster the energy to fling a few words at me and trust that I'd protect them, so I went on my way. Back to the newsroom, sinking low on a Tuesday of mixed emotions. But as the job has taught me already, tomorrow's a new day and today's behind me. Only thing to do from here is climb.

Snap, Crackle, You're Dead.

I'm not the first to complain about this, but after a single experience with it I knew I had a story to tell.

It started with a health kick at the grocery store. None of my favorite Double Stuf Oreos, no candy, no sweets of any kind (I'm not ridding the delights from my diet, just trying to stop paying for them). So I picked out some fruit, a box of Kashi cereal and filled my cart with a boatload of goodies. At some point in the trip, I made my way down the chips aisle for some Chex Mix.

Now, Doritos were the tasty choice, but I felt like something else. I wanted something crunchy and delicious but with some sort of health tinge to it. Hello Peppercorn Ranch Sun Chips. Bingo. Thirty percent less fat than regular potato chips was all the false advertising I needed to hear. But when I reached for them, a thunderstorm erupted throughout the store.

The deafening, crackling sound shook my very core. What in God's name could make such a horrible sound?

A bag. Yes, a bag for potato chips. That's the root of the sound that popped my eardrums, rattled dentures at the nearby IHOP and probably killed six kids in Asia somehow. Seriously, listen to it:

No exaggeration, I would rather have a South African follow me around with a Vuvuzela all day than grab a new bag of Sun Chips. The sound is ridiculous. It's even worse in person. I thought people were freaking out way too much about it when the bag first emerged, but now that my left ear is useless I can empathize.

The saddest part is that I still bought the chips. I brushed off my first grab-and-touch as an opening bang to scare away little kids. But when I sat on the couch and gripped the bag with both hands to tear open the top and consume the Peppery Ranch goodness, I swear to God I could hear Liam Neeson in his beard yelling, "RE-LEASE THE CRACKLE!" Before I knew it, I was naked on the couch with singed hair and clothes scattered everywhere. My apartment looks like Crater Lake Park without the water.* (UPDATE: That picture apparently isn't Oregon's Crater Lake. This is. I think.)

It's scary how loud the bag is. It might be even scarier that my last two topics of writing have been Legos and Sun Chips. But I guess they're not all winners.

*I've never been to Crater Lake Park. I've heard it's nice.

The star himself.

On the mound throwin' heat against Portland on Wednesday. Jeff threw 79 pitches over seven scoreless innings, scattered three hits, struck out eight, walked one, and got the win. What a performance. Mobbed by reporters after the game and smashed with a shaving cream pie in the face. Great to see him do so well. Way to go bud, keep it up.

I'm thinking about getting metal legs...

A survey came out and said Legos was the most popular toy ever made. And, since I was a master of Legos as a child, I thought I would point out how pathetic this survey actually was.

Now, I will not argue with the winning choice. Legos are awesome. You can build all sorts of shit with them and, as you can see from the graph here, you don't always have to follow the rules of construction.

The different kits you can buy allow kids to build ships, castles, cars, boats, alien planets, and whatever else they can imagine. The people who invented this little toy not only saw a financial opportunity, but the potential for giving kids a toy that encourages creativity and do-it-yourself skills.

The problem I have with this survey is that the group surveyed was 20-40 year olds.

I guess I understand why they chose this particular group, and that's to figure out the best toy including both the old and the new. People around age 20, like me, knew exactly what it was like to grow up playing with traditional toys like Legos but also played with modern toys like Gameboys. Adults up to the age of 40 most likely played with some sort of primitive modern toy and have a good grasp of the older toys. So, in theory, this group of 3,000 adults seems like a good choice.

But I would argue that the headline claiming Lego as the top toy in the world is completely misleading.

Kids don't play with Legos anymore. At least not like they used to. From 2003-2005, the Lego Group faced deficits up to $200 million and laid off thousands of workers in Europe. The toy has been climbing again in recent years, but thanks mostly to a booming video game franchise and the construction of popular LegoLand amusement parks.

So, in my opinion, Legos is no longer the most popular toy among kids today. It was, but has since been replaced by video games and more modern technology. And if you've been wondering why the hell I would Wikipedia the Lego Group or do any sort of research on something as trivial as fucking toys, here is your answer:

Video games have sapped so much life of out today's youth that I almost wish I never had them in the first place. I've been sitting on this idea for a while now, watching my roommate spend hours in his room on his XBox 360, but the deceiving Lego survey finally exploded the opinion out of me.

I really can't stand them anymore. The only games I would play and actually enjoy right now are of the sports variety, and even then I get completely bored after half an hour of playtime. I feel like every button I press kills a brain cell. Seriously. I so much more inclined to go outside, pick up a book, relax with some music, or even build some Legos, if it were more age appropriate.

I mean just look at the options kids have now:
If I had the tools to build my own basketball court with Legos at age 10, and the little men had springy footholds with which to actually shoot a tiny basketball toward my toy hoop, I would've gone fucking nuts.

Cam, age 10: "You're telling me I can spend five hours of my afternoon trying to get a tiny plastic ball into a tiny plastic hoop by flicking little plastic men over and over and over again? Talk about best day EVER!"

Seriously, you couldn't drag me away from something like that. I'd be occupied for days. But instead, children today are too caught up with graphics and special moves and other things that do nothing but cause early-onset carpal tunnel.

These kids are at the prime stages for developing their minds and so many of them are wasting their time, and a ridiculous amount of money, on video games.

I don't think games should be banned, but they need to be controlled. One of the reasons I think I care so little about them today is because my parents imposed limits: one hour a day. That's more than enough time to spend melting your brain.

Just living the dream

At age 22, Jeff Locke is 1-0 with a 1.96 ERA in four starts with the Altoona Curve, the double-A affiliate of Major League Baseball's Pittsburgh Pirates. He's got 22 strikeouts and has allowed just four walks in 23 innings pitched. He's a professional baseball player, and he's on the rise. He's even got his own signed baseball cards.

But that's August 2010. I met Jeff in January 1997.

I plopped down between him and Brant Sanborn and took my seat at one of those old brown desks with the metal cubby underneath. I had just moved to New Hampshire from Michigan and was jumping into Mrs. Garland's third-grade class halfway through the year. I left many friends behind at Tonda Elementary in Canton, and I was nervous about my first day at John Fuller.

But at that beat-up desk in the back of the room, Jeff and Brant became my first friends.

I remember little of the rest of that third-grade year, but memories of Jeff pop up all over from the rest of elementary school. And many of them are tied to baseball.

He was the star pitcher on the Royals in little league. I remember one game where our North Conway Rotary team played against him, and on the bench we were cheering and slappin' fives when someone foul tipped one of his pitches. I remember when he hit 60-plus on the radar gun the summer after fourth grade. I'd never seen anything move that fast.

And he wasn't just the best pitcher anywhere, he was the best batter too. When he came over to my house for home-run derby contests in the driveway, he had his own imaginary fence to clear. It was twice as far back as mine, and he still whooped my ass by double digits.

I was too young to understand the drive and the passion for the game he loved. I felt the same passion, but it was spread out. I loved hockey most, but I also loved golf and football and tennis and basketball and baseball. I loved everything in competition.

And I was always good at sports, some days even great. I had a rocket slapshot by my high school years. I could always make incredible trick shots in basketball or connect on a hot serve for an ace down the T in tennis. I can still play golf well and I like to toss the pigskin with my friends. I was never the kid picked last. I've always been a natural athlete, but I never had the patience to hone my raw talent.

Not like Jeff did.

Jeff played baseball. He didn't play anything else. He could throw a football further than anyone in my grade, but he never tried out for quarterback. He could sink foul shot after foul shot, but he never joined the basketball team. He had the same raw talent and athletic ability I did, the same as so many of my friends. But he had discipline. He'd play a pickup game of anything, but in competition, it was all baseball.

He worked at it. He threw hundreds of pitches on hot summer days. He baked in the sun and stayed on the mound until it fell dark. He would even pitch frozen cow pies and snowballs whenever I visited his house in the winter. I remember because one of them hit me square in the nuts. You'd remember something like that too if you caught a Locke fastball to the groin.

Jeff lived and loved baseball. He fought for his right to play the game after high school while so many of us were busy dreaming about it on the couch at home.

And that's why he made it. All the hours of practice, all the time spent on that mound. That's the effort it takes to be a professional athlete. My parents told me that, too. They didn't shove it down my throat, but I remember my dad telling me to spend more hours at the driving range in high school to get better, and I refused. I didn't want to practice. It wasn't as much fun as playing the course and hoping to get better, seeing sparks of brilliance and assuming they'd soon become the norm. But it takes buckets of balls and swing after swing to make the PGA Tour. And if you don't put in the time, if you don't put in the effort, you won't make it. It's that simple.

I don't write this to bemoan my failures as an athlete, or to whine about my efforts to make a career writing about sports ever since playing them for a living has become a virtual impossibility. No, I write because I'm proud to call him my friend.

And not because he's on his way to millions. Not because I could claim to know a pro athlete. I'm proud because I know he's earned it every step of the way. I'm proud because after he was drafted in 2006 and received an eye-popping $675,000 signing bonus, he bought his Mom a new refrigerator. I'm proud because I know all of this couldn't happen to a nicer kid.

I remember back in sixth grade, the two of us would joke that when Jeff made it to the majors, I'd be his agent. I had the math background and the sports passion, and he had the dream. It didn't work out that way, but I like to think someday I'll walk down from the press box, head into the locker room, pull out my tape recorder, and see the same smiling kid meet the press after a perfect game. I already know exactly what I'd say.

"Hey Jeff. How's it feel to be livin' the dream?"

(Jeff showed me this song in middle school. Still one of my favorites to this day. Weird video though.)