REMEMBERING WENDELL BERRY

                  I'm fighting tears at the loss of a giant, perhaps the most articulate voice for good farming and right cultural living in America:  my friend and mentor Wendell Berry.  He passed away at his home in Kentucky yesterday, Aug. 31, at the age of 92.

                  I had the privilege of speaking with him numerous times at conferences; if there was ever a man to revere, he would be the one.  Every time I dig my heels in as an iconoclast--no smart phone, never using an app, never texting, never receiving messages, no AI use--I think of Wendell, bigger than life and always, always, always questioning techno-convenience.

                  For sure, he was less hypocritical than I am.  I write on a laptop.  I spent the day with him once at his home and in his writing perch; he showed me his technique.  Number two pencil--the man wouldn't even use an ink pen.  He wrote in spiral notebooks--wonder he didn't write on papyrus.  He wrote every morning in his writing cabin on stilts on the edge of a river.  The walls were all glass so he could see outdoors; it gave the sense of being nested in a tree. 

                  He wrote on the right side of the notebook and then the next day, made his corrections on the left side of the spiral.  Then he'd give them to Tanya, his wife, to type up and send to editors and publishers.  He wrote more than 50 books, many of them compilations of magazine articles.  I kidded him that he was cheating.  I said: "Wendell, it's not fair that you just put a bunch of magazine articles together, select your favorite one for a title, and have another book.  When I write, I start with a blank page and write a book from scratch."  After being cancelled by Mother Earth News in 2020, I compiled all my Pitchfork Pulpit columns into a book by that title.  Thank you for permission, Wendell. 

                  I asked him to write the Foreword for my book The Sheer Ecstasy of Being a Lunatic Farmer.  In typical Wendell fashion, he said "No, but I'll write you a letter you can put in."  That book does not have a foreword; I honored his wish and it has instead "A letter from Wendell Berry."  Yes, it's a Foreword, but with an unconventional name.  Iconic Wendell.

                  He and I were asked to speak at a lecture series at the University of Virginia.  The local TV station set up out on the sidewalk to interview each of us.  When they were ready, their point person came in to get Wendell.  "We're ready to do an interview; could you please come out now?"  Wendell, as courteously as possible, said "No."

                  Thinking he simply wanted to delay for some reason, the TV crew waited ten minutes and sent the emissary back in.  Finally, after the third time, they got the message:  Wendell didn't do cameras.  Period.  I remember their desperate look as they turned to me, concerned that I would be equally disdainful of cameras.  "Mr. Salatin, do you do cameras?"  The question came with such temerity I had to laugh.  "Yes, I'm on my way," I responded, and I could see their facial countenance consternation move to relief.

                  My one great regret is that I could never get him to come visit us at Polyface.  He was close several times, but he despised travel.  He was such a prophet guru, he could demand almost any accommodation and people jumped to oblige.  As he aged, he became more and more reclusive.  I've read that one of the marks of a genius is spending large blocks of time in isolation.  Wendell's genius grew out of his meditations.  The dozens of prestigious awards bestowed on him never altered his "awe, shucks" persona.  He was ever true blue.

                  In my own journey to convictional values, his 1977 The Unsettling of America is foundational.  That book lit a fire in my soul that never dimmed.  It was like the footers in constructing a house.  Pregnant Berryisms like "what's wrong with us creates more GDP than what's right with us."  How can you forget such precise and profound phraseology? 

                  We've lost a great man, America.  Often described as the original voice of the sustainable agriculture movement, Wendell never wavered from his themes of local, ecological, living by belief.  We could use a lot more of that.  Whenever I read anything he's written, I come away shaking my head, hoping I could grow up and write like that someday.

                  If you don't have a favorite Wendell phrase, I encourage you to find one.  He's deep.  He's not light reading.  But neither is the Bible.  Wendell's writing hews as close to the truth as any I've ever read.  Wow, how I'll miss that Number Two pencil on spiral notebook paper.  Wendell, Rest in Peace.  Yes, you can cry with me.  Grief season pays the utmost respect to a voice silenced.  But his pencil lives on and we are all richer for it.

                  What is your favorite Wendell Berry memory, phrase, or thought?