The Way It Could Be.
15.1.07
Part 3 of 12.
Day 1: Late Afternoon
After making tea they carried two
trays down the veranda steps and some way into the garden where Jan and Pete
set out the cups and biscuits on a tree stump table encircled by seats made
from billets sawn from the tree trunk, all under a low canopy of vines. Mike hadn’t noticed this spot before
although he knew he would have passed it a few times now. It was like a little nest tucked into
the shrubs. Not far always were
water plants jutting from large tubs, an ornamental wheelbarrow overflowing
with cacti, and pumpkin vines tumbling down over a fence.
“This would be a great spot in summer,” Mike said. “Must be really cool
under the vines.”
“Sure is. We tend to go to
different spots in the garden for tea in different seasons.”
“Thank God for the seasons,” said Gran. “I love the passage of the seasons. Each one lasts just long enough so
I’m not tired of the last one but I’m looking forward to the next. When you live close to the ground, in
your garden a lot and dependent on the rain and the temperature, you notice a
lot and you look forward to such very different things as the seasons
change. The first spring vegetable
seeds shooting, how will the new peach grafts go, watching chickens hatch, the
first strawberries, the first pumpkin pie, when the gum trees get their new
suits of clothes in summer. Have
you noticed how their tops thicken up with all the new glossy leaves? I love the red and the gold in gum
leaves from a distance then. When
I paint them I need red and chrome yellow in my palette.”
Pete said, “For me, winter’s
the best. Collecting and cutting firewood, preparing garden beds, making sure
the animals are warm, seeing how the bottled fruits taste, and at night,
bringing in an armful of wood, the sewing and painting beside the fire, and
sitting down to a plate of steamed vegies – best dinner anyone ever had, and
about the cheapest. No king ever
ate better than we do. Of course best if you can hear a gale outside or gentle
rain on the roof. Cosy and safe,
all tucked up in my little nest.”
Jan’s turn; “Autumn for
me. Quiet, gentle golden days
after Summer’s fierceness. Butcher
birds playing their flutes. And
the possums on the roof with their heavy boots, and when the flying foxes
stream overhead in their thousands, and the deafening roar of ten billion frogs
after heavy rain. Best of all are the harvest jobs, the bottling, drying,
putting away, saving seeds, pasting the labels on. Stocking the pantry with treasure we made.”
Pete said, “I like working
the bee hives before they’re too full of honey in the summer, or half your bees
will buzz off to somewhere else because there’s not enough room in the
hive. Ever seen them swarming? A frightening roaring. But Gran’s right; all the seasons bring
their special delights. Summers are for mud brick making too; they dry
quicker. Winter is tea and scones
at Tom’s pot belly, or in Don’s foundry near the forge. “
Jan said, “Sometimes when
the wind and the rain are at their wildest we rug up and go for a walk up to
the bluff, just to get buffeted around and a bit cold and wet. Refreshes your appreciation of nature’s
power and your fragility. Feel the power of the wind and how small you are, and
oh boy does a log fire ever feel so good as when you get back, and the thought
of that soft warm bed to crawl into later. It’s a mistake to be very distant from nature; you forget
your dependence and insignificance.
We cut wood late on winter afternoons, to get warm. Its nice to think you’re organizing the
fire you’ll soon enjoy. You feel
independent -- I can manage this. I can provide for myself, I can swing this
axe, I got the logs in months ago, I’m using up fallen branches. All is well.”
Pete turned to Mike, “Can
you figure out why we never travel?
We don’t go away for holidays.
Always heaps of enjoyable things to do here.”
“We’re earth-bound. That’s what’s wrong with your
people. You have lost your earth
bonding,” Gran said.
“What do you mean?”
“How do you feel about your
place of living. Do you feel
attached, bonded to it ?”
Mike smiled. “I feel its value is rising about $100
a week and when we sell we’ll have made a neat little capital gain for
nothing. But I assume that’s not
quite what you were getting at.”
“Well, in a way it is I
guess. People where you come from see their house as a commodity. We don’t see Amy as a commodity. We aren’t growing her up to sell some
day.”
“Really?”
“We’re bonded to Amy aren’t
we? Well we’re also emotionally
tied to our place, not just this house, but this community and this region and
this geography lwith all its moods and gifts, and crankiness at times. I could never leave it. It’s my place. That doesn’t mean I own it. It means I belong here. I’m attached. I know it. I’m
familiar with its ways, what it gives, the problems it sets, how to live with
it.”
“Isn’t it a problem if you
feel tied? Then you can ‘t
leave. Most people want to escape
ties. They value the freedom to
move and do other things.”
“Well people here can always
move if they want to, but in general people need roots, a place to come home
to. You need bonds, ties,
relationships. Bonds are not necessarily bad and restrictive. We have a bond with Amy and that’s
nice. Mind you its not that you
always get on with the land you belong to. Ours can be cantankerous. Too little rain in summer. Sends our whole year’s supply of wind in August. Almost
impossible to grow grapes and figs here, would you believe? And the iron in the wetland water
deposits in our pumps and valves and we are for ever having to de-clog
them. It’s a bit like family, they
get on your nerves at times, but they’re yours. You have attachments you couldn’t break evenif you wanted
to.”
Gran said, “Earth bonding is
crucial if the environment is going to be saved, and that’s why I fear that it
won’t be. People will not do the
right thing unless they feel emotionally attached to the land, and grateful for
it and want to protect it and want it to thrive. Do you get a thrill when you see rich soil, and plants
growing well? We do. I fear things like that only happens
when you are dependent on your locality and when you’ve been there for a long
time and have become emotionally attached to it.”
“Yes and all that makes me
despair too,” said Jan. “City
people can’t really be expected to understand any of this, not when they feel
no dependence on the land. They
sell their house and move every five years.” Then she said, “What have you got lined up before dinner Pete?”
“We’ll see Harry in about half an hour.”
“Then how about we take Mike into the vege garden for a quick look
around?”
“Ah, yes, good idea. It’s
one of our most sacred sites.
Leave the cups, we’ll clear them up later.”
Jan and Pete ducked down to move through a veil of vines and branches in
a new direction and Mike found himself going a few metres down a winding path
that he had no idea existed although it was right beside the house. They burst out of the foliage into a
large open patch crammed with many rows of vegetables, stakes with tomatoes
tied to them, high tripods for climbing beans, some freshly dug beds, and on
the far side pumpkin vines scrambling up over a fence and a shed. To the left was an ornate orange mud
brick garden shed and a little further over a greenhouse with a rose climbing
all over the roof, with shallow ponds in front of it. On the right was a low shade house so full of plants, pots
and trays that the path was almost too narrow to navigate. Beside it was a potting bench with a
heap of empty pots underneath and a shovel stuck in a bin of soil. In the middle of the area was a small
circular stone pavement with two ornamental benches and here and there were
ornamental pots, some large ones containing water plants. From some of the pots bamboo jutted skywards. Here and there were patches of flowers
in bloom.
“This is the neat half. We
try to keep this nice and tidy.
But see over there beyond the fence, that’s where we do it the scruffy
way. We have three chicken pens
there and we rotate the girls so they can feast on all the weeds and old vege
plants, while they clean up and fertilise that ground, so we can move them out
and plant more veges before long. We use those pens for the bulky and messy
crops, like pumpkins.”
Mike looked down at a tray of seedlings, a trowel and a half planted row
where chicken manure had obviously been dug in. Gran saw his gaze and said, “I was just getting the first
broccoli in when you came back. I
might be a bit too early but it’s a new variety and we thought we’d try them
before the others go in. Garden
committee is alwqays looking for varieties that will extend the growing
season. Excuse me but I’d better
give these a sprinkle while I’m here.
She moved across to a group of taps on a stand pipe, turned one and five
low sprinklers started up.
“Are you a keen gardener Michael?” Gran asked.
“Not really,” Mike said. “I
don’t get home until dark most days. Actually I must be honest, the only thing
I know about vegetables is where to find them in the supermarket.”
“What a shame!” said Gran.
“That’s like saying you don’t have time to eat. Gardening is such a delight for
us. That’s why Pete referred to
this as a sacred site. It’s so
good to get things to grow well, to know you can do it, to have things well
organised, with seedlings coming on in time to replace the plants you are
harvesting, you know, so that you have just enough tomatoes all the time.”
“And look at the landscape we have created,” said Jan. “We often come
and sit on the benches just to soak it up.”
“It’s a really nice spot,” said Mike. “What’s in the boxes?”
“Compost heaps. The kitchen scraps and poultry manures go in there.
Although some of the kitchen waste goes to the chickens, along with weeds and
old stalks from the garden. Just throw them over the fence. The variety is good for their diet.”
“What about snails and slugs? There is so much moist mulch around you’d
think they would thrive.”
“No garden ever has too many snails Mike.”
“Do you mean you like them?”
“No, I mean if there is a problem it’s not too many snails, but not
enough ducks. Look there, see that
little door, from the poultry pen into the pond. That’s a duck valve.
When we open that the ducks can come out across the water and have a
great time hunting for snails and slugs, but the chickens won’t cross the
water. We don’t want them in here
because they would scratch everything to bits.”
Jan had been wandering around holding the edge of her apron to form a
basket, now half full of bits and pieces. “For tea tonight,” she said.
“Hey economist,” Pete said, “explain this”, sweeping his arms across the
scene. “Ya can’t can ya?”
Mike looked at him blankly.
“Your economic theory totally fails to give a satisfactory account of
things like this. This is a highly
productive site, but there’s no work done here at all. Nothing is done for money, let alone
profit. There are no purchased
inputs, no fertilizers or pesticides.
The produce isn’t sold so it’s got no value has it. It’s exchanged not sold, its given
away, or we eat it. There’s a lot
of investment here, but no money invested, only time and energy. Above all it’s a sacred site; its very
valuable, in spiritual terms. It
inspires. The most important thing
it produces is good feelings. Do
you think you can put a dollar value on that. Then there’s the good tucker, far better quality than in
your supermarket.”
“Subtract labour cost though,” said Mike.
“No, add that to the benefit column. Healthy exercise, and the highest quality leisure time we’d
pay a lot of dollars for if we had to.
See, totally confused aren’t you.
Well serves you economists right for thinking a calculus that takes in
only dollar costs and benefits can make sense of the real world.”
Gran had been circling waiting for her chance to pounce. “And you economists
have gone around the planet getting rid of subsistence production and small
farms. You have condemned them as
inferior and inefficient and you have forced millions of tribes people and
peasants to abandon subsistence.
You have eliminated small farms, where little people can enjoy their
calling. You have told them the
only way to produce food is within the market system, where you can calculate
costs and benefits and efficiency properly, in dollar terms. That’s as sensible as claiming you can
assess the value of your children in dollar terms.”
“And you do it with everything else,” aaid Jan. “You ignore and destroy and eliminate
community, social support, social capital, cohesion, care and traditions and
ecosystems simply because you insist on attending only to the dollar value of
things. If it has no dollar value
then it has no value at all.”
As they walked back into the
kitchen Jan came in and a thought struck Mike.
“By the way Jan I meant to
ask you, where’s the fridge?”
“We don’t have a fridge. Some people do but we don’t need one.”
“How come?”
“We don’t need to store
things for long. Most of our
perishable food comes straight from our garden or a farm nearby to the table.
If I want particular veggies or fruit someone close by will have them.”
“What about ice cream?”
“We don’t eat things that
need a freezer. But we do have a
big cooler. Come and see.”
The walk-in pantry was roof
to floor open shelves stacked with bottles and bags, many with hand printed
labels. At the end was a tall cabinet. Jan opened the door to reveal something
like a big fridge, with jardineers, vegetables and fruit on the bottom shelves
and bottles, and screw-top containers on the top.
“Put your hand in. It’s a Koolgardie safe. See the walls are heavy bagging kept
wet from a water tray there at the bottom, and its set up in an air draft
that’s pulled up all the time by the solar panels on the roof. The air moving past the bagging
evaporates moisture and takes heat out.
Not as cold as a fridge of course but it’s all we need for leafy
veggies, fruit, even milk. No need
for big expensive fridge to put them in.
Pete and I made this one but you can buy them cheaply from the fridge
factory. They’ll help you build one in if you like.”
“But vegies would last longer
in a fridge, wouldn’t they?”
“Yes but like I said, we
don’t need to store things for long here. This is quite good enough for our
purposes.”
“But its not as good is it?”
“Where you come from Mike there is no concept of sufficient
or good-enough. People want the
best, not what will do. Here
people are much more likely to be satisfied with things that will do the job
well enough. Take our couch for
example. Do you think its
uncomfortable? It’s OK to sit on
isn’t it? The original covering is
pretty shredded now, which is not surprising because Gran got it about fifty
years ago. So we just drape those
shawls and table cloths over it.
We’ll recover it some day, when we run out of higher priorities. It’s quite good enough for us. The house is more than good
enough. I love it. In fact it is far too luxurious for
us.”
“Really.” What would Eleanor be
thinking now?
“It’s too big. We don’t need all this space. I’ve heard that more than one million
people in Calcutta sleep on the pavements. And here I even have a special room with a hot shower in it. You know I sometimes think the most fabulously luxurious
thing I have is the shower…to be able to stagger in grimy after a day’s work in
winter, and slosh off so comfortably and warm.”
“Eleanor doesn’t like
showers. She’ll fill the bath and soak for hours.”
Jan winced. “Oh no. All that water.
We don’t have a bath. I
mean, we only have a shower, and we never stay in it more than two
minutes. It’s for rapid clean up,
not therapy. Baths waste so much
heat and water – such scarce things.
We reuse the water of course, but you can’t reuse the energy. Mind you it comes from our rooftop
solar panels, but sometimes we run out and have to use backup, so we keep our
use down.”
“I’ll admit it’s…homey. I can imagine some great dinners have
been produced in this kitchen over the years, with all this equipment.” He gestured up to the hanging pots and
pans.
“We sure do. The kitchen is the centre of our world
in the Glen. Most people have bit
kitchens that are really eating areas too, so in winter people can cram around
the fire. It’s alight all day in
winter. See the water jacket. When
someone drops in we can make a cuppa instantly.” The kitchen is where most of the important work in the world
is done, not just the cooking and the eating and living, but the discussing,
the problem solving, the homework, the games, the flute practice, the rest and
recreation, the bringing of others up to speed on current affairs. It’s where we work and play together
and get bound together and feel good.
It’s where visitors are always dropping in for a chat. It’s where Gran produces about three
tonnes or irresistible scones each year.
We see the household as the most important sector of the economy, when
you include the gardens and sheds and the hobbies and the nucleus of it all is
the kitchen. Whose got the most
valuable skills in the Glen? The
grandmas of course. They can
create baked dinners and steamed puddings.”
“To be brutally honest,
Eleanor would think the house was…lets say... a little too austere. She’d have it painted. Actually she’d have it KDR’d.”
“I can understand that. Most people where you come from would
see it as very drab. But it’s
quite good enough for us. It
doesn’t need repainting. We like
things that are rough but honest, used, old, and especially
resource-cheap. I see them as
attractive – they’re the kinds of things I want around me. I don’t like new, slick, well painted
things, mainly I think because I know they’re morally problematic. If we
painted this wall we’d be using scarce resources. It would be immoral to paint it.”
“Immoral?”
“Yes. If we painted it we’d be using up
resources that someone else in great need then couldn’t use, could they?”
“But if you pay for them
then they’re yours. You have the
right to them.”
“So if I bought the Mona
Lisa would I have the right to burn it?
Using things up is a problem;, whether you think they are yours or
not. It’s a zero-sum game; if you
use them someone else can’t. Rich people use most resources, so poor people
don’t get many because the one billion people in rich countries insist on
having their resource-intensive lifestyles, especially their mansions, that
means most people on earth can’t get necessities. The less I contribute to that the better. Anyway, what was that you said, Eleanor
would have this house KDR’d; what’s that?”
Mike could have kicked
himself. “Hmm, oh, never mind.”
“No, come on, what is
it. Some sort of make-over?”
“Ah, well, yes, yes you
could say that.”
“Well. What kind? Do I have to beat it out of you?”
“Well, actually, KDR stands
for knock down and rebuild.”
Silence. Mutually embarrassing silence.
“Eleanor likes beautiful
things.”
“Well so do I. Look at Pete’s beautiful old boots
there, works of art, tough, battered, hard working, noble. And look at the beautiful old boot box
they’re sitting on, made from fence palings, maybe ten years ago. Don’t you think it’s a delight. Wouldn’t Eleanor see them as
beautiful?”
…
“It’s obviously a question of
what you have come to see as beautiful or desirable or admirable isn’t it? When you know something about the
global situation and resource scarcity you’re not so inclined to identify as
beautiful anything that’s luxurious or expensive. In fact in general I see such things as quite disgusting,
ugly, disturbing, at best crass and callous, at worst murderous.”
“Isn’t that a bit
extreme. Bad taste I might accept,
but murder?”
Jan’s temperature was
clearly up a notch.
“Mike, affluence is the
biggest problem, the fundamental mistake.
It kills millions of people every year. It’s because one billion rich take most of the world’s
resources that maybe three or four billion live in dreadfully deprived
conditions, and many of them don’t get enough to survive on. Its totally impossible for all to live
as affluently as you do, so you can live that way only if many are deprived of
their fair share. Rich world taken
for granted living standards directly kill large numbers of people every
day. So they’re murderous, aren’t
they?”
…
“What would Eleanor say
about our loo, an old cistern with a chain?”
“Hmm. It could be that she’d see that as so
far out that it’s back in again. I
mean that might be regarded as trendy, as an antique -- No, on second thoughts,
it would have to go.”
“…and be replaced by a
stylish plastic cistern with flimsy plastic fittings that gum up, crack and/or
warp in a few years, meaning an expensive plumber has to come in and fix or
replace it. Our’s is about sixty
years old, and is indestructible, apart from a couple of washers we cut from
old car tube. Brass fittings you
see, last forever. Triumph! We can keep our things going. We don’t have to go to the supermarket
much. Look at my clothes; they are all old aren’t they. Look, darning at the
elbow. But they are perfectly
satisfactory aren’t they? I suffer
no deprivation wearing them do I?
I delight in old, cheap simple things, as a repudiation of consumer way,
an assertion of contemptuous rejection, a stand against the mindless newness
and niceness and waste that’s consumer society’s obsession.”
“That’s black to white isn’t
it; that’s the complete opposite of how most people think. They want ‘nice’ things. Shabby, cheap old things are not
‘nice”.
“Precisely! And what does ‘nice’ mean? It means expensive, luxurious.”
“Not just that though.”
“Housing is a good
example. A normal nice house where
you come from is just far more expensive than the ones we’re content with. Your people want luxury. They don’t want what’s good enough. They buy Home Beautiful magazine and
drool at the opulence. They envy
the houses of the super-rich. If
they ever qualify for a home loan what do they go for…a nice little good-enough
mud brick cottage? No fear. They want palaces. They want a ‘nice’ house,
one that costs at least 20 times
as much as a good enough house…while maybe one billion people live under leaky
palm frond roofs or in huts made from stones that will kill them when the next
earthquake comes, or on the pavements or in deltas where the next flood will
sweep their flimsy hut away. Mike,
I believe most of the world’s problems are due to that disgusting four letter
word ’nice’.”
…
“What would Eleanor say to
that outburst?”
Mike leaned back, gazing at
the floor. “I’d say Eleanor, and
the other two to three hundred million like her, have never thought about
it. They’d be staggered at
the suggestion that there’s some connection between global injustice and their
housing standards. She’d see nice
as…a matter of normal, respectable living standards. She’d see this house as…to be honest…inferior, maybe
primitive…actually intolerable really.
Sorry, if that upsets you.”
“Not personally, but yes it
does. It’s what I’d expect of
course, and I don’t mind what anyone would think about my beautiful house, but
it is very upsetting that people don’t realize how directly their house is
connected to global problems.
Global problems are fundamentally due to a few people taking far more
than all can have, and they do it unthinkingly. Even if living in a house like this was a hardship, would it
be too big a price to pay to defuse global problems?”
…
“What would Eleanor say if
we explained to her about affluence and scarcity and the fact that there are
millions without any kind of house?
Would she still disapprove of this house?”
“…look, I’m having enough
trouble trying to figure out what I think about all this, let alone what
Eleanor would think.” He wanted to
move off the topic, and Jan sensed this.
“OK, OK. Sorry again. I’ll get off your back. But,” with a smile,” you just be more careful in future
about saying things that make me hopping mad, alright?” Then, half to herself, “KDR’d for
gorsake.”
“I’ll try. By the way I like that,” he said ,
pointing to a sticker on the cupboard which said, “WOMAN’S PLACE IS IN THE
HOME…RIGHT BESIDE THE MEN.”
“Yes that’s really important
to us. We see the domestic scene
as the centre of the universe. Not
the work place or the economy.
What matters most is a thriving, diverse, productive, active, self-sufficient
household, with lots of things being done and made and cooked and repaired,
with lots of conversation and craft and entertainment and planning and
visitors. The domestic sector is
the most important one in the whole economy, and ideally men and women and kids
should spend a lot of time there.”
“Where I come from the house
is vacant all day, we come home at night to eat and sleep in it.”
“Yes. People here can be around the house and
neighbourhood most of the time because
we only need to go out to paid work maybe two days a week. And where we live doesn’t have such a
distinct boundary. When you go out
your door you have left home. But
we live in and around the house and neighbourhood. We dart in and out to the garden, a neighbour, the chooks,
the herb patch, the workshop, all day.
We don’t just live in the house.
Maybe we should say our living place is about 100 metres across.”
“Hang on. Did you say people only work for wages
two days a week?”
“Yes, that’s about the
average around here.”
“How can that be?”
“Well, firstly because we
live simply; we don’t use up much and we don’t have expensive things, and we
get most of the things we need without money, from our own gardens, from
others, from the comm. Ons,
from the free concerts and the
leisure-rich landscape.”
“That’s difficult to
believe.” Mikes tone revealed how
difficult.
“Yes I can appreciate that,
but let’s see what you think after you’ve been here a couple of days. You’ll meet people who live well almost
without earning any money at all.”
“What do the men around here
think about this domestic focus. I
mean where I come from they go to their important work in factories and
offices. Housework is for women.”
“Ah, that’s also really
important. Some feminists worry
that because our way makes the house and neighbourhood so economically
important it will just mean women become more trapped than ever in domestic
drudgery. That’s quite mistaken. But our way brings men back into the
house and neighbourhood to share the work and the benefits. Pete cooks and sews, and I chop wood
and clean out chicken pens. The
household should be the centre of everyone’s universe, with men enjoying living
and producing there as much as women and kids. Did you know the origin of the word economics is to do with
the Greek Oikos, a household. It’s
very satisfying when you feel you have your household economy in good shape,
lots of productive systems, a good garden, happy chooks, a full pantry, onions
hanging, plenty of dry firewood in.
And think about the inputs that make that economy thrive. While you’re here Mike you will not sit
down to tea without
Gran appearing with some
freshly baked cakes or biscuits or scones and that’s so nice. It does so much to make the occasion
enjoyable, but let’s see you explain that value in dollar terms.”
Then Jan stopped and turned
to look at Mike. “I’ve just
realised how I can make the point.
Have you seen our washing machine?”
“No.”
“Yes you have.”
“Where is it then?”
“In the living room. Come and look.”
“Is it? I don’t recall. Strange place to keep it.”
“Oh its not there all the
time. It moves around a lot. It’s fully automated, but it’s only got
two feet. Mind you they are quite
big.” By now Mike knew there would
be a trick ending to this adventure.
They walked into the living
room, where Pete had his head in some papers, pen in hand.
“Peter,” said Jan loudly,
“Stand up, Mike want’s to inspect you. Claims he hasn’t seen you before. Take
that idiotic gape off your face, I’ll explain later.” Then turning to Mike, “See that thing does most of the
washing, by hand, or by using our pedal operated churn. We made it from an old bike. I do some of it too. It’s great exercise. So we have no problem sharing domestic
chores. I can’t see why having a
lot of production located in the domestic economy has to worry feminists.”
“By the way Pete’s also good
on the sewing machine.”
“Oh so you do have some mod
cons.”
“Of course. Come and look.” Just around the corner she pointed to
an acient pedal operated Singer.
“Isn’t that a work of art?
We think its about seventy years old now. Does everything I need. Mind you we don’t use many clothes.”
“Spare parts?” Mike asked.
“Doesn’t seem to ever break
down. Simple mechanism. If we had a problem the boys and girls
at Fridge Factory would fix it.”
“Oops,” said Pete. “We’re due to go over and meet Harry.
I’d better see if he’s back by now. Pardon me, I’ll have to use our high tech
inter-domestic communication system for this. Works like a dream. Phone’s sometimes fail.
Email sometimes fails. But
this system never fails. I can
always get a message to Harry this way, and in real time.”
“Sounds pretty swish. What is it?”
Pete walked to the window,
opened it, leaned out and bellowed, “Ya there Harry?”
A muffled voice came back,
“Yeah. Be right over.”
“No. We’ll come over to you,
OK?”
“OK.”
Pete closed the window,
wearing a satisfied smile. “Harry
and Frieda are our next door neighbours on this side.”
They went out the nominally
front door, turned right and threaded through more green tunnels and mazes,
emerging at a neat little flower garden beside a low front veranda of another
old weatherboard house. The door
opened and there was a big middle aged man wearing a smile, an old shirt half unbuttoned,
and the most heavily patched trousers Mike had ever seen.
“Hi there Mike. Sorry I couldn‘t come over when you
came in earlier. Had to work this morning. Frieda’s out but she should be back
soon.”
They went through to the
kitchen and sat down. The house
was simply furnished and even more austere than Pete and Jan’s. Eleanor would say it was at least drab,
indeed shabby.
“Mike the main reason I
wanted you to meet Harry is because he works for money full time. Most people in this town don’t. Most are like Jan and me, only working
one or two days a week at a paid job, because we get most of the things we want
without having to buy them. We get
vegies from our garden, fruit from the commons, surpluses from others. But the point is that some people
choose to spend all their time at a paid job, and that’s fine.”
“Why would they do that if
you could live well only two days a week working for money?”
“In my case, for two
reasons,” said Harry. “I do something that’s needed more or less all the time, and secondly, because I
like the job. I do like doing all
the things Pete and Jan spend their week on, but I like my job better.”
Pete said, “Harry is a great
example of Pete’s supreme principle of labour -- you should never ever work for
money.”
“Hang on, this is all about
the fact that he works five days a week for money.”
“No he doesn’t. He works for the two reasons you should
work. It just so happens that he
also gets money for working, but that’s incidental.”
“Explain. What two reasons?”
“Pete’s principle says
firstly you should work because you like doing that kind of work. Second, you should work because you get
satisfaction from providing that product or service to your community.”
“Well, it would be nice if
we could all proceed that way…but we can’t where I come from.” He turned to Harry, “So you would earn
much more in a week than Peter or Jan?”
“Yes, but I have to spend
more than them, because I’m not putting so much time into producing things to
use directly. For example I can’t
spend much time in our garden or on working bees. So instead I have to buy more and I pay more tax in money.”
Harry said, “Living here
does wonders for health. The
food’s perfect, fresh, no preservatives or pesticides or hormones, people get a
lot of exercise, and no one’s stressed or lonely or unemployed or dumped into
poverty and everyone has things to do that are interesting and worthwhile and
appreciated, and every one has community, so not many smoke or crack up or turn
to dope or booze. But it’s
important to teach and reinforce good habits all the time, especially with
kids. I keep the town informed on
new developments in health. I have
a weekly spot on our radio station.”
“Do you like Harry’s duds
Mike?” said Pete. “Tell him about
them Harry.”
“Aw’ said Harry, “Stuff it Pete, I was hoping he
wouldn‘t notice Well, they’re jes
fine. They’re all I need. I refuse to throw anything out if I can
patch or reuse it. And I like
patching, keeping things going.
It’s one of my hobbies. We
should all do that. People should
all wear old patched clothes most of the time, mainly because that would save a
huge amount of resources. Just
think how much energy and fabric and talent are wasted because people insist on
wearing impeccaqble clothes.
“And tossing them out when
the next fashion fad comes in,” said Pete.
“It’s the same with houses
and furniture,” said Harry. “You
would probably think this house is a bit dull. But it’s fine, quite good enough. Comfy, warm.
But look at those chipped and scratched old table legs. You’d get them painted I suppose.”
“Eleanor would.”
“People where you come from
insist on the best, the most luxurious, the nicest…if they can have it. We focus on what will do, what’s good
enough and as resource-cheap as possible. “
“He wears that kind of gear
when his patients come, and when he’s doing house calls,” said Pete.
“How does that affect
customer relations?”
“Makes no difference. They all know me and what I wear
doesn’t affect whether they think I can fix them.”
“By the way,’ said Pete,
”Harry’s paid a wage. He’s the
town’s doctor so like with most professionals around here we own the business
and hire him. Some of the engineers
around here, and the optometrist at Scotsdale, are private businesses. But we think health is too important to
be run for profit.”
Harry laughed. “I’ve suggested that they pay me
according to how healthy they are.
If they’re ill and have to come to see me I should be paid less, but if
they’re well and don’t have to see me then I must have done a good job and
should be paid more, right? In
fact I don’t want more pay. I earn
much less than your doctor does, but when you live in paradise with all the
other benefits, money isn’t important.
I’m paid quite enough.”
“Mind you,” said Pete, “his
clothes bill helps to keep his running costs down.”
----------------------------------
As they left Harry’s Pete
suggested that they go for a short walk through a patch of forest not far away. He pointed out that he spent his day differently to
Harry, working on many different things, most of them unpaid. “In a typical day
I’ll spend an hour or two in the garden, a couple of hours making or fixing
things, an hour visiting and helping, an hour on a working bee somewhere, half
an hour discussing some public project with others, maybe some time helping Amy
or her friends with arithmetic, and so on all day. Fifty different jobs but only two hours at my paid job,
that’s how I like it.”
A girl approached, maybe mid
twenties, wearing a big smile.
“Hi Jodie, meet Mike.”
“Gerdai. Have they run you off your feet yet?”
Jodie explained her
activities with the library group.
After a few minutes she said to Mike, “What’s that in your pocket?”
“What? Where?”
She reached over, stuck her
fingers into Mikes side pocket and bulled out a budgeriegar.
“Pete, look! Amy said he was odd, but birds in his
pockets, really!”
Pete laughed loudly.
She turned and strode off
holding her hand high with the budgie perched on her finger, staring up at it.
Mike was frazzled, but now
just street wise enough to smile, shake his head and follow Pete, still
chuckling.
“Maybe I should have warned
you when I saw her coming. She’s
one of our many magicians. They do
tricks like that on us all the time.
They put on magic shows now and then, but you will often see one of them
bamboozling the kids in the park.
Actually Harry’s pretty good at slight of hand…can make cards and coins
disappear.”
“Doctors make money disappear
where I come from too,” said Mike.
Just ahead beside the path
Mike could see a pile of medium sized logs coming into view. As they drew near he saw that it
was a half completed log cabin about 5 metres long. No one was around.
There were stacks of logs beside the building and one was set up on
stumps with a two handled crosscut saw half way through it. Pete briefly turned to the left and
took hold of one end of the saw.
“Come on,” he said to Mike.
“Let’s finish this one off.”
Mike took the other handle and they began to saw.
“What’s the cabin for?” said
Mike.
“It’s another guest
house. We have several dotted
around. Sometimes some of the kids
will camp in them but they are also for people visiting The Glen.”
“Who owns them?”
“Everyone I guess. I mean they’re public property.”
“Who’s building this one?”
“At the moment,” said Pete
with a smile, “…you and me!”
“Eh?”
“Well there’ll be a
coordinating group but mostly the construction will be by working bees,
especially when the heavy logs are ready to be lifted into place, but often
you’ll find one or two people have dropped in to do some work, just like
us. We just happened to be passing
by and here we are doing a bit.
See the blackboard there, under the shed roof. People will jot notes on it if there is something that next
needs to be done next when they leave.”
Mike was conscious of some
difficulty in coordinating his pushing and pulling. Pete seemed not to be doing much, and going too slow.
“How about I finish it off?”
Mike said.
“Alright.” Pete stood back. Mike bent down and hacked into the log
energetically, a bit jerkily but now making the sawdust fly. Soon he was through and the end of the
log thumped to the ground. He
stood upright and puffing and leaned on the saw, somewhat proud of his
performance.
“Have you apologised yet?”
said Pete with a faint smile.
“Apologise? For what?”
“For cutting the log? Look at him now. Two days ago he was a noble Tallow
Wood, 80 years old. I’ve known him
since I came here. He used to live
about a kilometre away. We have
killed him, for our purposes. He
wasn’t asked. We just took him. Sheer ruthless, brutal power, totally
overruling his preferences and interests. So at the very least it’s appropriate
to say sorry and we appreciate what he will do for us. What an enormous luxury it is to be
able to get logs like this, to have such beautiful building resources. This cabin could last hundreds of
years. It will be extremely
strong, and warm when we line it with clay and straw. We’ll get another little cabin but Tallow Wood will have
lost his life to make it possible.”
“Well I’m not used to
thinking about timber like that.
To me it’s usually just merchandise you pay for from the hardware
store. What about the carrots we
had for lunch? They could still be
enjoying life now too, if we hadn’t eaten them.”
“Yes, that’s right. Its just a matter of being conscious of
the fact that you’re fortunate to be able to get and use and enjoy the things
nature produces, and being conscious that their welfare is a
consideration. Tribal people do
this. Before they kill an animal
they will express regret and appreciation. When you see the world that way you’re less inclined to take
more than you need, and you’re grateful, and humble. If nature hadn’t made those carrots we couldn’t have enjoyed
them could we?”
“But You and Jan produced
the carrots. You grew them.”
“No. We helped them to grow in our garden
this summer. It took a few hundred
million years for those genes to arrive at the form they have now, and it took
a few hundred years of careful selection and breeding to develop this
variety. And you can’t grow
carrots without soil, and rain and nitrogen and a certain range of temperature. Nature gives us all that. So when you see it this way you’re more
inclined to look after nature.
People won’t save the environment until they come to see nature like
this. They won’t make the
necessary effort unless they recognise how dependent they are on it, and how
generous it is to us.”
“By the way,” said Pete,
“You work too hard. We work like
peasants. We plod. We relax and take it slow and get into
an easy rhythm, and enjoy the work.
There’s no need to
hurry. Here, I’ll show you
what I mean.” He took the saw and
placed it over the next crayon mark on the log. “Take hold.” He nodded to the other handle. “Now just rest your hands on. Don’t push or pull and just sense my
pace.” Pete began to saw with a
slow rythmical action, using long strokes and rocking forward and backward on
his feet. After a few seconds he
said, “Now start going with me, don’t push much but pull lightly.” Use as little energy as you can, as if you were going to keep cutting all
day.”
Mike found that with the
slow rhythm it was easier to coordinate with Pete, sensing when to reverse the
stroke.
“It’s an enjoyable action,
don’t you think?” said Pete. “A
bit like a Tai Che exercise. You can chant to it, if you and your partner have
a lot to do. The old seamen used
shanties to coordinate their hauling, so they would maximise the force on a
rope at the right instant. Do you
get the feeling that the saw is really cutting well, efficiently? Nice isn’t it? That’s partly because
it’s sharpened properly, but we are going well now. At first we weren’t coordinating too well so you would be
starting to push when I was still pushing. That’s wasting energy and it isn’t working beautifully. It is very important not to do the job
just to get it done. You should
also try to enjoy the doing. To me
that’s partly getting a nice rhythm going, and its partly seeing that you are
doing a good job, cutting a clean straight end, and it’s knowing that you are
doing a skilled job, I mean knowing how to do it well and efficiently. By the way look at that nice saw dust
pile. That ‘ll end up in the
workshop.”
“What for?”
”It’s useful for various
things, including craft work.
Makes great model tree foliage, mixed with paste. And it’s a good filler, made with paste
or cement. The big goanna sitting
in the tea house rafters has a sawdust core. It’s nice to be able to use things
up, especially to make use of things that could have been waste.”
The end of the log hit the
ground. “Well done team!” said
Pete. “Beautiful work.”
“Beautiful?”
“Yes, we think it’s
important to work beautifully, to do the job efficiently, using skill, using
few resources, not wasting time or materials, not making mistakes, knowing
where to tap or just how hard or the best way to go about it, so it will last,
be strong, won’t need repairing for a long time, can be dismantled easily,
oiled easily. Shoddy is ugly. A craftsman ends up having done a
beautiful job, and produces it by working beautifully. He will clout that chisel just hard
enough to take off just the right amount of wood in one go. He’ll put the hammer down and pick up
the plane almost in one movement because he’s been thinking ahead. It’s great to watch Tom making
furniture -- like being at the ballet.
Hardly a wasted movement and no dithering or trial and error or
mistakes, just smoothly and efficiently producing something that will look
great and last for years.”
_______
As they approached the house
Mike said, “Hey where does your garden end?”
Pete paused. “Hmm. See that line of hills way over.”
Mike said “What? Those there?” pointing to the only
hills visible between the trees.
“Yes. Our garden goes at least to there,”
said Pete smiling. “See, tis whole
town is a beautiful garden isn’t it?
Complicated, thriving. It’s
a work of art.
And it’s all mine, isn’t
it. Of course I don’t legally own
it all, but that’s irrelevant.
What’s more, one thousand people work at keeping my beautiful garden in
good shape and ever changing. This
town’s our town. We all own it,
run it, plant it, enjoy lot. See
part of the wealth I have is this town.
It’s existence makes me rich.
The fact that I couldn’t sell the town is totally irrelevant isn’t it?”
-----------------------------
Pete said, ”Hey hasn’t it gone dark. We’re going to get a storm I
think.” Even before they reached
the veranda there was a distant clap of thunder. ”Great! We’ll get something out of this
one. I’d better shut some
windows.”
Jan was already scurrying
around. Gran came out and stood on
the veranda looking up at the sky.
Across the valley they could see the rain coming fast, soon blanking out
the town and setting up a increasing roar as it pelted on tin roofs. Within a few minutes heavy drops were
heard hitting the roof and Gran backed away from the edge of the veranda. Seconds later heavy rain suddenly swept
over the roof with a startling roar.
“Best thing about this house
is the tin roof.” Pete almost had to shout, smiling broadly against the
din. “Come and watch the show.”
They moved out to stand on
the decking beside Gran, under the veranda roof but hit by the spray swirling
in with the squalls. The view
across the town was totally obscured by whiteness as the rain drenched
down. Even the big bamboo soon
became only a ghostly outline, swaying in the erratic wind.
“Will you just look at that” Pete muttered to himself. Jan was saying “Fabulous, fabulous
rain. Generous Gaia.”
Mike was surprised at the
carry on. Where he came from rain
is cursed. He sat back,
alternatively watching the rain and the entranced trio. They seemed mesmerised, staring motionless,
until Jan said, “Look, Peter the side tank must be full, it’s running over.”
“Yup, I’ll just move the spout.” He moved to the side of the veranda, reached into the deluge
and pulled on a rope. “My
automatic flip over mechanism must have gummed up. Another job to check later.”
“Pete made a float thing
that just moves the spout to the other tank when the first one’s full. We also have a device that dumps the
first 20 litres that’s washed the roof off, before it pulls the spout over to
the tank inlet. But really you
don’t need to worry about that.
You’ll always get some sediment in the bottom of the tank but it stays
down there. We have the most
perfect drinking water in the world.
And after this downpour it’ll taste sweeter than ever. You know somehow just the briefest
shower spices it up.”
“Best drink I ever have is
water,” said Pete. “Sometimes when
you’re really thirsty it’s just miraculous.”
Gran said, “Porter’s Pond
will be right now Jan. Melissa’s
reeds will leap.”
“Yes,” Jan turned to Mike.
“You should see how the plants respond to rain. Somehow its got magic in it that piped water doesn’t
have. You almost see a difference
in the vegies immediately.”
Again Mike was a little
incredulous at all this ecstasy over mere water.
The rain eased a
little. Pete leaned out and looked
to the West. “We’ll probably get
one of those incredible yellow and green sunsets out of this.”
A few minutes later the
storm had more or less passed. Jan
said, “I’m going to look at the garden,” and ran down the steps, holding a coat
over her head. She was back within a minute. “Isn’t it great to see everything
soaked and laughing. I’ll pop over
the lane to see how much we got in Porter’s.”
“Watch for a rainbow,” Pete called as she ran off.
Gran called, “Peter, what
does the rain gauge say? How much
did we get?”
Talk about kids playing in
puddles Mike thought.
Fifteen minutes later Pete
came in energetically and said, “Told you! Come and look. It’s on.” Mike went out to the veranda. The view across the town to the
hills was perfectly clear, but everything was drenched in a yellow light
blasting in horizontally from the west as the sun dropped into the distant
narrow gap between clouds and horizon.
“Just look at those greens!”
said Jan. Isn’t that incredible,
how the yellow somehow exaggerates the greens, and everything’s so washed and
sparkling. Look at the light on
the Blue Gum trunks down there.
Gaia’s done ’em with high gloss varnish. It must be something to do with the light going through the
moisture still in the air.”
“Soak it up,” said Pete. “It’ll only as a few minutes and Gaia only puts this kind of
show on a couple of times a year.”
A frog let out a long
screeching croak, something like a horse whinneying. “Listen to Freddy.
He’s delighted too. He’s
celebrating the rain with us.” But
Mike was still doing anthropology, reflecting the funny natives with their
strange obsessions. He was partly
distanced by their fascination with an ordinary old downpour, but also felt a
kind of envy -- how nice to get such a buzz out of a shower of rain.
Gran and Mike sat down to
watch but a call from the front of the house drew Pete and Jan away. A minute later they returned with two
adults and two teenagers.
“Mike meet Betty and Don, and Annie and Kevin. They’re here for dinner.”
Mike found himself seated on
the veranda chatting with Pete and Don.
Pete had commented on the differences Mike had been confronted with
throughout the day. Don said, ”You
know, one of the worst, saddest things about mainstream society is the enormous
productive capacity that’s not harnessed.
Consider the time, thought, concern, good will, that’s just sitting
there going to waste when it could be producing things that are greatly
needed.”
“You mean unemployed?” Said
Pete.
“No. I mean in addition to that criminal
waste, how much time do people in Mike’s neighbourhood spend watching TV. Its about three hours per person per
day I think, so that’s maybe thirty-five person hours per household every week
that could be mostly going into doing things that matter, that enrich that
neighbourhood, solve problems, build solidarity…and provide much more
satisfaction than watching TV. How
many people in your neighbourhood at this point in time are bored, or lonely,
or sad. Mike, how many of them
could solve their own problem if they could just talk to another person, let
alone if some of the OK people knew them and ran into them or could be dropped
in on for a cheer up. How much
costly social wreckage would therefore be avoided. How much help could be given to single mothers or invalids
or old people, by bored people who get a kick out of doing that from time to
time. How many suicides and serial
killings and drug overdoses would be avoided? How much entertainment and advice and knowledge could be
given that at present isn’t given because everyone’s stuck in their own
sealed-off little box, not even knowing who their neighbours are. How much more cooperative and helpful
and caring would people be if others dropped in more often, got to know them
and offered to swap or help and therefore established community? How much more good feeling and help
would that stimulate?”
“Yes, you’re right,” said
Pete. “It’s inestimable. There’s a vast amount of capacity to produce
to meet needs in any neighbourhood, and to get satisfaction from doing it, that
could be released or harnessed.
And it’s not an additive thing; its multiplicative. There’s synergism. If I help someone he’s then in a better
mood and will not only help me in return, he’ll help others too. Whereas in Mike’s society made up of
private, competing individuals, when you beat someone he not only loses, its
worse than a zero sum game, because he then becomes more determined than ever
to beat the next guy. These things
spiral, accelerate, up or down ---
there’s powerful positive feedback.”
Jan called, “OK everybody, let’s get moving. Anne can you pop some bread
in the oven? And Kevin can you mix up some of those salad greens there, and
there’s fruit there to cut up too.”
“Got a job for me?” said Mike.
“Oh yes thanks, can you set the table. Cutlery in the draw over there.”
The kitchen and adjoining room were soon humming with activit