We pretend. We pretend to live the life of farmers, but in reality it is fake. It is make believe. We find it quaint, and we think that this what life should be like. But it isn’t. Not for us.
We do enjoy the farmer’s market and its stands with just some home-made jams, some lettuces and some eggs; and others with only jars of unprocessed honey.
In our community we try to share the spirit of neighbourliness by offering our surplus of apples to others, by borrowing machinery, and by thankfully accepting produce from B.’s plot.
But we don’t really live this life. We only pretend.
For we don’t get up at six every morning to milk the cows. Nor do we grow our own vegetables. We do not work outside in all weathers. Nor do we have to scrape and save to get by.
We are like Henry Thoreau and his Walden. He celebrated the simple life, pretended to live it. But in reality, he benefited from the town nearby, and from his mother, who would bring him her pies.
That’s us: celebrating rural life, but not living its hardships.
Enjoying our own type of Walden.