By Becky Bennett
Here in rural Pennsylvania, we’ve always had a built-in physical distance between ourselves and others, which has fostered an us-against-the-world self-sufficiency. It may be only a temporary advantage during this pandemic—we know the train wreck is coming—but we’ll take any edge we can get.
Here are some of the ways we’re managing. A lot of us don’t have the kinds of jobs you can do from home. We have the “life-sustaining” jobs that in many cases sustain those who can, in fact, work from home—many of us are garbage collectors, delivery people, caregivers, grocery store clerks, mail carriers and farmers.
Really, the true life-sustaining job in this country is farming. And thank goodness, farmers are still farming. For the rest of us, seeing farmers out and about doing the things they typically do in the spring lifts our spirits as always. But in seeing the farmers this year, we feel, with greater intensity and more fervent hope than ever, that life goes on. The more practical result is that we can get eggs, dairy products, produce and meat locally.
Many other jobs, for instance in construction, manufacturing and retail, are suspended, so those who can work are grateful albeit worried about the interpersonal contact required. (Hopefully, these jobs will continue to prove life-sustaining—rather than deadly—for us too).
We have other things going for us for which we’re also thankful. We find ourselves starting (properly distanced) conversations with, “At least we have . . .” and “If we had to, we could always . . ." There are bona fide preppers among us and we salute them, but nearly everyone in rural America has a prepper streak.
Thus, we say, “At least we have . . . a freezer full of deer meat . . . all the tomato sauce and peaches we canned last year . . . enough wood for the woodstove . . . well water . . . plenty of ammunition.” Yes, guns are involved in our conversations. More on that in a moment.
“If we had to, we could . . . head for the cabin or deer camp . . . ” Camps are our version of second homes in the Catskills or Hamptons. They may be trailers or shacks and don’t have much in the way of amenities other than some cans of baked beans, but they don’t have close neighbors either.
Of course, we still need social connection as much as anyone—and its absence has been a painful rift in the fabric of rural life: no more church services and suppers, bingo, AYCE feeds, meat raffles at the firehall—not even spring yard sales, for God’s sake. No one can go and see a new baby or the grandchildren. Like everyone else, we’ve turned to social media, where, unfortunately, we’re uniquely susceptible to scams, scares and fake news.
There’s talk of getting the gardens started and increasing their size. When you drive around, you see people outside . . . just digging. In the small towns, the lawns have greened up and those whose jobs are on hold have already mowed twice and precision-trimmed the bushes. We’re grateful to be able to go outdoors, walk, look off into the distance, hear birds singing and breathe fresh air.
Turkey season and trout season are around the corner. Which brings us to guns. For rural people, guns are both a link to potential food and a source of security. We can call 911, but realistically, a law enforcement response has always been many minutes or even hours away. It can only get worse in the weeks ahead.
So we’re cleaning guns and target-shooting just to be ready—during the week now, not just on weekends, you can go outside and hear bang, bang, bang all around. It can be oddly reassuring, although it does get old. More ominously, there are rumors of home break-ins and people are blustering on social media about confronting intruders with AR-15s. Sanity needs to prevail over edginess, so nobody shoots a family member. We need to remember we can’t shoot fear of the unknown.
While the pandemic has accentuated the working-class/urban divide in many ways, it will likely prove to be a great social leveler. We’re all in the same precarious canoe. Despite our swagger, many in rural America have been living on the edge for some time, and it won’t take much of a shove to tip us into the abyss. Our open spaces and lower incomes mean a lack of paid sick days, lack of health insurance, and limited health care, mobility, child care and elder care. We’ll need outside reinforcements.
We don’t control our fate, only what we do for each other. We’ll need the help of urban and suburban people, and they’ll need our help—our farmers, our ingenuity, resourcefulness and generosity—in ways we haven’t fully grasped yet. But when we do, may the rural determination to persevere and “figure it out” uplift us all.
Becky Bennett lives in south-central Pennsylvania and is a freelance writer and editor. She was editor of the Public Opinion newspaper in Chambersburg for 18 years. “Across the Divide” examines rural perspectives on issues facing Pennsylvania and the nation.
Here in rural Pennsylvania, we’ve always had a built-in physical distance between ourselves and others, which has fostered an us-against-the-world self-sufficiency. It may be only a temporary advantage during this pandemic—we know the train wreck is coming—but we’ll take any edge we can get.
Here are some of the ways we’re managing. A lot of us don’t have the kinds of jobs you can do from home. We have the “life-sustaining” jobs that in many cases sustain those who can, in fact, work from home—many of us are garbage collectors, delivery people, caregivers, grocery store clerks, mail carriers and farmers.
Really, the true life-sustaining job in this country is farming. And thank goodness, farmers are still farming. For the rest of us, seeing farmers out and about doing the things they typically do in the spring lifts our spirits as always. But in seeing the farmers this year, we feel, with greater intensity and more fervent hope than ever, that life goes on. The more practical result is that we can get eggs, dairy products, produce and meat locally.
Many other jobs, for instance in construction, manufacturing and retail, are suspended, so those who can work are grateful albeit worried about the interpersonal contact required. (Hopefully, these jobs will continue to prove life-sustaining—rather than deadly—for us too).
We have other things going for us for which we’re also thankful. We find ourselves starting (properly distanced) conversations with, “At least we have . . .” and “If we had to, we could always . . ." There are bona fide preppers among us and we salute them, but nearly everyone in rural America has a prepper streak.
Thus, we say, “At least we have . . . a freezer full of deer meat . . . all the tomato sauce and peaches we canned last year . . . enough wood for the woodstove . . . well water . . . plenty of ammunition.” Yes, guns are involved in our conversations. More on that in a moment.
“If we had to, we could . . . head for the cabin or deer camp . . . ” Camps are our version of second homes in the Catskills or Hamptons. They may be trailers or shacks and don’t have much in the way of amenities other than some cans of baked beans, but they don’t have close neighbors either.
Of course, we still need social connection as much as anyone—and its absence has been a painful rift in the fabric of rural life: no more church services and suppers, bingo, AYCE feeds, meat raffles at the firehall—not even spring yard sales, for God’s sake. No one can go and see a new baby or the grandchildren. Like everyone else, we’ve turned to social media, where, unfortunately, we’re uniquely susceptible to scams, scares and fake news.
There’s talk of getting the gardens started and increasing their size. When you drive around, you see people outside . . . just digging. In the small towns, the lawns have greened up and those whose jobs are on hold have already mowed twice and precision-trimmed the bushes. We’re grateful to be able to go outdoors, walk, look off into the distance, hear birds singing and breathe fresh air.
Turkey season and trout season are around the corner. Which brings us to guns. For rural people, guns are both a link to potential food and a source of security. We can call 911, but realistically, a law enforcement response has always been many minutes or even hours away. It can only get worse in the weeks ahead.
So we’re cleaning guns and target-shooting just to be ready—during the week now, not just on weekends, you can go outside and hear bang, bang, bang all around. It can be oddly reassuring, although it does get old. More ominously, there are rumors of home break-ins and people are blustering on social media about confronting intruders with AR-15s. Sanity needs to prevail over edginess, so nobody shoots a family member. We need to remember we can’t shoot fear of the unknown.
While the pandemic has accentuated the working-class/urban divide in many ways, it will likely prove to be a great social leveler. We’re all in the same precarious canoe. Despite our swagger, many in rural America have been living on the edge for some time, and it won’t take much of a shove to tip us into the abyss. Our open spaces and lower incomes mean a lack of paid sick days, lack of health insurance, and limited health care, mobility, child care and elder care. We’ll need outside reinforcements.
We don’t control our fate, only what we do for each other. We’ll need the help of urban and suburban people, and they’ll need our help—our farmers, our ingenuity, resourcefulness and generosity—in ways we haven’t fully grasped yet. But when we do, may the rural determination to persevere and “figure it out” uplift us all.
Becky Bennett lives in south-central Pennsylvania and is a freelance writer and editor. She was editor of the Public Opinion newspaper in Chambersburg for 18 years. “Across the Divide” examines rural perspectives on issues facing Pennsylvania and the nation.
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