I’m not used to being invisible.  It’s true that I’m happy to go for days on end seeing no people.  It’s true that social contact takes a lot of energy for me to muster.  But it’s also true that, when I am seated in a room with people, I expect to be seen and acknowledged.  

The economic development consultant hired by the county is 30 minutes late for the Young Entrepreneurs’ focus group meeting.  Apparently the county officials who organized it told the entrepreneurs 10am.  They told the consultant 10:30.  Ryan McGiver (Scrumpy Ewe Cider) and I are the only people in the room.  But when the consultant walks in, he gazes briefly in my direction, then locks eyes with Ryan.   And they start.  

At first, I don’t blame the guy.  Ryan has a lot to say, and his Irish is flaring over the time mix-up, and he commands attention.  But then a minute ticks by.  And another.  And another.  And another.

And I begin to wonder if the guy even knows that I was asked to attend as an entrepreneur, or if he thinks I’m there as Ryan’s partner….Or perhaps just personnel from the library on hand to make sure the lights are on?  Or maybe, truly, in this room of three people, I’m invisible.

Suddenly, I’m seeing the world through Mom’s eyes.  She worked as an economic developer for Schoharie County for over twenty years.  She used to tell me stories about sitting in rooms with men, about feeling invisible, like what she had to say didn’t count.  To fight it, she learned to be tough:  to speak bluntly, to raise her voice, to call out bullshit as fast as she saw it.  

The ghosts of her past are suddenly here in this room.  I’ve worked hard to get this morning off:  I pushed to finish homeschool early, cut back my morning work schedule, re-worked my afternoon schedule.  This consultant has been hired by Schoharie County government to develop a comprehensive economic development strategy, and as a business owner, this is my chance to have some input.  

I listen to the discussion a little longer, waiting for my opportunity to speak, or at least introduce myself. Mom is back at the farm today, but I hear her in my head.  It isn’t gonna come.  This is the culture she confronted as a professional woman in this rural county.  Apparently, not much has changed since she walked away from it.  Finally, I thrust my hand across the table at him.

“We haven’t met yet,”  my voice is low, and my own Irish is now wrapping around each word and lashing out my eyes, calling attention to myself while thinly veiling my annoyance.  “I’m Shannon Hayes.  I’m the CFO for Sap Bush Holllow Farm.  We’re a three-generation family farm, and we also run a farm-to-table cafe and espresso bar.  Our business turns 40 next year.  I hold a Ph.D. in sustainable ag & community development from Cornell, and I’ve written six books.  I run my family’s business because I’m passionate about integrating my research with real life.”  

He stares at me for a second while I catch my breath.  Never, in the course of my career, have I felt the need to hurl my credentials across a table in order to be brought into a conversation.  Justin from Green Wolf Brewing Company enters the room and sits down, and the consultant makes the decision to back up and start over.  He introduces himself, and explains why we were invited to this focus group.  

“I was hired to write this plan,” he says, “and in my discussions with county government, I was told ‘there’s not a lot going on here’ in terms of a local economy.  So I told them they needed to find me the young entrepreneurs, folks in their 30s, 40s, and 50s.  Very often those folks are on the fringe, but they’re usually doing really neat stuff.”

Bob and I have invested 300,000 dollars into our town in the last three years.  We’ve invested our lives in our family’s farm.  I don’t think of what we’re doing as neat.  I think of it as hugely important. But never mind that.  The meeting charges forward.  There’s now only 20 minutes left in our alloted time, and they need to count.  

Ryan, Justin and I race through the obstacles we confront as business owners.  We spend a lot of time sharing resources and stories on our own, so we’re pretty tuned in to our common needs.  The information comes fast, along with sporadic jokes about our respective low incomes.  Finally, the consultant interrupts us.

“You mention the low incomes.  Let’s talk about that.  I mean, is it even worth going into business here if you can’t earn a decent living?”

Justin and Ryan are quiet.  It’s my turn.  I lean forward and lock eyes with him.  “Net income is only a tiny part of the picture,” I start.  He cocks his head, waiting for me to clarify.  “Where did you drink your coffee this morning?”

He shrugs, unsure what that question has to do with anything.

“I drank mine along the edge of Mallet Pond, with my husband, midway through our morning hike up in the state land.  I have an eleven-year-old daughter who just aced her state exams after I had doctors tell me she may never learn to read, write, or ride a bike.  She’s home riding her bike.  And she’s doing it because I had the freedom with my family’s business to teach her every day.  I have a fourteen-year-old daughter who dreams of taking over my cafe.  I eat well, I’m really healthy, and I love my life.”  He seems puzzled why these things would matter.  “My income may be low, but I estimate that the quality of life I garner as a result of working for myself would require well over a six figure income in order to maintain in this economy.”

But I think I lost him.  I’m not sure if it was the actual low dollar figure of my earnings, or the fact that I admitted to being a home-schooler.  He makes a perfunctory note on his paper and we moved on. 

Shortly after, while discussing local water regulations, Justin mentions his wife Tracy’s struggle with them in her own business.  I turn and look at him.  “Where is Tracy?”  I ask.  “She should be here!”

“Who?”  The consultant asks.

“Tracy Manning, from The Country Classroom.  She should be in this group with us.”  I’m assuming Tracy is still teaching, but stil, she should have been invited to this gathering. Justin offers the consultant a quick summary of Tracy’s affordable private alternative school.   “She’s running a business that makes young families want to stay in this county,” I point out.  “You.  Need. To. Talk. To her.”

Shortly after, I need to leave when Bob pulls in from his errands.  I have a meatloaf in the oven, and Bob and I promised the girls we’d be home by noon to have lunch with them.  Still trying to function in this alien world my mother once knew, I instinctively don’t mention my reason for my departure.  I don’t expect this man to understand how a woman who insists on being home by noon to have meatloaf with her kids might have necessary insights for the creation of a county-wide economic development strategy.  

But on my way home, I realize that’s the point.    Meatloaf at noon should be exactly what a county-wide economic development strategy should be considering.  Everyone should have a chance on a summery afternoon to sit down with their kids for a leisurely mid-day meal.  Life should be good.  It should be fullfilling.  It should be delicious.  That’s how a community survives in perpetuity.  

And I think about how many other people I know who have small businesses in the county, who should be consulted for this plan.

Most of them are women.  There’s Rebecca Brown, owner of Schoharie Valley Pilates, who manages to coax us crusty mountain folk out every Wednesday night to fill up a barn for yoga classes, and who is a founding director of West Fulton Arts, dedicated to helping local families have affordable access to the arts .  There’s Cornelia McGiver, owner of Panther Creek Arts, who bought up our old church hall and restored it as a venue for local food and music.  There’s Erin Ethier over in Richmondville, owner of Earthly Remedies by Erin, who’s herbal tick spray coats my skin every time I walk off into the woods.  Erin’s products are in nearly every independently-owned shop for a sixty-mile radius.   There’s Carrie down the hill at Black Willow Pond Farm, a single mom running a business while she raises her sons.  

Those are just a few of the folks who come to mind.  Then add to that my friends who often tell me how they dream of running businesses of their own here.  They pine for the creative challenge and the autonomy that lets them call the shots and pay attention to the things that matter most to them.   “You don’t face a glass ceiling, and your kids get to be part of it all” my sister-in-law, Erin, often tells me.  She has a corporate job in Albany, and would willingly throw it away in a heartbeat to run a business here. 

 Entrepreurship is a woman’s chance to truly have it all.  We don’t face glass ceilings, and as business owners, we build lives that center around the things that matter to us:  families, children, good food, joyful living.  But there’s more happening.  Entrepreneurship is our chance to re-write the economy so that it makes sense: so that marriages work, so that kids have viable futures, so that the soil gets richer and the water gets cleaner. 

But these women-owned ventures are tiny.  We’re not newsworthy.  We aren’t good prospects for big government grants.  We don’t aim to create 100 jobs, flatten mountaintops,  build factories, pollute the water supply, create fortune 500 companies, or to turn Schoharie County into a suburban bedroom community.  Instead, we’re creating a vibrant economic and social life that brings joy, creates stability, nourishes our soils and creative life, and gives the next generation a reason to dream of making Schoharie County their forever home.  I feel like this economic development initiative is looking for tall trees, and yet there are dozens of tiny women-owned businesses here that make up the understory.  And while tall trees define the landscape on a grand scale, its the understory that works the soil and secures their roots.  And then, before you know it, that understory grow up to become the next glorious canopy. 

Will these tiny, seemingly insignificant businesses find their way into our county government’s comprehensive plan?  I hope so.  Because like me, I don’t think these women take well to being invisible.