"Buderwrites" is on hiatus as we wrestle with the multitude of evils besetting our world. Future topics under consideration include the following:
• Does the Supreme Court's granting of the rights of an individual to corporations mean that British Petroleum can be sentenced to death for the negligent homicide of the 11 workers and the potential poisoning of millions of living creatures due to the disastrous catastrophy in the Gulf of Mexico?
• How do we respond the hypocrisy of people who describe themselves as "real patriots" who wish to destroy one of the basic tenants of the United States Constitution by denying freedom of a group of people of the Muslim faith to practice their religion by demanding that they move their community center and place of worship from its present location in lower Manhattan?
• What if the US Federal Budget were reallocated, reducing the annual budget of each of the Departments of Defense, Homeland Security and the National Intelligence Program by 1% and apply the resulting $13 billion to job creation (physical infrastructure works?) and education?
There are many other conundrums to explore before Buderwrites resumes its regular rant. Please accept our apologies in advance. We will return.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
Microfinance
How many times have we read stories of people trying to eke out a life in parts of the world consumed by bottomless poverty and felt helpless in our desire to do something to help? We may give money to our churches, mosques or synagogues so they can send volunteers or supplies to areas of need. We may write checks to philanthropic organizations devoted to aid to the poor, especially at the end of the year when tax deductions are top of mind. We may even be moved to write to our elected officials to focus on a particular part of the world that is weighing heavily on our minds.
Each one of these inclinations are laudable and should be continued. However, we have often felt that though these efforts are good, there must be a more direct way to help those who are smothered by poverty to claw their way out.
There is a movement called "microfinance", started in the 1970's by such visionaries as Muhammad Yunus and his Grameen Bank, that provides lending services to people who could never be qualified to receive financial assistance from traditional sources of working capital. This type of service is not new. Similar institutions have existed in the past such as the community pawn shops set up by Franciscan monks in the 15th century and the European credit union movement set up in the 19th century. The common denominator in all of these institutions is a desire to provide access to financial services to the poorest of the poor.
The major distinction between microfinance and philanthropy is that the former is an interest-free loan designed to be repaid by the recipient over a fixed period of time. Microfinance is not charity. It provides more than working capital. Participation in a microfinance loan requires discipline and responsible business practices to those who receive these funds.
We have been active in the microfinance movement through an organization called KIVA. The non-profit organization was founded in October 2005 and has to date facilitated close to $150 million in loans, to over 380,000 borrowers in 200 countries around the world according to the information provided by KIVA on their site. We have found KIVA extremely user friendly, making it easy to identify specific applicants by region, country, gender and business. Over the past few years, we have participated in a dozen loans to such groups like the retail operation of the Danaya Group in Mali which has repaid the entirety of their loan over 12 months and Mrs. Son's beauty salon in Cambodia which has repaid 97% of its loan made 12 months ago (the term of the loan is 14 months).
If the concept of microfinance is of interest to you, we suggest you learn more about KIVA. NOTE: We have no interest in KIVA other than as a participant in their lending services.
Each one of these inclinations are laudable and should be continued. However, we have often felt that though these efforts are good, there must be a more direct way to help those who are smothered by poverty to claw their way out.
There is a movement called "microfinance", started in the 1970's by such visionaries as Muhammad Yunus and his Grameen Bank, that provides lending services to people who could never be qualified to receive financial assistance from traditional sources of working capital. This type of service is not new. Similar institutions have existed in the past such as the community pawn shops set up by Franciscan monks in the 15th century and the European credit union movement set up in the 19th century. The common denominator in all of these institutions is a desire to provide access to financial services to the poorest of the poor.
The major distinction between microfinance and philanthropy is that the former is an interest-free loan designed to be repaid by the recipient over a fixed period of time. Microfinance is not charity. It provides more than working capital. Participation in a microfinance loan requires discipline and responsible business practices to those who receive these funds.
We have been active in the microfinance movement through an organization called KIVA. The non-profit organization was founded in October 2005 and has to date facilitated close to $150 million in loans, to over 380,000 borrowers in 200 countries around the world according to the information provided by KIVA on their site. We have found KIVA extremely user friendly, making it easy to identify specific applicants by region, country, gender and business. Over the past few years, we have participated in a dozen loans to such groups like the retail operation of the Danaya Group in Mali which has repaid the entirety of their loan over 12 months and Mrs. Son's beauty salon in Cambodia which has repaid 97% of its loan made 12 months ago (the term of the loan is 14 months).
If the concept of microfinance is of interest to you, we suggest you learn more about KIVA. NOTE: We have no interest in KIVA other than as a participant in their lending services.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Disraeli's "Lies"
Benjamin Disrsaeli (1804 - 1881) may have had economic analysis in mind when he famously declared, "There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics." The 24/7 blather of media's talking heads has responded to the recent economic numbers with warnings of a global double-dip recession. Their news is grim.
But on what are they basing their claims of imminent economic disaster? A statistic central to their pessimistic outlook is the most recent drop in worldwide month-over-month consumer spending. These numbers are indeed dramatic. Something significant is effecting worldwide consumer behavior around the world. But is there only one reason for the statistic?
This specific economic analysis belies a potential problem with high-level economic analysis. Do the professionals and academics specializing in economic analysis live in the real world? If this is the Achilles heel of high-level analysis, it would explain how these experts missed another data point that may play a critical role in the past month's drop in worldwide consumer spending--THE WORLD CUP. 80% of the world's population, an average of 95 million people for any given match, has been watching soccer's World Cup over the past month. The United States alone is predicted to lose over $120 million in productivity during the Cup, which is minute compared with the $7 billion predicted loss of British productivity, and that is if workers in England watch the games for just an hour a day.
The average American does not understand the size and impact of this event. This past year, 151 million people watched the Super Bowl and 249 million watched the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. The worldwide audience for this year's World Cup Final is projected to exceed 600 million viewers. This would certainly have a significant effect on worldwide economic statistics and, as an anomaly, should be accounted for before extrapolating the numbers.
Sources: Bloomberg, EuropeTalent, Fifa, Nielson and USNews as presented by Mashable.com and (Roughly)Daily.com.
But on what are they basing their claims of imminent economic disaster? A statistic central to their pessimistic outlook is the most recent drop in worldwide month-over-month consumer spending. These numbers are indeed dramatic. Something significant is effecting worldwide consumer behavior around the world. But is there only one reason for the statistic?
This specific economic analysis belies a potential problem with high-level economic analysis. Do the professionals and academics specializing in economic analysis live in the real world? If this is the Achilles heel of high-level analysis, it would explain how these experts missed another data point that may play a critical role in the past month's drop in worldwide consumer spending--THE WORLD CUP. 80% of the world's population, an average of 95 million people for any given match, has been watching soccer's World Cup over the past month. The United States alone is predicted to lose over $120 million in productivity during the Cup, which is minute compared with the $7 billion predicted loss of British productivity, and that is if workers in England watch the games for just an hour a day.
The average American does not understand the size and impact of this event. This past year, 151 million people watched the Super Bowl and 249 million watched the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. The worldwide audience for this year's World Cup Final is projected to exceed 600 million viewers. This would certainly have a significant effect on worldwide economic statistics and, as an anomaly, should be accounted for before extrapolating the numbers.
Sources: Bloomberg, EuropeTalent, Fifa, Nielson and USNews as presented by Mashable.com and (Roughly)Daily.com.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Brenda's Bees
Brenda keeps honeybees in two wooden hives nestled against the back of our house atop a green and golden hill that slides, uninterrupted, into the first of a chain of regional parks that frame the eastern shore of the San Francisco Bay. Each hive consists of five worn whitewashed wooden boxes stacked atop each other, sitting side by side on a small square pine platform placed in the center of our back wall.
Every Saturday during the spring and summer months, Brenda dons her uniform of bleached white coveralls, sunflower yellow gardening gloves and a lime green safari helmet rimmed with a swatch of black protective netting. Then, holding a stainless steel smoking pot filled with slowly burning terrycloth used to stun the bees into complacency, she walks around our house to tend to her babies--a brood of imported Italian honey bees. Brenda works the bees in a Balanchine ballet of steps, sweeping the smoke across the hive with her left hand while working through a succession of bee-crammed frames, ninety in total, with her right.
It was one of those summer days when the blistering heat from the eastern valley intertwines with the cold sea salt air blowing in from the west, the way cold water pours from a tap to circle around a tub of too hot bathwater. The distant din of suburban lawn mowers and leaf blowers mimicked the buzz of the honeybees; a hypnotizing lullaby soundtrack as we sat on our deck enjoying the sun and reveling in the panoramic beauty of our eastern view.
Suddenly the sound of the bees exploded as if their audio dial had been turned completely to the right. Hundreds then thousands of bees began to fly in every direction. Some soared high into the sky, reversing direction, then diving down to the ground, turning at the last minute to repeat their kamikaze dance. Others flew in circles at ground level while still others darted dizzyingly in every direction. The air was filled from horizon to horizon with a gyrating cloud of bees.
"No," Brenda whispered, "my bees are swarming."
We watched wide-eyed as the tornado of bees twisted its way down the hill, circling the lone Monterey Pine tree that sits in the middle of a clearing a few hundred feet from the hives. The cloud collected into a boulevard of bees circling a vibrating pinecone that was another group of bees. As the afternoon passed, the "pinecone" inflated from the size of a baseball to the size of a catcher's mask. It bled bees down its sides, dripped bees from its tip and pulsed alive with the rhythm beating heart.
For the next few hours, the bees tightly clung to a low branch of the pine tree, swaying in the breeze and settling in their new environs. But just before the light dimmed with the oncoming dusk, the bees swarmed yet again, flying into the heart of the park in search of a more natural home.
Every Saturday during the spring and summer months, Brenda dons her uniform of bleached white coveralls, sunflower yellow gardening gloves and a lime green safari helmet rimmed with a swatch of black protective netting. Then, holding a stainless steel smoking pot filled with slowly burning terrycloth used to stun the bees into complacency, she walks around our house to tend to her babies--a brood of imported Italian honey bees. Brenda works the bees in a Balanchine ballet of steps, sweeping the smoke across the hive with her left hand while working through a succession of bee-crammed frames, ninety in total, with her right.
It was one of those summer days when the blistering heat from the eastern valley intertwines with the cold sea salt air blowing in from the west, the way cold water pours from a tap to circle around a tub of too hot bathwater. The distant din of suburban lawn mowers and leaf blowers mimicked the buzz of the honeybees; a hypnotizing lullaby soundtrack as we sat on our deck enjoying the sun and reveling in the panoramic beauty of our eastern view.
Suddenly the sound of the bees exploded as if their audio dial had been turned completely to the right. Hundreds then thousands of bees began to fly in every direction. Some soared high into the sky, reversing direction, then diving down to the ground, turning at the last minute to repeat their kamikaze dance. Others flew in circles at ground level while still others darted dizzyingly in every direction. The air was filled from horizon to horizon with a gyrating cloud of bees.
"No," Brenda whispered, "my bees are swarming."
We watched wide-eyed as the tornado of bees twisted its way down the hill, circling the lone Monterey Pine tree that sits in the middle of a clearing a few hundred feet from the hives. The cloud collected into a boulevard of bees circling a vibrating pinecone that was another group of bees. As the afternoon passed, the "pinecone" inflated from the size of a baseball to the size of a catcher's mask. It bled bees down its sides, dripped bees from its tip and pulsed alive with the rhythm beating heart.
For the next few hours, the bees tightly clung to a low branch of the pine tree, swaying in the breeze and settling in their new environs. But just before the light dimmed with the oncoming dusk, the bees swarmed yet again, flying into the heart of the park in search of a more natural home.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Grandpa Mo
Mo became an artist shortly after his ninety-second birthday. He had just moved across the country, from New York to a senior facility in California, to be near his only granddaughter and her family. Mo's wife had been gone for over ten years and he had been living alone in what was once a middle-class neighborhood that had slipped into decay over the years. Being, as his wife called him, "a stubborn Russian," Mo refused to budge from the apartment he had occupied for 60 years. Until the day his granddaughter's steady bemoaning at missing him and tears shed at not being able to visit him finally melted his heart and he capitulated.
The move to California seemed to do him good. His granddaughter and family met him at the airport with a waterfall of hugs and kisses. They visited him almost every day during the week and most Sunday afternoons. Mo made several new friends and, to the amazement of all who knew him well, he started trying his hand at new things. Mo was usually set in his ways and was never known to go down a path that he hadn't worn bare dozens of times before. But his new life breathed something special into him. After experimenting with all sorts of activities; sculpting in clay, playing pinochle and bridge, shooting shuffleboard and even joining a ballroom dance class, Moses discovered painting.
In the beginning, Mo would spend about an hour each weekday sitting in the art room getting comfortable with the brushes, paper, easels and other tools of the painter. His first works were watercolor experiments in the feel of the brushes and the way different colors shifted when laid aside each other on different types of paper. When he got bored with watercolors, he worked with oils, latex, crayons, pencils and charcoal on assorted shapes and sizes of paper, canvas, cardboard or wood. After some weeks, Mo pushed aside everything else in favor of a rainbow of latex paints he brushed across a tightly stretched linen canvas because the colors were so vivid and easiest to control.
Mo was soon spending entire mornings and afternoons in the art room, breaking only to take meals. He was the first to arrive in the art room when the door opened in the morning and the last to leave when it closed at the end of the day. On rare days when the room was closed, Mo would wander lost through the halls of the home.
As he gained confidence in his work with the paints, Mo began tearing pictures of houses and landscapes from old magazines and taping them at eye-level on the right side of his easel. After examining the photo with great care, Mo would stab his paintbrush in one color then the next and with squinted eyes, tap the paint on the surface with tiny twists of his wrist, his face so close to the surface that his nose looked to be resting in pools of color.
In Mo's eye, he was painting realistic copies of scenes he liked in the magazines. But Mo was seeing the world through 92-year-old eyes. The perfectly geometric renderings of buildings and the exactitude of the flora and fauna he saw on his canvases, looked to the healthy-sighted world to be done in an imaginative impressionist style. Unbeknownst to Mo, his failing eyesight and his newly discovered love of painting had conspired to help him paint with the same joie de vivre of the great impressionists.
Word of Mo's painting flew out of the art room with a speed rarely seen at the home. Employees and visitors alike made a point to visit the art room to see his latest work. His granddaughter and family were thrilled to see Mo enjoy the attention, even if it meant having to share him when they visited.
Over the last few years of his life, Mo painted dozens of paintings and every one has found a resting place on the wall of some hallowed space in the senior facility that became Mo's California home.
The move to California seemed to do him good. His granddaughter and family met him at the airport with a waterfall of hugs and kisses. They visited him almost every day during the week and most Sunday afternoons. Mo made several new friends and, to the amazement of all who knew him well, he started trying his hand at new things. Mo was usually set in his ways and was never known to go down a path that he hadn't worn bare dozens of times before. But his new life breathed something special into him. After experimenting with all sorts of activities; sculpting in clay, playing pinochle and bridge, shooting shuffleboard and even joining a ballroom dance class, Moses discovered painting.
In the beginning, Mo would spend about an hour each weekday sitting in the art room getting comfortable with the brushes, paper, easels and other tools of the painter. His first works were watercolor experiments in the feel of the brushes and the way different colors shifted when laid aside each other on different types of paper. When he got bored with watercolors, he worked with oils, latex, crayons, pencils and charcoal on assorted shapes and sizes of paper, canvas, cardboard or wood. After some weeks, Mo pushed aside everything else in favor of a rainbow of latex paints he brushed across a tightly stretched linen canvas because the colors were so vivid and easiest to control.
Mo was soon spending entire mornings and afternoons in the art room, breaking only to take meals. He was the first to arrive in the art room when the door opened in the morning and the last to leave when it closed at the end of the day. On rare days when the room was closed, Mo would wander lost through the halls of the home.
As he gained confidence in his work with the paints, Mo began tearing pictures of houses and landscapes from old magazines and taping them at eye-level on the right side of his easel. After examining the photo with great care, Mo would stab his paintbrush in one color then the next and with squinted eyes, tap the paint on the surface with tiny twists of his wrist, his face so close to the surface that his nose looked to be resting in pools of color.
In Mo's eye, he was painting realistic copies of scenes he liked in the magazines. But Mo was seeing the world through 92-year-old eyes. The perfectly geometric renderings of buildings and the exactitude of the flora and fauna he saw on his canvases, looked to the healthy-sighted world to be done in an imaginative impressionist style. Unbeknownst to Mo, his failing eyesight and his newly discovered love of painting had conspired to help him paint with the same joie de vivre of the great impressionists.
Word of Mo's painting flew out of the art room with a speed rarely seen at the home. Employees and visitors alike made a point to visit the art room to see his latest work. His granddaughter and family were thrilled to see Mo enjoy the attention, even if it meant having to share him when they visited.
Over the last few years of his life, Mo painted dozens of paintings and every one has found a resting place on the wall of some hallowed space in the senior facility that became Mo's California home.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Manny's Way
After leaving the Navy in 1949, Manny showed himself to be a natural entrepreneur, building a successful auto supply business then a popular appliance store in downtown Trenton. Manny happily threw himself into his work from dawn until dusk, begrudgingly taking off work on Sundays and major holidays. But Manny never let his stores get between him, his young wife and his growing family of three tow-headed boys. He would never miss a family dinner and especially enjoyed the ground beef and mashed potatoes she served on Tuesdays and his favorite tuna-noodle casserole they ate every Friday.
For two weeks every year. Manny would trust his businesses to his employees so he could drive his wife and boys on some wild car journey, a new one every year. One time he drove the family in his white-topped blue station wagon on a "Cavern Adventure" to get his kids sprayed by the indoor waterfalls of Tuckaleechee Caverns, Tennessee, show them the War Club at Lost Caverns, Virginia that they read about in the Guinness Book of World Records and reveal to them the secrets of roughing it at the campsites of Mammoth Cave National Park, Kentucky. Life was good for Manny and his beloved family.
In his thirty-fifth year, seemingly out of the clear blue sky, Manny got gob smacked in the gut by a one-two punch. The spread of suburban chain stores and the urban riots of 1968 conspired to force him out of business and into bankruptcy. He lost everything--his stores, his savings and his spirit. Manny was lost.
After weeks wallowing in self-pity, Manny shook off his shame, suited up in grey flannel and red power tie and began knocking on corporate doors. Before long, Manny's infectious smile and gregarious manner landed him an entry-level sales job with an international industrial manufacturing conglomerate. He poured himself into his new job with a renewed vigor and a white-hot desire to prove himself capable of succeeding in business. Manny learned to love the romance of traveling around his territory visiting various vendors selling his company's wares. His customers were won over by his magnetic charm and easy-going manner. He was soon addicted to the glamour of flying first-class, the leathery aroma of the rented luxury cars, and the way the staff at his hotels knew him by name. He never tired of the way his clients' eyes would widen when he pulled out his gold card to pay for meals at the best restaurants in town.
The bosses were so impressed with Manny that he rose rapidly through the ranks. His territory expanded every few years. Manny loved his job. His sole regret was wasting so much time on his own without the security and benefits of a strong corporation watching his back.
Manny's family time shifted from nightly dinners to family trips taking him to the airport on Sunday evenings and back home from the airport on Friday nights. Vacation time was spent at home, a break for Manny from his 50 weeks on the road. Manny called home every weeknight and heard from afar as his boys grew up, went off to college and beyond, comfortable in the knowledge that his hard work kept food on their table and clothes on their back.
Manny would work for his company forever, if only he could. He had no intention of retiring early, not only because he loved his company, but an extremely generous retirement package was available to any employee who retired at 65 having had worked for the company for more than ten years. Anyone else, regardless of length of service or age at retirement, received far less.
On his 62nd birthday, Manny was excited to receive a gold-trimmed handwritten invitation to breakfast in the executive dining room with the Chairman the following day. Manny had never seen the executive dining room even though it was merely two floors above the office that he used as home base for twenty-three years. As he entered the room, Manny's eyes glowed like his clients' eyes when he flashed them his gold card. The chairman waved Manny over to a corner table complete with white lace-trimmed tablecloth and matching napkins, gold rimmed china and solid gold forks knives spoons. After they shook hands and settled down, the rainbows glinting off the crystal glasses at the two facing settings hypnotized Manny.
" Its so nice to finally meet you after all these years," the Chairman started the required small talk.
"Its an honor, " Manny croaked through the frog in his throat.
"Thank you" the Chairman replied, "I wish we could have met under better circumstances.'
The room started spinning. All that Manny could hear was "… reorganization…cutbacks…hurts us….I hate this…see hr…today."
As the Chairman stood, shook Manny's hand and left the room, a security guard came over, helped Manny up from the richly upholstered dining chair and walked him to his office. On Manny's desk were three cardboard boxes packed with the flotsam and jetsam of his time on the road and short form letter describing his slim rewards for sacrificing his life and family to the company for all these years.
For two weeks every year. Manny would trust his businesses to his employees so he could drive his wife and boys on some wild car journey, a new one every year. One time he drove the family in his white-topped blue station wagon on a "Cavern Adventure" to get his kids sprayed by the indoor waterfalls of Tuckaleechee Caverns, Tennessee, show them the War Club at Lost Caverns, Virginia that they read about in the Guinness Book of World Records and reveal to them the secrets of roughing it at the campsites of Mammoth Cave National Park, Kentucky. Life was good for Manny and his beloved family.
In his thirty-fifth year, seemingly out of the clear blue sky, Manny got gob smacked in the gut by a one-two punch. The spread of suburban chain stores and the urban riots of 1968 conspired to force him out of business and into bankruptcy. He lost everything--his stores, his savings and his spirit. Manny was lost.
After weeks wallowing in self-pity, Manny shook off his shame, suited up in grey flannel and red power tie and began knocking on corporate doors. Before long, Manny's infectious smile and gregarious manner landed him an entry-level sales job with an international industrial manufacturing conglomerate. He poured himself into his new job with a renewed vigor and a white-hot desire to prove himself capable of succeeding in business. Manny learned to love the romance of traveling around his territory visiting various vendors selling his company's wares. His customers were won over by his magnetic charm and easy-going manner. He was soon addicted to the glamour of flying first-class, the leathery aroma of the rented luxury cars, and the way the staff at his hotels knew him by name. He never tired of the way his clients' eyes would widen when he pulled out his gold card to pay for meals at the best restaurants in town.
The bosses were so impressed with Manny that he rose rapidly through the ranks. His territory expanded every few years. Manny loved his job. His sole regret was wasting so much time on his own without the security and benefits of a strong corporation watching his back.
Manny's family time shifted from nightly dinners to family trips taking him to the airport on Sunday evenings and back home from the airport on Friday nights. Vacation time was spent at home, a break for Manny from his 50 weeks on the road. Manny called home every weeknight and heard from afar as his boys grew up, went off to college and beyond, comfortable in the knowledge that his hard work kept food on their table and clothes on their back.
Manny would work for his company forever, if only he could. He had no intention of retiring early, not only because he loved his company, but an extremely generous retirement package was available to any employee who retired at 65 having had worked for the company for more than ten years. Anyone else, regardless of length of service or age at retirement, received far less.
On his 62nd birthday, Manny was excited to receive a gold-trimmed handwritten invitation to breakfast in the executive dining room with the Chairman the following day. Manny had never seen the executive dining room even though it was merely two floors above the office that he used as home base for twenty-three years. As he entered the room, Manny's eyes glowed like his clients' eyes when he flashed them his gold card. The chairman waved Manny over to a corner table complete with white lace-trimmed tablecloth and matching napkins, gold rimmed china and solid gold forks knives spoons. After they shook hands and settled down, the rainbows glinting off the crystal glasses at the two facing settings hypnotized Manny.
" Its so nice to finally meet you after all these years," the Chairman started the required small talk.
"Its an honor, " Manny croaked through the frog in his throat.
"Thank you" the Chairman replied, "I wish we could have met under better circumstances.'
The room started spinning. All that Manny could hear was "… reorganization…cutbacks…hurts us….I hate this…see hr…today."
As the Chairman stood, shook Manny's hand and left the room, a security guard came over, helped Manny up from the richly upholstered dining chair and walked him to his office. On Manny's desk were three cardboard boxes packed with the flotsam and jetsam of his time on the road and short form letter describing his slim rewards for sacrificing his life and family to the company for all these years.
Monday, June 07, 2010
Creative Carbon Calculation
BP's oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico has snapped our attention back to the severe impact of human activity on the earth's environment. To some, one individual's change in behavior seems minute in a world where multinational corporations can spill, cut and pollute their way to ever-growing massive profits.
Do not to despair. We encourage everyone to analyze the choices we make throughout every day. What alternative do we have? Change on a global scale will happen one person at a time. Now is the time to start your change.
The Bon Appetit Management Company has provided us with an easy-to-use and fun on-line tool to evaluate the carbon footprint of the selections we make every mealtime. Click HERE to find their lovely graphic calculator in order to add carbon footprint to other factors like nutrition and calories when planning meals.
In the words of Bob Riley, "...it's not only possible for one person to make a difference, it's essential that one person makes a difference."
Do not to despair. We encourage everyone to analyze the choices we make throughout every day. What alternative do we have? Change on a global scale will happen one person at a time. Now is the time to start your change.
The Bon Appetit Management Company has provided us with an easy-to-use and fun on-line tool to evaluate the carbon footprint of the selections we make every mealtime. Click HERE to find their lovely graphic calculator in order to add carbon footprint to other factors like nutrition and calories when planning meals.
In the words of Bob Riley, "...it's not only possible for one person to make a difference, it's essential that one person makes a difference."
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