Just a Medium

Stubborn

On Friday I flew down to NYC for Book Expo America, where my publisher had arranged to have me sign advance copies of Home Grown. The flight down was horrifying; the turbulence of the sort that brings all conversation to a halt, and the cabin was eerie-quiet as the plane shuffled, dropped, tilted and shuddered like an airborne drunk. Well, I thought to myself as I imagined my boys trying to make their way in this cold, hard world without the steady guidance of their father (I wasn’t worried about Penny in the least; if anyone can look after herself, it’s that woman), at least I’ve had a few halfway decent years. And then, absurdly, at least I got to go swimming this morning. Sometimes it really is the little things.

Obviously, I did not die and so commenced to pass 24 hours in the throbbing heart of Manhattan, strolling the streets in my spare time which, since I was only needed at the Expo for approximately 90-minutes, was extensive. Midtown, hightown, lowtown, sidetown and so on; I saw them all, though to my untrained eye they all looked pretty much the same. The crush of humanity, concrete, and hucksterism was something to behold, and I have to admit I sort of enjoyed it, though I was mighty fearful of getting lost. The first time I saw a Starbucks – just a block from my hotel – I thought ah, good, if I get lost I can just ask where the Starbucks is, since everyone must know where the Starbucks is. But by the time I’d walked another three blocks, I’d seen two more Starbucks’. It was as if there was a virus that caused buildings to break out in green-and-white logos and furthermore, compelled the English-speaking people who entered these buildings to order complicated drinks in sizes like “grande” and “venti.” When I asked for a medium coffee in one of these infected buildings, the counterwoman (excuse me: “barista”) looked at me as if I were insane. “You mean a grande?” she asked. “No,” I said. “Just a medium.” I’m still not sure what size I actually got.

I find it fascinating to consider how one’s environment shapes one’s world view, and I wondered how my life might be different if I lived in a place where I could pass entire weeks, if not months, without walking on grass. Without silence. Without  birdsong. Where there are more Starbucks’ than cows. Where the incitements to buy – from the storefronts, to the neon billboards of Times Square, to the cornermen hawking sightseeing tours, to the constant crush of SUVs (what does one do with an SUV in Manhattan, anyway? I mean, other than try to find a place to park it) – were omnipresent. How might these influences shape my life? Surely as profoundly as the influences that have shaped my life. Surely as profoundly as the fact that I begin every morning in the presence of grass and birdsong and cows. Surely as profoundly as the fact that if I walked into the Cabot village store and asked for a venti half-caf soymilk macchiato (I don’t know what a macchiato is, but it sounds interesting), we’d probably have to move for all the ridicule we’d suffer.

Cities are full of many fine and interesting people, never mind all the things fine and interesting people bring to bear. Art and food and ideas and so on. Good stuff, or so I’m told. I’m not quite so smug and self-satisfied as to think the way we live is inherently superior to how cityfolk live, or that we stand on some higher moral ground just because we don’t drink ridiculous coffee concoctions. Furthermore, I’m all too aware of the lack of diversity in my hometown and state.

(As a brief aside, on my flight home, I had the great pleasure of sitting next to a fellow who’d grown up in what he called “the ‘hood” in Chicago and now makes a good living as a sales rep in the wine industry. He was obviously well off and told me what it’s like to be the only black person living in an affluent white neighborhood in Miami, all the little tricks he employs on a day-in, day-out basis – like rattling his keys when he’s coming up on someone so he doesn’t frighten them – to be sure he doesn’t run afoul of his neighbors and, subsequently, the law. He was totally down with the unschooling thing, although he reminded me that where he came from, a schooled education was pretty much the only ticket out. “My mom made damn sure we went to school,” he told me)

But by gum, by the time I landed in Vermont, almost precisely 24 hours since I’d taken off, I was some ready to be home. I was ready to drive home to my family, slip into bed, and fall into a sleep that would be uninterrupted by the clamor of the city. In the morning, I’d awaken to the soft sounds of our little farm and I’d walk down the field through the wet grass to find a Pip’s new bull calf enjoying a grande decaf colostriato.

I’d be sixty miles from the nearest Starbucks. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if it were even further.