"Rural Chic."
Lately, it seems everyone is talking about the anti-urban phenomenon. But farmers and people who live in the countryside have not done anything to warrant this powersurge in attention: their greatness has been thrust upon them by a nostalgic president and an eager media that senses an affecting American Values story in the Heartland.
Now I realize it may be unfair, even offensive, to lump all varieties of outdoorsy types (cowboys, farmers, horses) into one category. But as is often the case when I am unfair and offensive, I simply don't care.
And there's no denying the great outdoors is making a comeback--a fact underscored by the sudden appearance of cover stories in no fewer than a helluva a lot of magazines boasting influential readerships and bearing titles like "The New Repudiation" and "The Atlantic's Once-a-Monthly."
Some would claim the fad was sparked by last year's rash of farm films: Jessica Lange's Country, Sissy Spacek's The River and Sally Field's Places in the Heart, to name the most nauseating. But I disagree. America doesn't need PR--wary actresses to put the grit in gritgeist and make it a salable item. Instead, last week's FarmAID effort did just that.
But whatever the reason, the question must be addressed: What does a rural revival mean?
Well, if you've taken to reading the same publications and watching the same television as I have you'd suspect the answer has to do with the basic corruption of our society. At least this much became clear to me the other day when former Olympic gymnast Cathy Rigby interrupted my dinner to discuss maximum strength feminine protection.
I wondered: Do farmers talk about such things before they ride their tractors down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington to complain that government cutbacks make it impossible for them to take their vacations in the Caribbean (or so our president says)? Would cowboys ever neglect a shootout at the O.K. Corral in order to debate the merits of seeing their reflection in lemon-scented, smoothly-polished table tops?
These are, truly, unanswerable questions.
However, in a restless quest for the truth, I decided to approach a sociologist, which is an academic term meaning "no fun at parties"--but none of this species was available for comment, with attribution, for this column.
And so, To Bring You the Soul of America, I undertook a journalistic odyssey to determine the causes behind this obsession with all things green an lush (or smelly and insect-ridden for you urban purists).
Through the wonder of a nifty designer drug, I was able to attend a real live pig auction in Tumbleweed, Missouri.
Since this is an obscure--indeed, fictional--town on the periphery of civilization, I tossed together some of my most cherished belongings, wrapped them in a kerchief, and threw them over my shoulder for sustenance in the hinterland. Several train changes and a limousine ride later (courtesy of my generous editor), I found myself at the famous Pig-N-A-Poke fair in down-town Tumbleweed.
So this is real rural life, I mused, as a family wearing overalls ambled by on all fours.
The fair was a smashing success, or at least it seemed that way to me, as many natives who had arrived with their wares in covered wagons later left saying they were "near to being tarred an feathered"--which I took to mean they could repave their driveways. Sheesh, I thought, if getting your driveway redone is all in a day's work it might pay for everyone to head back to the land.
Anyway, it seems I was not the only member of the press who chose to visit this particular fair. Two reporters from major metropolitan dailies also were there, asking questions about how a given family felt its lifestyle compared to that of Jessica Lange's and Sally Field's in the movie versions. Their questions were full of trendy jargon that probably went over well with the sushi-set back home but seemed lost on their down-to-earth victims: "Do you see yourself as an independent female role model for all women currently invading the workplace?" one twelve-year-old milkmaid was asked. "Are you a strong, sensitive type?" a man chewing on a chainsaw was queried.
I knew better than to insult the family I stayed with by spouting trivialities rooted in popular culture. By treating everyone I spoke to as my equal I was able to learn amazing things about country life. For example, I had no idea fried peat moss is a delicacy to be washed down with a steaming mug of Junior's yellow country elixir prepared in the backyard shed. Really, my hosts were too kind!
For once it seems Madison Avenue was right: hicks are a sturdy and noble breed, worthy of all the attention and glamorization and distortion we big city journalists can muster.
For more information about the family that hosted me, please turn to our article, "The Creature Came in From the Countryside," on page 27. See them also on the third floor of the Museum of Fine Arts, where they will replace last month's exhibit of delightful monkey twins wearing dresses.
