View from the Hill

As most of you already know, we haven’t yet managed to get running water. On a very limited budget it’s difficult to do everything at once, and our building costs alone have been enough to soak up most of our income, not to mention the many unforseen disasters along the way. Thanks to a generous sponsor, however, we were able, finally, to have our internet satellite dish installed.

Now this, to our mind, was a gift direct from the gods. With Internet, we will eventually be able to develop an income that will cover the cost of our bigger projects, like a water hook-up, something we would never be able to afford without a reasonable influx of cash. Not everybody sees the logic in this, however.

We live on the fringes of a small community, and for the most part it’s not a bad experience. People seem to be, if not rooting for us, at least accepting our presence. There is one person in the community, however, who feels we should have invested in water instead of the Internet. “You have to set your priorities”, this person has the nerve to say. “The Internet is just a toy.” While the opinions of the unenlightened shouldn’t bother me (this person has also opined that all women are stupid), ignorance is always irksome, especially when it’s flaunted so loudly and so often.

And I’m irked.

As homesteaders in a rural area where there are few, if any, employment opportunities, the Internet is highly valuable. My partner and I are both experts in our respective fields, but like anyone else, we need the tools to do the job. Saying the Internet is just a toy is akin to saying that a truck driver’s rig is just a toy, or that the cook’s oven is, or the barber’s scissors.

In my opinion, detractors who tell us that the Internet is a toy have not sufficient capacity to realise its value as a tool, their own experience of it being limited to game and pornography sites. That’s just ignorant. But it does raise the question of the importance of being connected to the world from a homesteading viewpoint.

I’m certain we’re not the only homesteaders out there who work remotely, and I’m equally certain that we not the only ones to use the Web as a vehicle for learning. It’s good to have a ready knowledgebase at one’s disposal. When illness strikes, for example, and there isn’t a doctor, the Internet provides enough basic knowledge to help control the situation until we can seek the necessary assistance.

The Internet also provides valuable assistance with other projects, such as gardening. When our food supply is being threatened by foe or fungus, we are able to remedy the situation–and thus save ourselves from going hungry–by untilising information found online. And it also allows us to communcate with expert homesteaders who have valuable insights to share on things other people may not even give a thought to. Who else would know how to make enzymes for the toilet?

The list goes on.

Like all homesteaders, we have to make choices based upon practicality. Sometimes those choices aren’t easy. I’d love to have running water, believe me, but in our situation common sense dictated that steady income would be the better option in the long run, and access to information is paramount for us, living as we do. We could have gotten water with the donation, yes, but to forego an Internet connection meant being without sufficient income–and knowledge–to survive, let alone progress.

Would anyone reading this have chosen differently?

I may be city slicker to some, but I’m also one determined homesteader with a stubborn streak the likes of which can only come from my Newfoundland genetics, and said streak stood me in good stead today.

My partner is down (and I mean down) with what we genuinely suspect is the Norfolk virus. Yesterday he was in bad shape, but this morning saw him completely out of the game. And so that left yours truly at the helm.

If it were only a matter of standing on the bridge, it wouldn’t be a problem, but captaining this ship means tackling unenviable tasks like chopping wood and servicing the generator. But hey, I signed on as second in command, so after lighting the morning fire, I headed for the woodpile.

It took me several goes before I got into the ‘swing’ of things. Splitting hardwood is like splitting concrete if you don’t hit the grain right; this I immediately discovered…the axe simply bounces right back at you. That is, if you manage to hit the wood in the first place. I admit to missing completely on the first few tries, which left me stumbling under my own momentum. It also really pissed me off. Bested by a piece of dead wood? I don’t think so.

I attacked with a new level of determination.

When the first junk finally came apart, I realized how very empowering chopping wood can be. There’s something infinitely satisfying in the sound of wood giving way beneath the axe, the clinking sound of a split breaking free, the clunk of the axe as it bites into the block. And there’s something comfortably reassuring in being able to chop the wood that gives us heat and sustains life. After thirty minutes or so I had a stack of hardwood splits and a fine sense of personal accomplishment.

Now for the engine that powers the ark. I located the dip stick, checked the oil and topped it up. It took two hands to lift the gas can, and the quivering of my arm muscles would have measured on the Richter scale, but I managed to get it gassed up. Of course our generator wouldn’t be a key start model—nothing so easy—so I was fairly hopping up and down with glee when she rumbled to life on the first pull. Power to the people!

And power to me.

After today I’m assured that if I ever have to sail the ship by myself (heaven forbid), I’ll be all right. There’s nothing that a good dose of Newfoundland pluck can’t accomplish, even for a city slicker.

So can I chop wood? Can I start a generator? Can I move a mountain? Of course I can, I’m a Newfie!