Beyond the yellow brick road...

The eight acres where I grew up had three distinct landmarks: The Grove, The Meadow, and The River. The Grove was a lush stand of deciduous tree life sprung from a carpet of feathery fern fronds. We picnicked there. Treeless, The Meadow stretched over six acres of natural prairie grasses and wildflowers. In early spring native asparagus grew at its border. In summer the sweetness of wild strawberries lured us to comb its bounty for those juicy mouthfuls. The Mississippi River ran the length of the property line to the south. Like a living thing, its constant motion and ever-changing face thrilled us through childhood. Those places anchored us. The land supported us.

At first there was a small garden behind the house. As years passed it grew into an acre of raspberries, several beehives, and prolific apple trees. An enormous vegetable plot provided massive amounts of organic produce that we ate, canned, froze, and preserved for long winter months. Planting defined spring; canning defined fall.

In addition to the eight acres near town, we also had a 300 acre farm 30 miles away. When my friends were going with their families on summer vacations I was going with my family to The Farm. Haying defined summer. After weeks of mowing the hay, raking it into windrows, converting it into tight, 100 pound bales, and hoisting them from the field onto the hay wagon, our arms were strong and our faces were freckled and tan.

As the chill and long darkness of winter settled upon our acres, we rested. The pantry was stocked with row upon row of gleaming jars of honey gold, carrot orange, bean green, pickled beet burgundy, and apple red. Packed to the lid, the mammoth chest freezer housed raspberries, corn on the cob, venison (from The Farm,) and fish (from The River).

My family’s self-sufficient lifestyle was the norm for many not that long ago. Now I have about a week’s supply of food in the fridge. The grocery stores in my city could feed the population for about three days if suddenly the trucks stopped coming. I’ve heard it said that, as a culture, we are about 72 hours away from starvation.

Maybe for this generation, the twenty and thirty something’s, it is hard to picture a simpler life. All they have known is an oil dependent existence. Addictions are hard to break and we are addicted to the oil rich life. But I am here to tell you that there is another way. It is kinder, gentler, a way of being in the world that cooperates with the changing seasons, integrates life with earth and sky, and is sustainable. I’m thinking of the words from the Elton John song:

“So goodbye yellow brick road
Where the dogs of society howl
You can't plant me in your penthouse
I'm going back to my plough

Back to the howling old owl in the woods
Hunting the horny back toad
Oh I've finally decided my future lies
Beyond the yellow brick road”