The Rural Life
by Verlyn Klinkenborg
Little, Brown
The editorials of The New York Times tend to be stern and authoritative. Compared to the William Safire's conservative bluster, Maureen Dowd's gossipy invective or Bob Herbert's righteous crusades, the editorial column can seem compartively dry.
But every once in a while, a little line illustration of a silo crops up, and you know Verlyn Klinkenborg is in the house.
For the past few years, Klinkenborg's "The Rural Life" has been a consistently sweet note in the editorial column's typically solemn song. Sharing observations from rural America in a tone both poetic and thoughtful, Klinkenborg's observations of living on the land mesmerize with a power perhaps unique to the newspaper. Michiko Kakutani, Seth Mydans and R.W. Apple often pack the same kind of oomph, but Klinkenborg still stands out in a tough crowd.
To the typical urban hipster, Klinkenborg's dispatches may as well be filed from the smoldering surface of Alpha Centauri. Who actually thinks about trout fishing anymore? Who among us has time to contemplate the care and feeding of honeybees? Who cares about the smell of rain in the countryside? It's to Klinkenborg's credit that he can express something so completely alien — and connect so clearly.
The gap is wide. In the city, a month-by-month journal of nature and the weather might run something like this:
January
Cold outside. Wearing a heavy coat when traveling between computer at home and computer at work. World Wide Web is functioning fine.
February
Still pretty cold. Cooked a good chicken pot pie. Is that snow out there? What's the difference between snow and frost, again?
March
Warmer. Carrying an umbrella. Indoors still basically the same temperature. Internet is still working fine.
April
Green stuff on the ground — grass and/or weeds of some sort. Wearing lighter clothing when walking to the subway. Subway basically the same temperature.
May
Is it time to fire up the grill? Almost. Saw a bird. Not sure what kind. An eagle? Probably not. Internet still up.
"The Rural Life" follows roughly the same pattern, but each month stretches on for page after luxurious page of description, as Klinkenborg explores the passage of time and rituals of nature in locations as diverse as upstate New York, the Rocky Mountains and Iowa. The same 12 months seen through Klikenborg's eyes display the full sweep of the seasons, enough to make a transplanted Northerner deeply nostalgic, while utterly bewildering a Southern Californian.
Though the author is only middle-aged, the patient, deeply poetic nature of his prose gives the reader the impression that he's ancient like Methuselah. It's easy to picture Klinkenborg hiding out in the woods and calmly observing rural progress for years at a time. You can see him as a rural hearth spirit, sending little dispatches to The New York Times hidden inside of hollow acorns toted by specially trained messenger ducks.
A few nights ago an enormous flight of blackbirds emerged from the shadow of the Bighorn Mountains. The blackbirds flew across open pasture and out over the low ground where Little Goose Creek flows. From the bluff overlooking the creek, I could see for a moment what shape the flock had taken. It was a lens of blackbirds. It neared the crown of a great cottonwood, and suddenly one bird, then another, plunged downward, dying on the wing it seemed, into the branches. The flock swirled, then settled. There was a momentary hush. Then, as if a school bell had sounded, the tree erupted in chatter, which rang out across the high ground.
Interspersed with Klinkenborg's unadulterated observations on nature are thoughts about the way humans touch their environment. Outdoor festivals, farming, hunting and fishing are all fair game; the ancient and sacred relationship between people and the land is central to "The Rural Life." At times, Klinkenborg also lets his Thoreauvian observer's mask slip to talk about his family, but the episodes never feel forced. They are neatly slotted into the book, a story of how people shape — and are shaped by — the natural world.
If there's anything to complain about in "The Rural Life," it's that the sheer richness and visual density of its writing can be overwhelming. The bite-sized chunks of Klinkenborg that The New York Times sometimes produces are never enough; "The Rural Life" as a book can actually overwhelm with its descriptive power. Break it up, and read slowly. When you can't manage to rent a car and head out to the wild areas that lurk hours from the electric corona of urban life, "The Rural Life" can help remind you why it's worth making the effort.
— James Norton (jim@flakmag.com)
