Jill of few trades
 
Specialization is good, even necessary ... and yet, a certain self-sufficiency is lost. Cast into the wilderness, few of us would survive. Stripped of our technology, could we live as well as the original First Nations people or pioneers? Not a chance. Published: The Vancouver Sun, May 5, 2001 by Deborah Jones Yellow granules of yeast slide off the silver spoon, tumble into warm sugary water, seethe with explosive growth. Soon the kitchen fills with the unmistakable pungency of live yeast. As the mixture takes on a frothy appearance, I stir in oil, trickle in salt, perhaps crack in an egg, maybe toss in some herbs. I sprinkle on flour until the whole sticky mess is so thick the wooden spoon will no longer budge. Then, I tip it into a mound of flour and knead long and hard until my arms are tired and the dough is the consistency of an ear lobe. From its gooey start to its end as a piping hot, golden brown and oh-so-fragrant loaf, making bread from scratch is a sensory pleasure. And, as is evident from the surprise with which people react to my occasional breadmaking, it's also a dying tradition. Making bread makes no economic sense. My time would be much more profitably spent working at my specialized journalism job; bread is conveniently and cheaply obtained from people whose speciality is baking -- or even a bread machine. But then, economics is not the point. I like making bread, on the rare occasions I have time for it. And as we collectively careen through our busy lives, becoming ever more specialized and in some ways more limited in our outlook on life, I regard my bread as the last crumb left from the lifestyle of my forebears. Specialization is key to progress, for many species. Consider a slime mould, composed of billions and billions of unspecialized cells. It will always be, well, a slime mould. A more evolved organism can see, hear and move, because each cell has a special job. Specialization within a group enables a bee hive or an ant hill to thrive as a community -- much as we humans do, in a more sophisticated and (we like to think) more deliberate way. Specialization is good, even necessary ... and yet, with our highly advanced evolution into computer programmers or biologists or even writers, a certain self-sufficiency is lost. Cast into the wilderness, few of us would survive. Stripped of our technology, could we live as well as the original First Nations people or pioneers? Not a chance. Specialization has evolved hand in hand with our consumer society, points out Colin Stevens, curator of the Burnaby Village Museum. The museum, a re-creation of life in 1925, often receives donations of household lasts used to repair shoes. Nobody uses them anymore; few would know how to. "Today we would never dream of repairing our shoes, other than with a little glue. Basically, we throw them away and buy another pair," says Stevens. "A lot of people used to do their own repairs, from carpentry to auto mechanical," he notes. "You didn't have a cell phone to call for help ... we often feel we're helpless at the least problem, whereas a grandparent might have had the skills to deal with a flat tire, clogged sink, or broken door lock." Because of this loss of skills, the museum, which opens today for a new season, is having a hard time finding people able to demonstrate the use of its artifacts, from steam engines to the blacksmith's forge. It would be folly to only look at the past with fond and fuzzy nostalgia. Things were bloody tough -- no antibiotics, poor nutrition, early mortality, few machines, low literacy rate ... life was for many an exercise in endurance. But in many ways, those who came before us had basic survival skills that we moderns have either forgotten, never bothered to learn or blithely discarded. Even highly specialized artisans in the old days would have basic everyday skills, from bread-making to construction. Something almost intangible is being lost. A friend from Japan does not know how to make rice on a stove-top, because she's always had an electric rice cooker. A friend with a nearly-grown son rues that his boy doesn't know how to handle the tools with which he's so comfortable. An elderly man I know can build a building from the ground up with no help except for the heavy hauling and lifting. He can draft the blueprint, create the foundation, raise the wood frame, put on the roof, do the brick and stonework with an artisan's skill, install the plumbing and electrical wiring, make fine cabinetry and paint the walls. Entirely apart from his paying job, he's actually done all of this on several occasions, for the satisfaction of it, and his buildings stand proudly. The boomer generation on down lacks such diverse skills. My cohorts may be wizards on the computer or have arcane knowledge of molecular biology, but most would be hard pressed to hit a nail on the head with a hammer. I couldn't sew a shirt for love nor money, and I wouldn't have a clue how to plant a field of wheat or butcher a chicken. Do I want to? Of course not! I love my salary from my specialized job. I love the wondrous technology that makes my life so comfortable. But I also see value in traditional skills, much the way I value a liberal arts education and treasure an eclectic range of interests. Even so, I have no desire to live a "traditional" life. I do, however, want to make bread. Occasionally. Deborah Jones is a member of The Vancouver Sun editorial board. Copyright Deborah Jones 2001 About this website: Text and photos by Deborah Jones except where otherwise noted. Please contact me for reprint rights. All material copyrighted ../About.htmlshapeimage_1_link_0
The last crumbs of our ancestral skills
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