Misty Morgan’s Guide to Happiness in a Post-Apocalyptic World

For those of you who are a little fuzzy on your history, let’s review.

There are some who insist that the Apocalypse began with the war with China, and while this is mostly true, the real cause is far more mundane.

According to my extensive research, it actually began with the demise of the humble honeybee. The loss of the honeybee, a totally preventable occurrence according to my sources, devastated the world’s food supply. For example, do any of you even know what an apple is? Or a kumquat? Let alone what one tastes like? I think not.

The scientists of the day predicted dire consequences if the world did not mend its ways. These warnings largely fell on deaf and greedy ears, because once upon a time the Arange President ruled the world, and he decided that scientists and their dire predictions were bad for business, so he declared them heretics and had them all burned at the stake.

Of course, once food shortages became critical, the Arange President lost weight, causing him to turn a sickly yellow. He sought to bring the scientists back. Sadly, there weren’t any to bring back. And by then, the damage was irreversible.

Well, things went downhill from there, as you might imagine. A resistance movement, made up of postal workers and pop stars, led a revolt that resulted in the overthrow of the Arange President, who was flung into the mighty Potomac from atop the Washington Monument and sunk into the river’s oily depths, never to be seen again. But by then the damage was done. The scramble for food led, as you know, to nuclear war and a mini ice age.

When the ice melted and the air cleared, we all came out and danced for joy, ate every animal, tree, and plant we could find, promptly went to war with each other, and nearly wiped ourselves out again.

Fortunately, we humans are a resilient lot. Nevertheless, life remains precarious and we must be ever vigilant. But I, for one, refuse to succumb to all the doom and gloom that seems to be the prevailing attitude; therefore, I offer this little guide as a blueprint for retaining one’s good spirits even in the most dire of circumstances. May you find it so.

In this first segment, I discuss the Importance of Securing Your Food Source.

Hungry people can become downright nasty, and should not be allowed access to weapons, put in positions of leadership, or allowed to breed. Letting people go hungry when you have the means to feed them is evil and ultimately self-defeating, as it can lead to rebellion and war.

This is perhaps one of the most important lessons we can learn from our past.

We must, of course, ensure that every child is taught the skills necessary to feed themselves. While self-reliance is an important goal, it is in our collective best interest to guarantee that no one goes hungry. We must do better than those who lived before us, or at some point, we shall just blow ourselves up again. And that means we must learn to share what we have with those who have less.

We need to remember that relatively few of us don’t want to work for what we need, but there is a small number who, for some reason or another, simply can’t provide for themselves. We can either help them or put them on a raft and set them adrift on the sea.

Some of you would choose the second option. Frankly, I think society would be better served if you were set adrift. Which would leave more food for the rest of us.

Win-win. What could be better?

But I digress . . .

Many animals did not survive the Apocalypse. Some species were wiped out completely; others barely survived and are slowly making a comeback. (Such as the human species. And cats.) It’s hard to know fully what survived and what didn’t because no one has taken a complete inventory. That being said, the one animal to survive relatively unscathed is the chicken, rumored to be a descendant of the mythical dinosaur.

This, of course, is a good thing. They provide us with both eggs and meat, if treated with proper respect.

Take my grandfather, for example. He loves his chickens. He treats them with great respect and is grateful for all they provide, and in return, they happily produce an abundance of eggs. This is, of course, predicated on my grandfather’s assurance that no hen will ever go into the soup pot before her time.

(Roosters, however, are another story.)

As a child, I remember my grandfather leaning back in his chair, a far away look in his eyes, muttering, “So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow, glazed with rainwater, beside the white chickens.”

“What’s that, grandpa?”

“A poem,” he said, “by a man named William Carlos Williams.”

“His parents named him William Williams?” That made me giggle.

“Yes,” he said. “He was a doctor.”

“And he wrote poetry?”

“You can do more than one thing in your life, you know,” he said.

“Really?” Sometimes my grandfather made no sense. “What’s a wheelbarrow?”

I suppose he could have simply drawn one for me, but instead he dragged me out to his workshop and proceeded to build one out of bits of wood and an ancient wheel he had scavenged. He painted it red.

It became quite a hit in our little community and soon he was building wheelbarrows for everyone in exchange for a variety of goods, which made my mother very happy. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before everyone around us had one, and the budding business dwindled to nothing.

At which point, my grandfather went back to sitting in front of the fire or on the porch (depending upon the season), and mumbling to himself, usually with a chicken or two tucked under his arm.

 “So, tell me, Penelope, dear, why did the chicken cross the road?” he would inquire, as he stroked her feathers.

Penelope or Daisy or Marilyn—whoever was the chicken-in-arms for the day, would coo and chirp, and my grandfather would smile and nod. “An excellent point, my dear. Excellent. I must remember to write that down.”

One day I asked what they had said. He looked surprised. Then he leaned back in his chair, stared into space, and mused, “Ah, my dear, I dream of a world where chickens can cross the road without their motives being questioned.”

“More poetry, grandpa?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Just something my grandfather used to say.” The chicken of the day—Phyllis—clucked and ruffled her feathers. In approval, I imagine.

My grandfather is, for the most part, a happy man. I credit this to two things:

One: He has secured his food source.

Two: He is slightly crazy.

While the former is the whole point of this little story, one cannot overlook the value of the latter.

In future installments, I shall discuss the importance of choosing suitable companions, the cultivation of trees, and the building of fences.