Foraging for Food: Skills for an AI Future

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Excerpt from MAGA Bigfoot

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CHAPTER 8 FOOD SOURCE

As I believe I have mentioned earlier, I happen to live in a community predominantly composed of Amish families. I mention this because the Amish do very well in life without televisions, smart phones and the many other trappings of the Internet Age. As a group, the Amish are thriving because their free time is spent creating life affirming projects that are a great benefit to the local community. You’ll never find them gorging on the nonsense disseminated by the corporate news demigods. Another thing near and dear to my heart is their intimate connection to nature and the land. They are excellent caretakers of the earth through their good farming practices. Regenerative and organic farming will be paramount to our survival in the near future, especially in the aftermath of what I will coin as “The Coming AI Apocalypse”. My Bigfoot Guardian has warned me that artificial intelligence is rapidly positioning itself as the final straw that will break the Internet’s back.

Be prepared to grow your own food. This is something you should be doing anyway. Your future and your physical health depend on it. The cells of our bodies harmonize with the cells of organically raised and produced foods both plant and animal. On the other hand, genetically modified foods can cause a multitude of discordant disruptions inside the cells. These disruptions then foster disease, yet these GMOs are now the main staple on our grocery store shelves. Take a serious look at how these genetically modified foods are being developed and mass produced on corporate farms. They are not produced for the benefit of the consumer, but for the profitability of the corporations that own them. All you have to do is look at these corporation’s profit driven farming practices to understand their motivations.

Let me tickle you with a miracle in a shell. It is called a chicken egg. On our farm, our hens are happy. They lay fertile eggs that are capable of producing another such miracle called a baby chick. That chick grows into a happy chicken that in turn lays more eggs that hatch into chicks. They grow up to be happy chickens as well. That is not how it works in the corporate offices of New York City. There, these miracles in a shell are turned into a commodity. The eggs are mass produced by chickens imprisoned in twelve by twelve inch cages. Like Guantanamo Bay inmates confined to their pens, they can barely move. They spend their whole life in that little wire box, laying infertile eggs until they can’t lay anymore. Then they are brutally yanked from their cages by their brittle little legs. You can hear and feel their bones break. Some die right then and there. Those that don’t, along with those that do, are then stuffed into gunny sacks for shipment to the slaughterhouse. From there, they are processed and wrapped in plastic, then shipped off to McDonald’s, Wendy’s or any of a number of other corporate fast food enterprises. All the chicken eggs have been retained, counted, and recorded for sale by accountants in Manhattan. None of the egg counters have ever seen a chicken lay an egg, they are simply a part of the corporate assembly line.

So what are some immediate actions we can take to disarm such abusive practices?

Buy locally! Help support locally owned and operated farms. They should be valued and looked upon as lifeblood for you and your community. They will be a vital necessity to our survival after the coming AI Apocalypse. In the present, small farms and home gardens are important in raising the health and well being of the population as a whole. As the MAGA Bigfoot often state, “Observe the obvious and act accordingly.”

For fun and your own benefit, I would suggest you take a ride sometime and peruse that part of the country devoted to farming and food production. You will most likely see dilapidated and abandoned farm houses. The small farmers that once owned and operated them, have been forced out of business by corporate farm practices. Their farmland then got gobbled up by corporations along with China who is now a big player in this land grab. The small farms once regenerative practices have now been obliterated and transformed into huge receptacles for chemical fertilizers and toxic pesticides. Production of GMO crops and abusive farm animal practices are now the standard of the day. Don’t take my word for it, go look for yourself.

In the end, GMOs, pesticides and other toxic chemicals end up on our plates. These corporate monsters remain unchecked and are contaminating our precious water supplies and poisoning the whole food chain ecosystem. Growing our own safe and nutritious food is one surefire weapon we can deploy against this growing empire. Fortunately, we still have a vibrant seed bank to supply our home gardens and small farms.

Another valuable asset to have in our arsenal of survival skills is foraging. Foraging for food has been something my family and I have practiced for generations. It is both rewarding and fun, as well as essential for anyone seriously looking to weather the coming AI armageddon. Learning what nature has to offer in the form of fruits, herbs, roots, mushrooms, etc., is quite the life affirming experience in itself. Within just a few miles of our home we can forage and secure a diverse store that can supply us through the winter.

Another form of foraging is the collecting of useful items that can come in handy in a pinch. I look for discarded and abandoned items with a creative eye. It’s not always what you find that is important, it is what it can become. Random pieces of metal can be turned into a stove or maybe even a chair. A gnarled piece of driftwood can be turned into a lovely lamp or a wall hanging. Lots of things speak to me of what they can become, that’s the miracle of abundance. Manifest wise—intend and you shall receive.

So turn off your TVs and smart phones. Step outside, take a deep breath and get your hands dirty. Participate with your heart and soul in the proper growing of nourishing food. Build your own flourishing and prospering reality.

I am certain that we can, and will overcome.

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Children’s Book; Yooper Lights

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YOOPER LIGHTS is a children’s book about searching for the magical, glow in the dark yooperlite stones found along the shores of Lake Superior in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

Yooper stones are made up of mostly syenite rock, which is similar to granite, which means the rock looks like any other typical gray rock, but there’s a magical twist. Yooper stones are rich with fluorescent sodalite, which glows a vibrant orange or yellow under Ultraviolet Light.

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Get your copy of Yooper Lights Here

Bigfoot Creek

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The Portal

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There’s an anomaly

where the compass fails

in the old woods

near Big Creek. North ain’t north

and south ain’t south. East and west

get flipped on their heads.

I, who never gets lost

got lost here…. where the water runs

backwards, then repeats itself

over and over

like a line in a song.

It’s where the hairs

on your neck get tickled….

where your mouth grows dry

and you hold your breath.

It is the longitude

and latitude of Bigfoot—

my Sasquatch friend.

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From Bigfoot Parchments

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The Love Tree

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I was born writing poetry. Nothing has changed. I’ll die with a pen and pencil in hand.

My roots are deeply embedded in the my Native American Spirit where a poem is food for life itself. The rain, the river, the wind and a whole host of phenomena are all poets in the interwoven scheme of creation. They are all much better than I, yet I still try to put a cloud or a whippoorwill into words.

I know it is not a popular or exciting endeavor for most people, poetry is about as esoteric as escargot.

When I was young I discovered the words of Pablo Neruda. Of course, for us English speaking readers, the words are twice removed by the nuances of language, but still speak with the and tongues of our nature.

Those Days

The mists of the North and South left me a little westerly and so those days passed. Everything was at sea.

I certainly earned the title of a wandering gentleman; I wore every kind of hat, I knew racy women; I ate sand, I ate sardines, and I married from time to time.

But without claiming to be emperor or sailor, I must confess I remember the most friendly hurricanes, and confess that I die of envy remembering what I’ve lost, how rich I was and wasn’t, the hunger that kept me going, and those intruding shoes which never knocked at the door.

The great thing about joy is the split self it has. One doesn’t live in today alone– the present is a handbag with a contraband watch in it. Our heart is all future, our pleasure is over.

And so I shifted from course to course, in heat, in cold, in a hurry, and all I didn’t see I still keep remembering– all the shadows I swam in, every sea that took me in; I beat on all the stones, I lay down among thorns, and I had the natural honor of those not born to it.

I don’t know why I’m telling these things, these places, these moments, the smoke of those bonfires. Nobody really needs to tremble at alien earthquakes and truly nobody cares about anyone else’s youth. So I am not asking for pardon. I’m in my usual place. I have a tree with so many leaves that although I don’t claim immortality, I can laugh at you and the autumn.

Pablo Neruda, in the year of 1958

Blessings January, 11 2026

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The trees know, and the little stream where the trout find no boundaries. The cardinals, the bluejays and the chickadees know as well. You don’t have to ask them, they give freely their gratitude in song.

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City Slicker’s Guide to the Amish Country https://www.amazon.com/dp/1940736188

Conversations with Sasquatch, The Encounter: A Journey into the Unknown

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Excerpt from Conversations With Sasquatch, The Encounter.

Chapter 2

     Talking to a Sasquatch would probably qualify me as being a delusional schizophrenic or having some such mentally manufactured label from the Diagnostic Manual of Mental Disorders.  Rest assured, I am more sane than the writers and creators of that psychiatric flap-trap.  As a Sasquatch said in our first conversation a little over a week ago, “Humans are blind to the world of the Sasquatch.”

     Exactly why I was chosen, I haven’t got a clue.  All I know is that today I have an appointment to meet with him once again near that auspicious cedar ridge that runs along the banks of Big Creek, in Lewiston, Michigan.

     I do not take this meeting lightly.  The fear that was inexplicably absent during our first encounter is in full force as I lock my Mazda and begin my traipse into the greening woods.

     As always, I find myself getting unwound and relaxed by the sanctuary of the forest.  There is a lush carpet of fresh moss, wintergreen and huckleberry as I begin to cut a trajectory toward the ridge where I had previously shared mushrooms with a being that claimed to be immortal.  As I walk, I am suddenly struck with the notion that Sasquatch might like a bag of fresh wintergreen.  I, myself, love to chew on the minty leaves, which are cool and relaxing.  I kneel down, pluck a new sprout and pop it into my mouth.  I then gather a few handfuls of the dark green fingers and slip them into the small Ace Hardware bag I always carry for gathering purposes. I succinctly remember Sasquatch telling me that humans had once been much more attuned to the gathering of the medicinal and nutritional gifts of nature.  Is it possible my penchant for such was what had drawn this Bigfoot to engage me?

     I don’t know.  There are doubts.  I’m still feeling a bit dumbstruck and unbelieving.  I have to work quite hard to suspend my recurring thoughts that Sasquatch was nothing more than a figment of my overactive imagination.  Had I eaten (like some have suggested) the wrong mushroom by mistake?  Was it possible I had simply hallucinated and manufactured my whole Sasquatch experience from the far reaches of a childhood memory?

     Over the years, I must admit, I really hadn’t thought much about Sasquatch.  I’ve had no particular reason to do so.  I’m a busy person, both purposeful and happy.  I think little of the past and focus on the present and the future.

     As I continue my trek towards Big Creek, my childhood memory of Sasquatch floods back as if a dam has burst inside my head.  I find myself emotionally present in the excitement of the time, the utter bug-eyed blinking and wiping of my eyes during those fateful moments I laid eyes on him bathing in the river near my fishing hole.  I am overcome with a hot flash of perspiration.  Adrenalin rushes and vibrates through my body as I re-experience running helter-skelter up the bank of the river to reach the deer camp where my father is playing poker and drinking whiskey with his pals.

     I breathlessly arrive as Al Kaline is stepping up to the plate with runners on first and third in the top of the ninth in a tight game against the Minnesota Twins.  My dad and his pals are glued to the tinny squawk of a small transistor radio, intently listening as Ernie Harwell sets the stage for the next pitch.

     I shake my father’s arm violently to get his attention and shriek incoherently about the monster bathing in the river.  My dad’s eyes blink rapidly as he slowly tries to bring me into focus.  When he finally registers my presence, he frowns uncomprehendingly and remains as lethargic as a toad.

     “Not now!” he grumbles.

     I tug and push even harder, beseeching him to come and see the hairy man that looks bigger than a bear.

     “Sorry guys,” he groans, “the young tyke is always dreaming up ghosts and things that go bump in the night.”

     “No!” I exclaim, “He’s really there!  He’s down by the river where the sunfish are!”

     “Now son, go play.  We’ll all be ready to leave in a few.  Right now the Tiger’s are trying to beat the Twins.  Let your dad finish his game.”

     Forgotten and dismissed, I am overwhelmed by the force of his rejection and disbelief.  Coming from my dad, it presses down hard on my young heart.  He hadn’t even considered for a moment that what I had seen could possibly be true.  I was just a kid with nothing better to do than make things up.  And yes, I often did make things up, just not Sasquatch taking a bath in the river.

     As I neared Big Creek I shook off the memory and began my gradual descent down the ridge toward our destined meeting spot.  As I did so, the hackles on my neck suddenly stood straight up and goose flesh prickled down my arms and back.  Once again, the woods fell eerily silent.  All my senses snapped to the present and I reflexively reached for my absent Beretta which I had purposely left in the car.

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Available on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/1940736684

Conversations With Sasquatch, The Encounter

Excerpt from book 1 of the Conversations With Sasquatch,  series The Encounter.  

5

     On my return to Big Creek, I am aware of some recent activity by other humans.  It is not only the physical signs, like the matted down grass and discarded cigarette butts, but also the remnants of their auras.  People leave in their wake good or bad vibrations that can hang around and be felt from here to eternity unless cleansed from the emotionally disturbed space.  What I am feeling at the moment is not good, and it isn’t long before I find a half dozen empty beer cans and several Twinkie wrappers scattered about.  

     I have never known beer and Twinkies to mix well with the forest.  I am hoping it is just a sign of some rebellious teenagers getting away from the claustrophobic demands of their parents, and what I am seeing is discarded pieces of their rebellion and carelessness that have been shed like the skin of a snake.  

     My hopes get permanently dashed when I find more cigarette butts and a game camera locked in place to a small sapling of birch.  There is a generous pile of untouched corn a few yards away from the lens that snaps my picture.  I stick out my tongue and give it the finger. 

     Tecumseh would throw a fit if he saw this disrespectful approach to the fine art of hunting.  I can literally hear one of his angry rants echoing through the forest as I decide what to do.

     “They leave their ugly scent behind like mangy dogs that seem to have a purpose to piss on everything,” Tecumseh rails.   “They are thankless of all but their own gratification.  I weep when I think about how the ancestors of such vile men invaded our tee-pees with their spirits of evil.   I pray our eternal wills continue to be reborn without such an abominable weakness for whiskey.”

     I look around and heft a broken hardwood bow about the size and shape of a baseball bat.   I contemplate and weigh it for my purpose.  Knowing I have been captured on the camera, I have decided prudence would be my best course of action.  

     I wind up and take a healthy cut and catch the camera square in the face.  It explodes into different pieces and is not easy to gather back together, but I find the photo chip and slip it into my pocket.  The rest of the camera pieces and every other sign of human presence, I put in my gathering bag.  All that is left is the cable and lock still wrapped around the birch.  I apologize in the name of Tecumseh and cut the cable free.  

     I then backtrack and gather the beer cans and Twinkie wrappers, finger-rake the grasses back to standing the best I can, and collect all the cigarette butts.  I am happily gratified to feel the forest rejoice.  

     With the area cleansed of trash and bad vibrations, I am able to return to contemplating my original purpose.  I had been looking forward to another philosophical melding with my Bigfoot friend, Loquius.

     I have been pondering, that if the Sasquatch are immortal beings that have roamed this planet since the beginning of time, then they have survived the endless disasters of climate change, including ice ages, volcanos, earthquakes, drought, famine, asteroids, and even pandemics.   

     Man is relatively new to the game, and what is most important in this age of narcissism, are the symbiotic relationships that have and can be further developed between man and nature; each one can enhance the other when common sense and basic ethics are applied to such things as forestry, farming, housing, and industry.  Even cities can be redesigned with regenerative energy and agriculture in mind.  Man is basically good and will strive for the greatest good for all concerned when he realizes that one lifetime is but a growing and cleansing journey for his immortal soul.  To survive, you have to learn that you do not shit in the bed to which you must return.  

     I hope to garner much more insight into what answers Sasquatch might have to help the human race as it seemingly hurtles unawares towards oblivion.  

     As I trek, I am elated to have removed the footprints of the litterbugs and their bad vibes.  The forest has returned to its harmonious songs within itself.  I hear the distant drumming of a partridge, the chatter of squirrels, and the peeping of some snipes at the edge of a meadow filled with dancing grasses.  A porcupine scuttles over a log, parks it itself in a defensive posture and raises its quills as I pass nearby.  

     The walk to meet Sasquatch is over two miles of ever changing terrain.  The forest is rife with organic smells and subtle changes of temperature.  I have come to recognize many sun dappled openings verdant with ferns as well as groves of various trees.   I am traversing the edge of the hardwoods that are easier to navigate than the thick cedars, tag alders and small pines that thrive next to the creek.  

     It is on the ridge where the hardwoods turn to cedars that Sasquatch appears.  I am immediately struck by the aggressiveness portrayed in his muscular stance.  There is nothing soft or serene in his posture towards me.  My first instinct is to cut and run, but I will myself to keep my poise and hold my ground.

     He vocalizes an unearthly bugle of screeching sounds that all but rattle my bones.  Instantly, there is movement to his right and another Sasquatch appears at his side.

Available on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/1940736684

Conversations With Sasquatch, The Rising

CONVERSATIONS WITH SASQUATCH, THE RISING

Episode 2 by Richard Rensberry

2.

“What are your thoughts, My Friend,” I ask Tecumseh after we have been deposited into a cozy but roomy dome structure to refresh ourselves.  We are bathed in diffused sunlight reminiscent of being inside a green house.

“Intrigued,” Tecumseh answers, looking about and absorbing the situation.

Each of us has been given dry clothes that are soft and light.  My guess is that they are woven from the plant kenaf that is so prized and prevalent in Cross Over.  On the table before us sit plates of vegetables and spices similar to my first meal eaten in the land of Sasquatch when I had been the guest of elder Loquius and his family.  To satisfy our thirst there is also an ewer of steaming tea that smells of ginger and raspberry.

“I wasn’t sure my body was going to survive its journey here into your land of the forest people,” Tecumseh says.  “But, here it is, in one piece, and I admit that now that I am here, I have grown hungry.”   He rubs his belly, eying the vegetables and aromatic spices.  

I take hold of the ewer of tea in both hands and pour ourselves a steaming mug of pink liquid.  Like all the Sasquatch teas I have tried, this one is also zippy and zingy.

“I am a bit perplexed,” I tell him.  “I wasn’t expecting Dr. Walker or any other humans to be present here.  It contradicts the information I received from the Council of Elders.  As for the coveted spirits of your ancestors, they may or may not be here in Cross Over, but I can assure you that the place is very real and you will find the food much to your liking.”

“This Dr. Walker,” Tecumseh questions, “Are you sure he is not a ghost or a spirit?”

“I am sure he is as solid and human as we are,” I tell him.  “How he got here and what he is up to besides farming, I can’t say, but I believe we are about to find out in our meeting with Demarcus.”

“Ah yes, Chia Tanka not so friendly in the flesh,” Tecumseh says and sketches the Bigfoot’s shape with his hands.  After a moment, he nods and the lines on his forehead soften.  He closes his eyes and takes my hand, then invokes a sing song blessing of thanks to the powers and wonders of that which has brought him here and put fresh food and tea on our table.

“Dig in,” I say when he opens his piercing eyes and looks at me.  

“For some reason, I feel we are going to need it,” he adds.  

Available on Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/1940736765