We allow ourselves some satisfaction in knowing how to make things and fix them when they break. We know how to grow food and preserve it, and though the tomatoes in the garden down the hill might cost a king’s ransom in labor, the cost is offset by the health benefits of pushing a wheelbarrow up and down that hill. When you live on a mountain, there is no need to drive 30 miles to a gym to stay fit.
We are not Luddites, preppers, or survivalists. Technology and the “grid” that people like to pretend they’re disconnected from created the jobs that purchased the wheelbarrow – and the scratch feed our chickens use to make the “organic” fertilizer for those luxury tomatoes. We’re comfortable with, even adept at, some of the technologies we use and depend on.
When the power goes out, we know how to service the generator. We can connect a solar panel to an inverter. We build our computers instead of buying them pre-assembled. We’re loath to spend a hundred bucks on a cordless drill battery when we know how to spot-weld a replacement for a bad cell.
The point is, like many of our readers, we have collected a toolbox of knowledge and skills that make our lives and our interface with technology less fragile. There is satisfaction in the doing, and it addresses the epigenetic legacy passed down from Depression-era grandparents which reminds us of the ever-present possibility that civilized man or his government might do something stupid.
Having lived through wildfire, tornado, hurricane, blizzard, and earthquake, we’re also keenly aware that the earth can at any moment demonstrate a panniculus reflex like a cow shaking off flies, and leave us buried in the sand like Ozymandias.
It’s doubtful that much would remain of our disposable empire for future archaeologists and poets to consider should we go belly up. One badly timed belch of the sun and civilization as we know it can disappear as quickly as the hair on your arm when you light the barbecue grill. Nevertheless, though the deep history of our planet suggests that humanity has been knocked down several times, we haven’t been knocked out yet. We all fancy ourselves as being members of the lucky survivors; else we wouldn’t hoard toilet paper during pandemics.
The thin layer of technology between civilization and raw nature is more fragile than we realize, and we are more dependent on specialized knowledge most of us don’t have than at any time in our long history. When that protective layer is breached, we don’t know what to do, or how to do it. That fragility was on my mind this past weekend. We spent three days without internet service.
I don’t know what the problem was, but the aging copper lines of our regional rural last-mile internet provider are expensive to maintain, and there is no profit in replacing them. We don’t expect a company that filed for bankruptcy in 2019 and outsourced technical support to Asia to have trucks available to roll out to the boondocks on a weekend. We’re just grateful for the number of local jobs it still provides and hope the guys who drive those trucks enjoyed their time off.
There is always plenty to do without internet service, but for us, there is a catch: We have no cell service in our remote area. When the internet is down, we are cut off from the world. We don’t particularly miss that world, the one that competes for our attention every waking moment, but we do like to stay in touch with family and friends.
Disconnected life went on pretty much as usual – stuff to fix, chores to do, and in the evening hours, books to read. A dusting off of that stack of DVDs gleaned from the cheap movie bin at Walmart over the years provided more than sufficient bedtime entertainment, and we slept soundly because the cure for the sleepless internet is stuff to fix and chores to do. With no knowledge of who was lashing out and who was facing backlash, the sound and the fury of our civilization’s addiction to drama did not intrude.
Nevertheless, when bills are coming due and you can’t access your bank account, or when your mate is traveling and you can’t receive a phone call, you realize how dependent on technology vital aspects of your way of life have become, and you are uncomfortably aware of how fragile that relationship really is.
Worst of all, without access to the internet, I was unable to edit the Home Chef grocery order delivery for this week, and every meal they shipped was packed with zucchini. Someone in purchasing must have gotten a deal on it. Ah, zucchini – the “iceberg lettuce” of the cucurbits, with its delicate tasting notes of dishwater and candle wax.
None of us knows what the future holds, but as Barney Fife said of Aunt Bea’s pickles, I don’t know if I can face that future when I know there’s five servings of zucchini in it.
Outside The Box 