Remember comment cards? You know — those lined pieces of cardstock set next to a locked container with a narrow opening like an old-fashioned ballot box. Oddly, even with the instant bad-experience-sharing capacity of Facebook, Twitter and Foursquare, few companies now offer customers more than a “Contact Us” link on their websites. Starbucks is one exception. On public radio’s The Story a few weeks ago, Dick Gordon interviewed a woman who has been filling out Starbucks comment cards every day for more than five years. Her coffee-related commentary evolved into relational reflections, musings on societal conundrums, even her plans for the future. Starbucks rarely replied, and only once did they forgo a form letter to address her remarks specifically.

Sherwin-Williams’ eagerness to relate to their customers is expressed in their tagline: “Ask Sherwin-Williams.” In June, I’m moving down the street and have been digitally painting my future living and dining rooms with the Sherwin-Williams Color Visualizer; Rock Bottom (#7062), Rookwood Red (#2802) and Garden Gate (#6167) are my latest favorites. And when I go to Sherwin-Williams later this summer to buy the paint, I’ll bring a few questions to ask, too, just like they say I should. For example, should I ignore my landlord’s request to NOT fill nail holes? How do you remove spilled paint from a wood floor? Also, can I come back with my dog Otis to find a color that matches him?

Then I got to thinking, what else can I ask Sherwin-Williams? For years I’ve been mulling over a variety of mysteries — maybe this is my chance to get some answers. For example, why are women still having to shave their legs with razors made only wide enough for the lower half of a man’s face? What makes someone, regardless how comely or homely, photogenic? Why do awesome things happen to sons of bitches? Also, if to live in the moment, to experience the present entirely, we must become no longer conscious of ourselves (we must let go of our self-consciousness), how do we recall having been fully present? What’s the biological basis for sentience? And finally, what dogs were let out and why must we know who did it?

Like the Starbucks comment-card writer, I may exploit the company’s invitation to interact with the brand. Still. They say, “Ask Sherwin-Williams.” And I just may — right after I buy a quart of Garden Gate.

McKinney Goes to the Farm

On Saturday, April 24, four of us toured local, sustainable farms on the 15th Annual Piedmont Farm Tour. Forty farms were open to visitors for a few hours Saturday and Sunday thanks to Carolina Farm Stewardship Association and Weaver Street Market. Rocky Reed organized the outing, I drove so we could breathe the country air without a roof over our heads, and Reid Hultman and Shaun Sundholm navigated en route. We chose to visit three farms in and around Hillsborough-it's about 30 minutes from Durham if you don't miss an exit and have to backtrack. Sorry, guys.

The first stop was Walters Unlimited at Carls-Beth Farm, where a very fit Roland Walters and his wife told us about their animals, and we listened thoughtfully.

Their grass-fed cattle abide in a rotational grazing system across the street from the farmhouse, and their chickens traipse land closer to the house, clucking in free-range fulfillment. Instead of erecting a fence to protect them, the Walters employ farm dogs. I hear the hours are long but the benefits are good.

In 2006, the Walters added goats to help control the weeds and provide another income source (once in goat heaven); eventually the goats will join the rotating cattle in the pasture, but for now they spend their days with the swine and barnyard fowl. Just days before the farm tour, brand new chickens arrived via the U.S. Postal Service; Reid, Rocky and I welcomed them in open palms.

Five very pink pigs were especially fun to watch...and, for Reid, to chase along the fence. I think they caught on and were feigning sleep as we left. Do you think they dream of flying? Next up: McAdams Farm.

If Roland Walters was thin, Howard McAdams was downright scrawny. He also has very large, straight teeth, which you can't see in the photo.

For over 120 years the McAdams family has farmed their land in Orange County. Like many North Carolina farmers, they grew tobacco until a few years ago. The three McAdams generations running the farm now have swapped out tobacco for veggies, strawberries, melons, flowers, herbs, cows and lambs. Howard bemoaned the loss of his tobacco plants (which seemed to grow no matter what), complaining about nearly microscopic threats to his new crops. "I mean, I can't even see the bugs! How can they hurt the plants if I can't see 'em?!" Hmm. I considered naming other nearly invisible but harmful things, but what do I know?

Until Saturday, I did NOT know that because nicotine is water soluble, farmers like Howard who handle the plants after a rain or heavy dew experience its effects through their skin. So, if you need a smoke but don't have a light and it's raining and you're near a tobacco field, just strip, drop and roll. Then check for ticks.

Our last farm was Coon Rock set on 55 acres along the Eno River and comprising row after long row of heirloom vegetables.

You may have read about this farm in The New York Times. What the article didn't reveal was the Coon Rock pigs, some of whom were sealing a new pond during our visit Saturday. It turns out they do it naturally: the shape of a pig's hoof (and the poundage behind it) packs the soil tight.

We're looking forward to eating one of those pigs and other Coon Rock yield at the restaurant farmer Richard Holcolm, his partner Jamie DeMent and chef Marco Shaw are opening near the McKinney office, which was described by The New York Times columnist as "a farm stand with a wine list." In the meantime, I used the Andouille sausage I purchased at the farm in a Portuguese green soup.

I first met The Travelocity Roaming Gnome in print and online ads while preparing for my first interview in the advertising industry with McKinney. You see, I haven't had a TV for 10 years, so I had not heard the Gnome's voice-that enthusiastic, almost juvenile squawk. And our eyes had locked only briefly through a banner ad or a newspaper insert. But that was eight months ago. Now I see Mr. Gnome every day.

McKinneyites' pride and affection for the little man in the blue coat, black boots and red hat are evident in his presence around the office. He's on bookshelves, desks, floors, coffee mugs and computer monitors.

He's hanging in a string of lights and blown up on a plastic bag.

I cannot get a cup of coffee or use the restroom without meeting his steadfast gaze.

But the Gnome's pensive look camouflages an adventurous, social spirit. Even with his hands perpetually in blue pockets, he embraces new cultures, sports and cuisines. He has danced in a grass skirt, jumped off a cliff and been submerged in crushed ice on a seafood buffet. Having been dragged behind a horse and to the marriage altar, the Gnome inspires others to get out and do what there is to get out and do.

The sound of his voice, though not often heard, carries a raspy falsetto tone and a peculiar European accent. To my ears it rings metropolitan, which is unusual for someone who originated in a garden and who, like me, appreciates the outdoors. However, the Gnome is also technologically savvy, spending much of his time lately on Chatroulette. My TV-less life is hardly unplugged, so I value this online acumen.

I also dig his look: few modern men accessorize as tastefully as the Gnome, who always dons a hat and belts his coat. And though some women dislike oodles of facial hair, I find the Gnome's clean, white beard dashing. He keeps it nicely trimmed, never allowing it to fall below his gold belt buckle.

So. If you haven't already guessed, I have a little crush on the Gnome. It is my burden to bear - spending hours every week around a man attached physically to a mound and matrimonially to a Playboy Bunny. However, the perks of working at McKinney far offset this emotional weight I carry. For now.

(Mr. Gnome, if the Bunny doesn't pan out, let me know.)