I took this photo a couple of years ago, when Fate was in training to herd sheep. That didn’t work out, and I take responsibility for it, I just couldn’t figure out how to get Fate to challenge the sheep. She has too much fun just hanging around them. As it happened, we got a wonderful dog, the dog we wanted, and life is like that, you just have to ride with it.
The photo brought back some memories for sure, i worked with her every morning for months before I concluded that she was just not up to pushing the sheep around. Nor were they interested in obeying her. I am learning to accept life. Fate is quite a happy dog, and we are very happy to live with her and her joy of life. Sometimes things work out despite our bumbling.
Politically and culturally, I am now something of a refugee, I often feel schizophrenic, caught between two worlds, the urban America I grew up in and wrote about, the rural America I live in and love and write about now.
Every day, I better understand what happened in America last November, even as our political and media establishments continue to ignore what happened or what might be done about it.
I’m not writing about this to join the political fray, or argue with people. This is a reflection of my life, and my country, and I need to understand both. Since almost no one in our media universe is writing about it much, I feel I need to.
America is no longer one nation, but two nations, urban America has surged ahead on its own to join the global economy, rural America has been left behind, desperate and battered and increasingly trouble.
Yesterday, I wrote about the horrific rise in early death rates for white working-class and most rural Americans, today the Washington Post reports on another tragedy of rural America, the stunning rise in rural workers who can no longer find work and are living on disability payments from the federal government.
There are simply no new jobs in rural America, labeled a “sea of despair” by economists in a shocking report this week chronicling the toll taken on white, less educated rural Americans by joblessness, suicide, drug and alcohol addiction. The working class was promised prosperity and opportunity in the new global economy, but that turns out to have been a lie, at least for them.
Overdose, suicide and alcohol-related deaths per 100,000 for white non Hispanics ages 50 to 54, were up 130 per cent from 1998 to 2015, said the study. Among women, deaths in those categories were up 381 per cent.
Now we learn that great numbers of rural Americans are turning to disability payments in desperation. There are no jobs for them in the new economy. We are living in two very different countries now.
Between 1996 and 2015, says the Post, the number of working-age adults receiving federal disability payments increased dramatically across the country, but nowhere more so than in rural America. During that time, the number of working age adults receiving disability climbed from 7.7 million to 13 million.
This year, the federal government will spend an estimated $192 billion on disability payments, more than the combined total for good stamps, welfare, housing subsidies and unemployment assistance.
“The rise in disability has emerged as yet another indicator of a widening political, cultural and economic chasm between urban and rural America,” says the Post. Day by day, I am beginning to understand why my country is in such turmoil, and I am also coming to see that unless the people who live in rural America are helped, we will go farther down this ugly path. Overall, the number of people going on disability has increased by 32 per cent since 2004.
Urban communities like Boston, Denver, Seattle, Houston, Dallas, New York and San Francisco are booming as new jobs are created there, and skilled and educated workers flock to those cities to live and work.
It is revealing to go to New York City and see how many affluent people live there, how many jobs there are for them (not for everyone), how low unemployment rates are, even in the face of high living costs, rents and homes.
In rural America, the story is precisely the opposite, the cities and towns there are abandoned and struggling and both politics and journalism have abandoned the people who live there and the communities they live in. Many pundits and economists attribute this schism to the global trade agreements like NAFTA, which caused so many manufacturing jobs to go to other countries.
It seems to me that it started even longer ago. Since World War II, the governing agricultural doctrine in government offices, universities and corporations has been that there were too many people on farms, and that farms are no longer efficient in the new economy.
The idea triggered what author and environmentalist Wendell Berry called “one of the most consequential migrations of history” – millions of rural people moving from country to city in a stream that has not slowed from the war’s end to now. The strongest force behind this migration, says Berry, has been the economic ruin on the farm.
Today, with thousands of farm families losing their farms every month, the economists and politicians are still saying, as they have said for decades, that these people deserve to fail, and that have failed because they are inefficient and small, our least efficient producers of food, and that the rest of us are better off for their failure.
The American heartland, once the pride and soul of the country, was becoming peripheral, an afterthought. It was left behind.
The family farm was always the glue that held rural America together, and when the government essentially abandoned the farm to globalism and the agri-business, the unraveling of rural life began. In 1940, 90 per cent of Americans lived in rural areas, now 90 per cent live in urban and suburban America, mostly along the coasts. That is quite a migration.
We are feeling its affects today, every day, on the news. It was this other America, seething with despair and anger, that upended our political system. It has abandoned them, they are abandoning it.
This migration shattered the social and economic structure of rural America, and when the trade agreements were signed in the 70’s and 80’s, they triggered another consequential migration, that of jobs. The remaining factory and industrial jobs, which served an emerging middle-class in rural life, migrated away also, mostly to China and Mexico. When the jobs left, the skilled and educated workers left with them.
Nobody seemed to notice or care. Why wouldn’t they be angry and fed up?
Until Donald Trump ran for President, no national politician spoke to the people suffering from this devastating crisis at all, and it’s a shame in a way that he became their leading advocate. He has no real plans for addressing this social catastrophe, and he may well take their cause and need down with him, if his first few months in office are a clue.
Rural America is in grave distress, all across the country. Their downtowns are dying, communities are disintegrating, schools bleeding, children are moving away, jobs are gone, the land neglected, drugs and suicide and social despair are unraveling the lives of the young and now, despairing people in mid-life.
For me, this is a personal challenge.
I see that we are no living in two worlds, and it is self-defeating and short-sighted to dismiss all of this upheaval as simple bigotry, racism and sexism, or to wring my hands about the state of the world. When government breaks its promises to people, again and again – it is happening right now – then demagogues rise up exploit and channel the and rage. And we are shocked.
People in rural America are not shocked. They are desperate and hopeful.
I am beginning to understand what is happening to my country, no thanks to our leaders and journalists. I have to give Donald Trump credit for bringing attention to those left behind, hopefully before it is too late to help them. And I hope he does fulfill his promises to help them.
It is a creative as well as personal challenge for me, my heart is in both Americas, I live on the border between the two, I see both sides clearly.
In our country, all kinds of people – gays, women, transgender people, white working-class Americans, African-Americans, immigrants and refugees – suffer and have suffered the ravages of capitalism and political greed. In a way, they all tell the same story, and they have struggled and won much support. We just paid no attention to this group, the ones between the booming cities and the coasts.
I stopped thinking that white people suffer too. So did almost everyone running for President last year.
When we abandon the poor of any color or region or race, it seems we abandon a part of ourselves and our souls, as well as our common values. That’s what Jesus said, at any rate. Blessed are the poor, they are the Kingdom of God.
Being poor and hopeless is in itself a political thing, there are always consequences when the poor lose hope. And I can tell you just from living where I live, that rural Americans have lost hope, and faith in their government and the people who run it. Sadly, the poor are divided, they perhaps do not have time to argue or organize and send money to super-PAC’s, there are no poor people ever on cable news channels.
Perhaps one day, they will all realize that they are not really all that different from one another, and join together in a common cause.
I write a lot about our emotional connections with animals, our unique ways of loving them, living with them, grieving for them when they die. A life with animals is, by necessity, a life of change and grief and loss, they do not live as long as we do, and so many things can end their lives.
How I handle this emotional roller coaster tells me much about myself, including how I handle life, loss and death. Since everything I love will die one day, and I will follow them, this is important. Animals are a barometer of our emotions, they can either teach us how to deal with life or cause us great and continuing pain and suffering.
I have never said my grief is so intense that I cannot get another dog, I say I must get another dog as soon as is healthy so I can love another one again. I never mark the anniversaries of their death or look to social media for sympathy and comfort. I look forward, I feel grateful.
As always, I speak only for myself. Grief and love are personal things, everyone is different and has the right to be different. I don’t look to be agreed with or disagreed with, I have my way, you are entitled to your way. I never assume my way is the best way for everyone. And my way is somewhat personal, I need to comfort myself.
I try to think for myself, I am not seeking the approval of others, I’m not running for mayor. I don’t need to go on Facebook and give the world updates on loss, I don’t to pass my sadness along to others.
Every time one of my animal (or our animals) dies – or leaves, as was the case of Chloe last weekend, this subject comes up, people react in so many different ways, ranging from kind empathy to grief and anger. I think it’s a valuable subject to write about, I am, I know, different from many, and I respect the differences.
Every morning, when I go out to the pasture, I offer a kind of prayer of gratitude for the animals in my life, for the love and comfort they have given me, for the ways they have made me a better human, for the patience and acceptance they have taught me, for the growth and change they have inspired in me.
When I think of Orson, I do not think of losing him, but of having him. I do not think of mourning him, but of my gratitude for him. He came into my life at a critical time, and inspired me to come to run to the mountain and give rebirth to my life. (Some people – lots of people – jeer at this and say, well, you repaid him by killing him after he bit three people, including a child. Yes, I did, and I would do it again in a minute. My life with animals is not about hurting people, and I hope I never abide it, or call it love.)
Lenore, my sweet black Lab kept love alive for me when I had no love, she showed me what I was looking for, a gift of incalculable value. I am thankful for her. She kept me from closing up and showed me the way to the real thing. I left my tears on the veterinarian’s floor.
Frieda, the Helldog, brought me and Maria together. She showed me how to help Maria to trust me when she trusted no man. She taught me the power of life and patience, and the measure of love. When I think of her, I give thanks to her.
Rose, my great border collie watched my back when I first came to Bedlam Farm. She saved my life more than once, got me up when I fell, kept angry rams away from me, stared down coyotes coming for lambs, gather the sheep in awful storms, was by my side every fraught and difficult minute. Her death was the greatest loss for me, I am nothing but grateful for her, I hope she is chasing sheep in dog heaven, not waiting for me at some multi-colored bridge. I don’t wish such a narrow life for her, she is entitled to freedom.
Elvis, my swiss steer, taught me how to communicate with animals, he also showed me the importance of responsibility. I had no business having 3,000 pound steer, he was not a pet and could never be a pet. Sometimes you love by letting go.
This morning, I thought about Chloe, our pony. I miss her spirited self and her morning kiss to me. I miss taking her photograph. I also know that Bedlam Farm will be much easier to manage now. Less mud and manure, less hay to buy, less need for rotational grazing, more time with the donkeys, who always had to get out of her way, less danger for Red, who she stomped more than once. Less guilt and pressure for Maria, who simply didn’t have enough time for her.
Is this cold and callous, or is it just honest? Chloe is in a great place, so are we, she taught us much about horses and responsibility, I am grateful for her, not sad for her.
Every time I look on Facebook, which is not very often any more, I see a river of grief and grieving and lament. For dogs and cats who are sick, dying, or gone. I think the most common phrase on FB is “sorry for your loss,” and I am estranged from this, since I only write about what I love about my animals, not about how sad I am about them. When I read this passages of lament, I always want to say, “but wasn’t there anything good about the dog to remember? Anything to celebrate?”
Death is a part of life, I accept one, I get the other. That’s the deal, the non-negotiable contract. I let their spirits go, and refresh mine by loving another. Either something is broken in me, or something is found. Not up for me to say.
Grief is healthy, grief is important, we all must confront it in our own way. Grief is not a choice, but a process, and no one call tell me or you how to do it. My idea is this: I confront grief with gratitude, every time, with a renewed commitment to the life I have and the animals I can live with.
I thank you, dear animals, for the many gifts you have given me, the smiles, love and connection, the photos, writing and books. I am overwhelmed with gratitude for your presence in my life, and the things you have taught me about life and connection. Every time, you have made me a better human being.
John Halloran is a big, strapping Irishman, he moved to the country after he returned from the New York City Police Department’s Water Unit and started a company called J& H Mechanical, he fixes, installs and maintains wood stoves and fireplaces. Yesterday, the farmhouse filled with smoke, one of the chimneys attached to the wood stove got clogged there was no draft.
It was a bit hairy getting the smoldering logs out of the fireplaces and out into the snow. I called John and he showed up this morning, he is a warm, conscientious and very good man. He climbed up on the roof and saw that the cap was clogged, he cleaned it out checked the bolts on the stove door, and we had our wood stove fire doing.
John is one of the people you really need to know if you live up her and want a wood stove.
He is a genuinely nice man, he always comes when there is trouble. If I’m not home, I just tell him to come in and do his work, he will live a bill.
I admire the lives of these traveling workers, they live out of their big trucks and ride all day long. They never know what the day willl bring, but whatever it is, they can handle it.
They live outdoors, are their own bosses, and avoid the corporate lifestyle. In a sense, they are a way of life.
I see John once or twice a year, it is always a pleasure to see him and he always does a great job, he is funny and good to talk to. When I met him a few years ago, I saw that he was crying. It turns out his English bulldog had just died. He loved the dog dearly, he spent most evenings on the floor with her wrestling. He took her everywhere in his truck as he drove all over upstate New York. I have him some of my books, but I don’t know if he ever read them.
Every time we meet, we talk about his getting another dog, his wife is resisting, the kids are out of the house and they are free to travel. We know this story. But John is pining away for another dog, either a French Bulldog or an English Bulldog. He loves wiping their faces every day – they often have respiratory problems – and he especially misses her at night.
Up here in the country, I have noticed that the big men in trucks often have small dogs that ride around with them in their big trucks. These are tough people, their dogs just melt their hearts, the dogs reveal their soft hearts.
John will talk about that Bulldog forever, but it is never tiresome, it is uplifting. He sure loved that dog.
I told John he needs a dog. He asked me to keep a lookout for an English Bulldog. I will do that.
People who love dogs as much as you, I told John, should have a dog.
I’ve said several times that Kelly Nolan, who I photograph often, has a smile that can light up a room, and this photograph reminds me of it. I took my manual focus Petzval 58 lens to the Bog, and I had a lot of trouble with it, I couldn’t seem to get it adjusted to the lights in the tavern at night.
The photos were way too light or way too dark. When I got it on the computer, I played with the brightness and detail and bit, and there was Kelly, lighting up the room.
I played with the ISO and moved around and I got this dazzle of light and color, which I actually ended up liking. A different kind of portrait, but a portrait still. To me, it captured Kelly’s radiance, the power of her smile to light up a room. The Petzvan lens is challenging me look at the world differently and think differently about what photograph is. In a sense, this one captures Kelly’s spirit as well as any conventional portrait. In a way, it is Kelly’s spirit.
