I’ve been working my way through the Autobiography of Mark Twain, and I can’t help but think how diminished the world is and how much poorer we all are after over 150 years of “progress” and “growth”.
Twain describes his uncle John’s farm outside of Florida, Missouri – where he was born, and where young Sam spent his summers until he was twelve or thirteen,after his family moved to Hannibal:
It was a heavenly place for a boy. that farm of my uncle John’s. The house was a double log one, with a spacious floor (roofed in) connecting it with the kitchen. In the summer the table was set in the middle of that shady and breezy floor., and the sumptuous meals – well, it makes me cry to think of them. Fried chicken; roast pig; wild and tame turkeys, ducks, and geese; venison just killed; squirrels, rabbits, pheasants, partridges, prairie chickens; home-made bacon and ham; hot biscuits, hot batter-cakes, hot buckwheat cakes, hot “wheatbread,” hot rolls, hot corn pone; fresh corn boiled on the ear, succotash, butter-beans, string beans, tomatoes, peas, Irish potatoes, sweet potatoes; buttermilk, sweet milk, “clabber;” watermelons, musk melons, canteloups – all fresh from the garden – apple pie, peach pie, pumpkin pie, apple dumplings, peach cobbler – I can’t remember the rest. The way that the things were cooked up was perhaps the main splendor. [p. 210]
People without much money were wealthy nonetheless. The household economy was rich. Folks didn’t need much money to share in the riches that surrounded them – and they had the time and the skills to make use of it. They did and made things for themselves and for their neighbors.
Twain describes a life immersed in an environment yet unspoiled, teeming with diversity and abundance:
The life which I led there with my cousins was full of charm, and so is the memory of it yet. I can call back the solemn twilight and mystery of the deep woods, the earthy smells, the faint odors of the wild flowers, the sheen of rain-washed foliage, the rattling clatter of drops when the wind shook the trees, the far-off-hammering of wood-peckers and the muffled drumming of wood-pheasants in the remotenesses of the forest, the snap-shot glimpses of disturbed wild creatures skurrying through the grass, – I can call it all back and make it as real as it ever was, and as blessed. I can call back the prairie, and its loneliness and peace, and a vast hawk hanging motionless in the sky, with his wings spread wide and the blue of the vault showing through the fringe of their end-fathers. I can see the woods in their autumn dress, the oaks purple, the hickories washed with gold, the maples and the sumachs luminous with crimson fires, and I can hear the rustle made by the fallen leaves as we plowed through them. I can see the blue clusters of wild grapes hanging amongst the foliage of the saplings, and I remember the taste of them and the smell. I know how the wild blackberries looked, and how they tasted; and the same with the pawpaws, the hazelnuts and the persimmons; and I can feel the thumping rain, upon my head, of hickory nuts and walnuts when we were out in the frosty dawns to scramble for them with the pigs, and the gusts of wind loosed them and sent them down . . . [p. 216]
That healthy, intact ecological system was the foundation of people’s wealth – wealth money could never buy and cannot ever replace.
But things were starting to go wrong, even then.
I remember the pigeon seasons, when the birds would come in millions, and cover the trees, and by their weight break down the branches. They were clubbed to death with stick; guns were not necessary, and were not used. I remember the squirrel-hunts, and prairie-chicken hunts, and wild turkey hunts, and all that; and how we turned out, mornings, while it was still dark, to go on these expeditions, and how chilly and dismal it was, and how often I regretted that I was well enough to go. [p. 218]
Passenger pigeons were once unimaginably abundant in the U.S., probably numbering 3 billion to 5 billion. The slaughter was unmerciful. The last fully authenticated record of a wild bird was in Ohio in 1900. The species officially became extinct when the last known passenger pigeon died in in captivity in 1914.
Already in 1850, and the American dream was beginning its transformation into The Air Conditioned Nightmare. We’ve spent the 160 years since exploiting and destroying the ecosystems within which we live, converting them to money which we call “wealth”.
In Lane County at this very moment, a couple of already-wealthy “developers” have begun to rip down and crush up the entirety of Parvin Butte. They bought the whole butte a couple of years ago from Union Pacific for a pittance ($360,000), immediately put it on the market for $30 million, and began destroying the forest, logging all the trees off the butte. Now they see the opportunity to turn their investment into even more millions, taking advantage of the opportunity offered by $50 million in state and federal government subsidies for the rehabilitation of the Coos Bay rail corridor which would enable them to ship their rock cheaply all the way to the coast. For the folks who actually live near Parvin Butte and in and around Dexter, it’s not a good deal at all. Their neighborhood and lives are being shot to hell, and there’s not a thing anybody can do about it. Oregon’ vaunted statewide planning program mandates that “protected” aggregate resources be made available for exploitation, just as it mandates that growth be accommodated, environment be damned. If it’s not on a list, it doesn’t exist. Except, of course, for aggregate.
When Earth’s ecosystems are degraded or destroyed, all the money in the world won’t be worth the paper it’s printed on.
Note: “Mark twain” was one of the calls sung out by the leadsman on a Mississippi paddlewheel teamboat. It meant that lead line indicated the water was 2 fathoms (12 feet) deep and safe for passage