It’s billed as a documentary that Americans won’t ever see.. except on the Internet. Google Video has the entire, 1 hr 49 minute film. You owe it to yourself and your children to see it:

On March 11 a new documentary was aired on French television (ARTE – French-German cultural tv channel) by French journalist and filmmaker Marie-Monique Robin, The World According to Monsanto – A documentary that Americans won’t ever see. The gigantic biotech corporation Monsanto is threatening to destroy the agricultural biodiversity which has served mankind for thousands of years.

[Update: Now I see that the video is no longer available on Google. If anyone knows a link that works, please send it to me! Found it!]

Dear God,

Sorry I haven’t written; things have been pretty hectic around here, what with Robby growing like a weed and feeling his oats, so to speak. He doesn’t actually eat oats, or oatmeal, but You know what I mean. Of course You do.

Yes, life has been busy. Mainly I spend a lot of time trying to help some very sick people stay–or get–off the streets. It’s not easy. And it breaks my heart because I haven’t been very successful at it. People with severe chemical injury, like pesticide poisoning, can’t tolerate what passes for normal housing these days. Most neighborhoods, houses and apartments are full of poisons. “Normal” people seem to think that they can go around spraying poison willy-nilly without causing any damage to themselves or others. Nobody seems to understand how toxic most building materials are, or that even something as simple as fabric softener wafting in the air from dryer vents can make a neighbor’s life hell. But I know You understand. That’s why I’m writing.

I need to ask a big favor. Remember the last time I wrote to You, eight years ago? I was in bad shape. Robby and I were living in a moldy house with his smoking grandmother and her cats, and his asthma was getting worse and worse. He finally wound up in the hospital for a week. I begged my ex-mother-in-law to stop smoking in the house but she refused, and I knew that I had to find another place fast. So I wrote You a desperate letter [a shot in the dark, really, because I didn't actually believe in You] and I asked for an apartment. I wrote a list of specific needs–that it had to be near a supermarket so I could walk to shop, and on a bus line so I could get to work, and the rent had to be very cheap, below the going rates in this expensive city.

Like I said, it was a desperate shot in the dark. I had no hope that the letter would actually work. I don’t believe in that stuff, You know. But it made me feel a little better to write it all down.

I did write to thank You, didn’t I? I’m pretty sure I did, because I became a believer the very next day when I found this place just a few blocks away and it filled all of my specifications–and then some. This apartment has met needs I didn’t know I had. But You knew. Mom used to say, “God will provide,” and You did. Just so You know I’m truly grateful, let me say it again: thank You.

So, yeah–about that favor.

My dear friend Barb needs the help this time. You know Barb; she’s always helping other people even when her own situation is dire. She has been homeless, off and on–mostly on–for the past five years. She simply can’t find a place that she can tolerate. Some people may think she prefers to live in her car for some crazy reason, but it’s not true. She hates it but she has no choice if she wants to survive. And now she’s getting weaker every day. I can hear it in her voice with each phone call. This can’t go on.

Will You please help Barb find a safe haven, one where she can finally rest and begin to recover from her long nightmare–soon? I’ve done everything I can think of and I’m stumped. I would drive across the country if I thought that would help but Barb says then there would be two of us with no safe place to stay.

It doesn’t have to be fancy–just a house or apartment in Vermont or western Massachussetts that’s not moldy, and where no pesticides or herbicides have been sprayed in several years [inside or out], a place where no smokers have recently lived and no pets have been treated for fleas. She needs a place that hasn’t been renovated or painted in the last couple of years, and no propane or kerosene has been used for heat [electric is ideal], and natural gas is not used at all. And there shouldn’t be any neighbors who heat their homes with wood because the smoke is terrible for Barb’s asthma. The place shouldn’t be too old [mold] or too new [formaldehyde from building materials]. Ten to fifty years old is best. It can’t be too close to farms or golf courses either–the farther the better. A rural area would be good, where people don’t use herbicides on their lawns. And please, God: no West Nile spraying. And of course, it has to be a place that she can afford.

Can You do this for my friend? She’s a good person, the kindest I’ve ever met. I’m afraid she’s not going to make it through another winter in her car. Please help her, God. Please.

Thank You, and I promise to write more often.

Love,

LaVonne

Yes! I’m gonna do it. I put up a deposit on the place yesterday and move in next Tuesday.

Wow.

Just for kicks, Robby, his girlfriend and I drove out yesterday to look at a “safe” place owned by an MCS woman in the mountains 45 minutes east of here. I loved it! The air actually smelled sweet from all the wildflowers and general freshness. The granny flat in the back of the owner’s house is pristine, with tile floors, all hardwood cabinets, even an organic cotton mattress set. No pesticides have ever been used there, and no one has ever smoked in the house. It’s in a very rustic location, a tiny unincorporated community of a few houses, cabins, trailers and a general store. If you drove through the area, you would barely notice anyone lived there.

The owner, a lovely 76-year-old Belgian woman with a thick French accent, has MCS and cancer [though she doesn't appear sick at all.] She really knows her stuff about MCS. We sat in her kitchen and talked for almost an hour, and she taught me a bit about nutrition. I could learn a lot from her. It was so nice to talk to someone who doesn’t require explanations or convincing–she’s already on the same page.

But the place was too small for the two of us and Robby made it quite clear when we got home that he’s not willing to make the sacrifice. I was very disappointed to realize that I needed his cooperation to make it work, and I wouldn’t get it. It’s not like when he was younger and I could make all the decisions on my own.

I had started to feel worse as soon as we got home, and this morning woke up with my usual headache and creakiness–it takes a couple of hours to feel well enough to do much–which really emphasized how much I want/need cleaner air.

So I’m seriously considering renting the place for the summer, just for me, as a kind of “spa” treatment, and letting Robby play house here. It could be a good experiment in adult living–and budgeting–for him. He’s 16 now, and he needs to get a job anyway.

I think this could work. I figured out the finances, and if he can cover his food, transportation and utilities, we could even pull it off until he’s eighteen. I could drive into town a couple of times a week to see him and help out if needed. Heck, it’s not even a long distance phone call. We could talk every night, and I’d be less than an hour away if there’s any emergency.

It might work, you never know. :o]

The Day My World Changed

It was back in the early 90s when there were lots of stories in the media about “bubble people”–remember them? In 1976, there had been a TV movie called, The Boy in the Plastic Bubble (based on a true story) starring John Travolta, and now the media had suddenly discovered whole communities of people who had withdrawn from a society they said made them sick. I was a radio news reporter in Minneapolis at the time. An article in the local paper talked about a woman in North Dakota who was sealed into a specially-built home, unable to enjoy human contact even with her husband.

How bizarre!

The article quoted the Diane Allman, president of the local chapter of the Human Ecology Action League (HEAL).

Perfect, I thought. A local angle.

I looked Allman up in the phone book and asked for an interview. She agreed to come to the studio the following Monday, but only if I would promise to do the following:

1. Wear no fragrance, nor deodorant or hairspray.
2. Ask everyone she might come in contact with to do the same.
3. Shower that morning with fragrance-free soap and shampoo.
4. Wear clothes that had been washed in fragrance-free detergent, and use no fabric softener.

Weird, I thought, but promised.

Radio news people usually go to work very early in the morning, and I was no exception. I always had a terrible time waking up, especially since buying my first house a few months earlier. Despite afternoon naps and an 8 o’clock bedtime, I needed two separate alarm clocks on opposite sides of the room to force me out of bed at 3:30 a.m. On top of that, I seemed to wake up with headaches every day. Driving to work at 4 a.m., I was glad the freeways were nearly empty because I was too tired to even focus on the road–my eyes seemed to jitter all over, never stopping long enough to see anything specific. My brain jangled as though electrified. The effect usually faded by the time I did my first newscast at 5:30, and I chalked it up to exhaustion.

The morning of my interview with Diane Allman, however, was different. I noticed as I drove to work that I was able to focus my eyes and my brain felt clear. I had no headache for the first time in weeks. Instead of forcing myself to read as fast as I could during newscasts, I seemed to have a natural energy and enthusiasm on the air that I had long forgotten.

[to be continued...]