[In my latest for The American Conservative I talk about urban, progressive liberals who love the countryside… but not the country way of life. Here’s a sample.]
What’s sad is that these urban progressives will never experience (much less understand) the sort of simple, rustic existence to which they feel so drawn. Groff writes,
In the lengthening dawns, the roosters woke us with their ever more competent crowing; until one day the renderer came and beheaded all twenty-seven chickens one by one, bleeding them, gutting them, scalding their feathers of, packing them in plastic. So it goes for all of us: from fluffy chick-hood we advance to a crowing, flapping, squabbling prime, then with swift violence we are made meat.
It’s the kind of pseudo-wisdom you might nod along to if your only experience with chickens comes from a petting zoo.
One day, my friend Matt went to feed his hens and found them torn to pieces by a fox. I happened to call him about an hour later, and I could hear that he was on the verge of tears. Of course, he was going to eat them himself. We’d killed one of his roosters a few days before because it was harassing his one-year-old. But foxes kill more than they can eat, and the hens’ senseless death broke Matt’s heart.
Unless you live close to nature—one creature in the midst of Creation—it’s just filth and gore. Sure, after a while, you might become desensitized. But you’ll never understand it. The death of a chicken will never be anything more than an act of violence. It will never be a tragedy, much less a sacrifice.
[You can read it all at TAC’s website. Peace and the Good!]