Better Off_ Flipping the Switch on Technology - Eric Brende [100]
As we were sitting in the living room, from Mary all at once came a burst of sniffles. I looked over and saw that her head was buried in a handkerchief. Allergies? I didn’t think so.
I put my arm around her, assured her we’d be okay, and tried to think of the bright side. I pointed out that now at last she would have more time to be with her mother.
“Well…But I hardly ever had time to get together with her when I was in Boston even though she lived only an hour away.”
“True,” I added unthinkingly. “She spent almost a whole week here with you, both times.”
“Yeah…And that was more time than I’ve spent alone with my mother in my life.”
Another bout of tears was unleashed. When she was done crying, Mary looked at me open-mouthed, like an accountant who has just discovered an entirely new principle of bookkeeping. She spoke quietly: “We do have more time here.”
Mary’s head fell back on my arm, and I pondered the last piece of evidence. My quest to discover how little technology was actually needed for actual human comfort and leisure was now over, and I believe I had an answer: no more than the Minimites used. Maybe less. As Mary’s mother is our witness, even in the busy season we had more time. This was another way to say that we had fallen in time, taken our time. The relaxed rhythms of manual labor, like some unseen conductor’s beat, coaxed into synchrony the oddest array of harmonizing parts. We had drummed our wooden spoons against the kitchen kettles, mingled with the brass and winds of the barn animals, and soared cerebrally to the accompaniment of string beans. And after much arduous polishing and practicing, we had finally struck a chord with the whole collection.
The secret lay, much as anything, in simultaneity. Things that technology had separated were reunited. The results were more than efficient; they were symphonic. In an orchestral performance an oboe warbles beside a viola and the two produce a lush blend. On the porch of a working household, you visit with your mother-in-law while pushing the centers of tomatoes into a bowl, and the breeze brushes against your face, and the leaves rustle—and likewise music emanates. And when your part is done, there is plenty of time to breathe during the rests.
The marvel of such unplanned synchrony is one surely worthy of a student of economics, perhaps even of an addendum to Adam Smith’s treatise on the division of labor. But we had learned the lesson just in time to leave; and we now knew it went far beyond efficiency. We had found a home here. The attachments defied any rational accounting: our cozy cottage nestled under the hill; its airy interior and porches; the way the sun set behind the trees; the way the neighbors dropped in constantly and unexpectedly; and the neighbors…our friends…
I returned Isabel to the blacksmith. We arranged to have an acquaintance from town who owned a pickup truck haul us and our belongings to the nearest car rental agency.
Then the time came for goodbyes. I could feel a kind of fuzziness overcoming me, a dread at what was to be. I was not good at this sort of thing and tended to go numb. When we saw the Joneses for the last time, Carol and Mary wouldn’t stop talking. Nate wouldn’t either, even though we had recently had a small falling-out over scripture. But now the stream of verbiage was oddly welcome; I couldn’t get enough of it; it filled the gap. Like Edward, but in a more benign way, he was a Bible-worshipper. But he was also a person with a big heart, and after so many hours hauling sorghum and hammering nails with him, I realized more than ever how little it mattered that our opinions differed. Mary and Carol shared a womanly hug, and Nate and I shook hands. Before I knew it, the farewell I had dreaded was over, and I wished I could replay it.
Our last moment with the Millers came suddenly and shockingly. They stopped by to collect the keys, looking polite and crinkly-eyed and a little hesitant. We stood facing each other. No