Better Off_ Flipping the Switch on Technology - Eric Brende [69]
It was happening as it had before. Physical motions were becoming automatic, freeing the mind for other interests. Muscle fibers meshed, synapses branched, the heart pumped, lungs swelled, and sweat glands—now at full throttle—discharged. Meanwhile, I listened to Gideon. When the dinner bell clanged, I was actually disappointed to have to climb from the wagon.
If the body shares characteristics with an automatic machine, then one of these is its need for fuel. But just as the body is much more than a machine, so is its food much more than combustible fodder. Instead of gasoline, we set our sights on a banquet-size table laden with homemade mashed potatoes streaming with fresh-churned butter; trays of tender meats; loaves of fresh bread that pulled apart like cotton; fresh greens and vegetables from the garden; bowls of cup cheese; sweet gherkins and berry preserves; cake and fruit crunches topped with fresh cream.
Lunch was a culinary gala, an intense communal event mixing art and nature, as threshing had been. Toward the end of the meal, after most of the men had had their fill (but I still had half a plate), one began to recount another story. The day before, a customer visiting his roadside stand had insisted on “ ‘eggs from a hen.’ The last time he bought some, they”—munch—“came from a carton!”
The room rocked with laughter.
“I heard a news item,” said someone to my left, “that they want to make it illegal”—munch—“to eat eggs in some places.”
Everyone chorused, “Eggs?”
“Too much cholesterol. They said”—munch—“the average American doesn’t get enough exercise to burn it off. They’re innerducing legislation”—munch—“somewhere about this.”
More raucous laughter.
“They ought to make it illegal not to exercise.”
“I bet a lot more people die”—munch—“from that tubacka every year. I’d like to see the status ticks on that.”
“What if everyone was just given enough ground”—munch—“to grow their own food on? Then”—munch—“these lazy people would have to work!”
“It won’t”—munch—“happen.”
Conversation circled around the table, and before I knew it I had finished my dessert. I looked at the cleaned plate and frowned. I hadn’t even tasted the last two courses.
That automation of physical functions can cut both ways.
On the wagon after dinner there was a little flatulence, a little belching. We couldn’t contain all the emissions here.
When the temperature exceeds a hundred degrees, even the most elegant bodily mechanisms begin to approach their limits. Mary and I had heard about a water hole somewhere near Nate’s “Pa Kettle” homestead, and promptly set out for it. On reaching his place, we found him hitching up his wagon and loading up his children. He had the same idea.
We joined about five of his children on the flatbed and bumped across a pasture full of cattle, then down a terrifying embankment towards the creek. (Afterwards I realized thankfully that Nate must have installed his brakes.) After tying the horses to a tree, he led us along a dry creek bottom for several minutes. Then we came to the swimming hole.
I say “hole.” Nestled in and alongside an exposed rock face, with ledges in place of diving boards, lay a pool so magnificent one could only pause and gape. Ancient craning trees shaded the mirrorlike surface, which reflected back depths of green foliage. The trees, the water, and the rocks formed a kind of faux cavern, a den of terrestrial refreshment. Nate’s children darted ahead of us and jumped in; we set down our towels and books and followed them—kerplunk