Better Off_ Flipping the Switch on Technology - Eric Brende [6]
Mary hadn’t been kidding, either, when she said she wanted to live on a farm. But her idea of one was a three-acre lot in Ayer, the second-to-last town on the Boston westerly commuter line. (The train did closely skirt Walden Pond.) She had been house-hunting there in hopes of putting as much distance as she could between her home and her job—a job she disliked but needed in order to pay for the house. As a number cruncher by day, she wore a mouthpiece by night to keep from grinding her teeth. Most of her work consisted in transferring the contents of ledger sheets to ever-changing computer programs, by which she managed larger and larger accounting client pools.
It took a while for my proposition to sink in: a nonelectric hiatus, a telephoneless exile, a life that could pay its own way…
“But how do you wash the clothes?” she inquired.
When she asked this, she had been washing my clothes using an electric washing machine for several weeks already. My recovery was coming very slowly…
One day I reached in my mail slot and, under the pile of bills and advertisements, found the letter I had been waiting for. It was all set up. In careful, almost childish handwriting, mention was made of accommodations large enough for two.
Her reservations about clothes-washing notwithstanding, Mary was on the spot. Our relationship had heated up well beyond the level of friendship. Fortunately for me, she had never been emotionally attached to her job, and the potted plant in her office simply did not satisfy her hankering for the country. On the other hand, she had a list of unanswered questions: How heavy was the work? How long were the hours? What about refrigeration? What about food preparation? When I pointed out that people have been living without modern gadgetry for thousands of years, she finally gave in, brimming with curiosity to see how they did it.
We tied the knot at St. Paul’s Church ten days before the scheduled arrival at our new home. To live in close quarters with a group like this, you had to be properly married. It would be premature to say, however, whether ours was a marriage of convenience.
We decided to shoot for an expedition of eighteen months—enough time to experience a full change of season. Mary agreed to go along on one condition: that she would get the deciding vote in the decision of where to live after we finished our “fieldwork.”
And so, svelte assistant at my side, I set out in the general direction of a still-mysterious clique of manual laborers, imbued with one lone hope: that they might lend me a hand in my experiment. How hard and time-consuming was this life “without laborsaving machines”? And was it one Mary and I would consider leading ourselves? I dearly hoped the exercise would not amount to a sheer test of endurance. What I really wanted to discover was a balance between too much machinery and too little, or better yet, how to arrive at it wherever one found oneself. This knowledge was what modern society lacked and what I hoped my yet-unknown neighbors would provide some clue to.
Two
Paring Back
After honeymooning in Maine for ten days, we swung west in Mary’s red Escort, moving slowly and savoring the sights along our itinerary. But to reveal what they were or how far we traveled would give clues about the destination, which I have agreed not to disclose.
Amish groups relish public scrutiny little, but the settlement I approached was unusually well cloaked. Even though I knew where it was, I still