The squirrels are busy today piling up acorns. I’m a home canner, and I’ve been checking my pantry. Like the squirrels, I have backup sources for winter food. And I can go to the grocery store. Even in snow, three miles to town isn’t far in a car.
I imagine my ancestors as they cured, dried, and canned to prepare for the lean months. Outside of war zones, most of us don’t have this life and death purpose regarding food. Do we miss the struggle? Could this be why so many post-apocalyptic novels are published?
What is apocalypse anyway?
Ask the people of Barbuda. Their island was demolished by Hurricane Irma. Uninhabitable. They all had to evacuate.
Ask the people of Puerto Rico. Ask the people of St. Croix, St. Thomas, and St. John. No clean water. No supplies coming in. No necessary medicines.
I’ve been a fan of post-apocalyptic fiction since someone gave me a battered copy of Pat Frank’s Alas, Babylon in the early 70s. But this isn’t fiction, folk. And no amount of ammo, rice, and beans can take the place of good public policy.
What are we doing now to make sure that post-apocalyptic fiction doesn’t become reality?
Apocalypse Farm 