During the Iran-Iraq war of the 1980s, Iraqi president Saddam Hussein held a meeting with his senior advisers to set the course of action during the stalemate of that protracted war. One of his advisers suggested that Hussein publicly step down as leader of Iraq, just as a ruse of course, with the desired result being Iran standing down their belligerence. Saddam Hussein heard his adviser out. Then he asked the rest of the men in the conference room: “Who else supports this idea?” Nobody raised his hand. Hussein gestured for the adviser to follow him out of the room and once outside, shot him in the head. Then he rejoined the meeting.
What does that have to do with a visit to the American countryside? You’ll see.
We recently went out into the countryside to visit a family farm in the rolling hills where we picked apples last fall. The place is run by robust country boys and beautiful healthy girls. But there was insanely loud, alien music booming from just behind the main store. It was Central American laborers having a party. Are the owners trying to keep the customers away?
We spent a short time on the farm doing what we came there for. But with how hot and humid it was, we wrapped it up quickly. By the time we walked back, the volume of the music had been turned way down.
Aside: there is a short history lesson here. It’s on importing third world agricultural labor: Haiti, antebellum South, French Algeria, Rhodesia, South Africa. The first generation of laborers is grateful to work. The second generation thinks that they should own the land.
That story about Saddam Hussein executing his advisor. Looking ahead to after the West is reconquered by European man, there will once again be hand-rubbing about bringing in cheap foreign labor. In every such instance our descendants will be wise to ask, “Who else supports this idea?” Then put a bullet in everyone who does.
We’re on course toward interesting times, when with the passing of the Baby Boomer generation which, for all of its failings, does provide a measure of competence in public service along with demographic ballast, the institutions of the United States will not be seen as legitimate by anyone. The nationalist American Right will see the US federal government as a hostile occupant. The brown Left will see it as an impediment to violence against Whites and to the confiscation of our property.
So we drove all that distance just to head back home after fifteen minutes? No way. I said, “Let’s go to Amish country.” The beautiful day was ours and ours only. My idea was enthusiastically received. After a long drive, we were among the Amish.
A recent post about Eighties movies had a bit about the 1985 film Witness and some discussion in the comments about the Amish.
Just a few observation: young Amish men, teenage boys in particular, look like rock stars. Literally, that was my first and lasting impression. Lean, confident, and all had the same scissors-cut hairstyle where their locks of hair abruptly ended without tapering. The young women were slender plain-Janes. With female vanity being frowned upon in that culture, their natural beauty expresses itself in their bright eyes. And there were the occasional stunners. One I did a transaction with was a tall, gorgeous blue-eyed young woman in a white bonnet and modest traditional dress. White bonnets are worn by married women. Single women, which is practically none over the age of 20, wear black bonnets. Amish women don’t wear makeup or jewelry because that’s considered vain.
The glow of nordic human beings who had never gazed into a glowing screen.
A funny thing I noticed behind a business where the Amish park their horse-drawn buggies was a sign in their German-derived dialect: “Denkie fa da gaul sie scheisse uf picka!” I speak enough German to figure out what that means: “Thank you for picking up your horse shit!”
It was a fantastic day out in the country. Soul cleansing. It was time to head back and of the various anecdotes, I’ll end on this one:
Starting my drive home, I crested a hill and saw two young Amish girls on a roadside pulloff area selling home-baked pies. That’s what the sign said. I pulled over just as they came into my view over the hilltop. The older girl wore a black bonnet and she stood further back. The younger girl, still a child and so without head covering, approached my open passenger window with a smile.
“Hi ladies, what kinds of pies do you have?” I asked.
The little girl resolutely explained: “We had the large pies but they are sold out. But we still have the small pies.”
She spoke with an overenounciation of someone whose English is excellent but not her native language. Come to think of it, that’s how I talk. Anyway, I thought her reply adorably missed the meaning of my question.
“What kinds of fruits in the pies, I mean.”
Beaming with pride about her home baking and with a what other kind of pie could it possibly be, she cheerfully said: “We have shoofly pies.”
I had no idea what a shoofly pie is but I said: “I’ll take one.”
What a sunny way of ending our visit to the Amish. The world felt so good and so young. Weeks later, it still does.
We each had a bit of the shoofly pie as I drove home. My wife said, “I can tell the crust is made with fresh cow’s milk.” She was right. The pie crust, solid but powdery as all good pie crusts are, nevertheless had a creamy sort of taste. Yeah, that organic whole milk from the store is not exactly real milk. The modern world is fake and it will continue to get more and more fake until we take back what’s ours.
If you liked this travelogue, visit its older companion piece: my account of a daytrip to the big city.