We stayed with friends of John in
that he and I were part of a subculture, of people who read books,
bought art, cooked gourmet food, listened to classical music and jazz
on public radio, drank wine and imported beer, or beer from microbreweries,
drank drip-grind coffee made from fresh-roasted beans, liked natural materials
like cork and leather and wood, not formica, not linoleum, not plastic.
We wore natural fibers. Linen, wool, cotton, silk. Not nylon, rayon,
polyester. We drove imported cars or old jalopies. Pickup trucks
instead of mini-vans. This was before SUVs and massive 4x4s.
Maybe an old station wagon. We watched art films and went to
concerts and poetry readings and live stage-plays and hootenannies.
We shopped at farmers’ markets. We ate organic peanut butter
and homemade jam. On whole-grain bread.
This was before Julia Child. This was before
nouvelle cuisine. We made our own pasta.
We were a counterculture. We had a history.
We’d been in place since
and even before that in places like
Whatever the mainstream culture was doing we weren’t interested.
We didn’t watch television. We had kids but we camped with them,
or went on hikes, or hunted and fished, or played music, or listened to
them play, we kept them supplied with art supplies, we shopped in Goodwill stores,
we camped with Army surplus tents and sleeping bags, we taught them to cook.
We taught them to tell stories. What happened to us? We’re still here.
We’re still out there. Where would be go? This is our country too.
It’s not all Morning Joe. It’s Chanticleer, crowing from his dung-heap.
It’s reading Thoreau. Melville. Whitman.
William Carlos Williams.
Against the grain is in
the American grain.
Also, the pure products of
mutually exclusive. They are complementary.