I sometimes post rants on here. Not as often as I once did, and I try not keep them infrequent.
An internet friend wrote recently that she knows writing is good when, after she reads it, she finds herself wishing she’d written it.
I came across a self-described rant on the Saddleback Mountain Farm blog a couple of days ago. After reading it, I found myself thinking that if I was going to rant, this would be a good one. I recommend you check out the blog, which I’ve linked. But here is the “rant”:
The great American tragedy, Gene, is the fact that the farms you describe here (“genuine, small working farms with livestock and chickens, fields and barns, gardens, an orchard, a strawberry patch, the 1950s-era farms that many of us grew up on”) have disappeared to become mere museums pieces. That plus the accompanying fact that so few Americans care about their disappearance or even think about it.
But why should they? They have malls and double-wides and 10,000 Dunkin’ Donuts. They have green beans in cans for 69 cents. They have widescreen TVs in every room and double-wide asses to lounge on as they watch.
The art and craft of traditional small-scale farming? It’s inherent healthfulness and direct connection to actual food? Its eternal dance with earth and land and the four seasons?
But of course. Who cares about such trivialities when you can Twitter every five seconds. And biggy-size ad nauseum. When you can thrill on the thought of facebooking on Mars.
Maybe even be first!
Facebooking on Mars!