This guy noticed that in movies from the 70s, the characters were allowed to look rugged. Really rugged. Not fake-rugged, not dressed up, costumed rugged. They actually looked like they’d just hiked through the jungle or whatever; there was real sweat, real stains, real rips, real wear instead of the carefully-curated images of today where cuts are attractively placed and hair is done just so as to be “perfectly imperfect” and it’s obvious the actress is wearing a full face of makeup. This went for the locations as well: movie sets in the 70s looked genuine, lived in, storied and somewhat “gritty”—because they were. You couldn’t simply CGI your way to perfection like you can now, editing in artful “flaws” and “age.” The result of this was a level of romance, of “sexiness” and real elegance that has been sterilized from modern cinema—and modern life in general.

“When everything looks too new or too perfect, it creates distance. When things look known, used, and trusted, people lean closer. That is where romance sits. Not in polish, but in ease.” --Heritage Mode Maison

I stumbled across an article recently discussing a current fashion trend where luxury bags are worn “undone” in order to create a more “lived in” look, and it immediately struck me as odd. It’s pretty clear that most Birkin owners (for example) keep their bags in a climate-controlled safe-box, both owning and wearing them as an item essentially “for display only,” which is why it was strange to see this dissonance emerge: this desire to maintain a curated level of “elegance” and “perfection,” while also attempting to simulate the romance of something that is lived with, used, and known. (God forbid the bag actually ages—or that you’re seen carrying it every day for ten years.)

This reveals how deeply-ingrained the consumption-based culture of trashworld has become, even in spaces supposedly dominated by “elegance” and “quiet luxury.” Maintaining everything at showroom quality (or replacing it the instant it no longer meets that standard) is not actually classy. If anything, it’s the opposite, because it is fake—and worse, holds the wrong values. A world that is over-polished is not romantic. It’s not sexy or elegant. It’s sterile.

If we can only get past the idea that everything in our real lives ought to precisely resemble an Instagram filter at all times, perhaps we can begin to understand and embody the depth of old world elegance scrubbed from society by the sleek synthetics of modernity. If we want that rugged, romantic physicality back, we’ve got to accept what made it: It’s okay for things to age. It’s okay for cups to chip, or silver to tarnish, or leather to develop patina, or shoes to scuff, or shirts to wrinkle throughout the day, or lipstick to fade, or hair to loosen, or furniture to scratch, or bags to lose shape. It’s okay to encounter such earthy things as sweat and dirt and men and women and children and animals and heat and rain and wind. It’s called life.

Of course, I am not suggesting that we shouldn’t care for our things. That would be poor stewardship—another thing at odds with an elegant life. And, of course, we should always try to look our best and dress in a way that demonstrates class, virtue, and care for society. But we should not be so allergic to living itself that we cannot allow our things to develop the sort of gritty, honest, beautiful quality that that commentator observed as existing in old movies. If anything, this is yet another reason to invest in quality materials: real wood, leather, linen, etc. Unlike the plastic of trashworld, these materials age with grace if cared for, and only go on to develop more charm than they had when they were new.

Much of the crisis of modernity is owing to the fact that life, for most people in the first world, is lived almost entirely through a screen and for a screen, and wanting to transcend this ethos is seen, ironically, as “performative.” It’s “pretentious” to develop taste outside the picture-perfect parameters of trashworld. That’s why we’ve got entire movements and trends dedicated to “looking expensive” but also “lived in” without any of the actual time, habits, culture, values, virtues, or effort necessary to bring about the sort of “effortless elegance” those things are trying so hard to bottle as perfect little formulas and sell to people who are accustomed finding everything they’ve ever wanted on a shelf. Somehow, it’s more acceptable (by which I mean, less “performative”) to be a squeaky-clean “quiet luxury Influencer” than it is to openly reject the values and culture of trashworld, craving instead the grit, honesty, and definition of the Old World and actually putting in the effort required to cultivate such elements in your life. This is, ultimately, because in doing so you are not obeying the rules of trashworld, which dictate that everything must be flattened, abstracted, synthesized, or sterilized to the point of universal global conformity. To operate outside these guardrails is to be “snobbish,” at best.

Yet the truth remains: the only place genuine elegance can be found is offline in the real, physical world, where real, physical life happens, and real, physical hazards exist, are encountered, and overcome with grace. Real taste doesn’t come from wearing an otherwise-perfect handbag unhooked, or buying new clothes every season—even if those code as “old money elegance” or “lived in Parisian.” (I have nothing against these aesthetics, by the way; I actually find them nice—though an “aesthetic” should never be confused with a culture.) Real taste comes from understanding the purpose and life of a thing, and then living with it, stewarding it well, but never holding it so tightly as to prevent its acquiring character. And there’s no hack to satisfy the 21^st century craving for instant gratification. Time is part of the elegance equation, which may be the number one thing preventing your average Western consumer from getting over the wall and out of trashworld for good: You are not “building an image” so much as letting one emerge.

To quote The Velveteen Rabbit:

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

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Evidently, aspiring to anything beyond the slopfest served up on most of the various Feeds and in big box stores reeks of snobbery and pretension. Especially if you have the audacity to discuss the value and virtue of those things on the internet—which is, apparently, for doomscrolling and nothing else. In fact, I read an entire article recently dedicated wholly to mocking “people who get off their phones just to go out and notice things about the world just to come back online to write about how great it was to notice things without their phones,” although if I’m not mistaken, going out and noticing things about the world and then returning to write about those things used to just be called being a writer. Apparently, though, now it’s just performative.

What’s clear from all of this is that challenging the normed images and customs of trashworld makes certain people uncomfortable. It’s disconcerting to realize, possibly for the first time, that what we’ve all come to view as “normal” perhaps actually isn’t—and certainly isn’t what’s best. Although, it is what’s easy, and here we find the problem: The universal law of trashworld states that what’s best is always what’s convenient, so of course, it can be unnerving to see cracks forming in that edifice.

If you’ve been chipping away at the elements of trashworld in your own life for very long, you’ve likely encountered the accusations of “performance” and “pretension” yourself. Why can’t you just accept the way things are? Fast fashion, China-made plastic, and endless doomscrolling are good enough for everybody else. What makes you so superior?

It’s important to understand that this vitriol is a response to the disquieting idea that perhaps we shouldn’t be satisfied with these things, but that not being satisfied with them will require Effort—something many first worlders have become allergic to. Especially if much of the effort will be invisible and cannot be posted to a Feed in exchange for brownie points. It’s comforting, then, to assume that someone reading a classic novel in a cafe isn’t actually reading it for its own sake (or even at all), but just holding it to snap a quick photo for the ‘gram. (Whew, they’re just like everybody else, really!)

The more I’ve observed this, the more I’ve come to realize that accusations of being “performative” or “pretentious” for having the audacity to aspire beyond the sloppification of everything function as a sort of behavioral guardrail to protect the norms of trashworld. Going past the guardrail feels risky; it will get you noticed, which might feel uncomfortable, or even embarrassing. This kind of social pressure keeps most people in line, even if they aren’t exactly content. It at least keeps them quiet. (Can’t have too many peasants getting ideas above their station!)

But I’m here to say that these labels only stick if you let them. They only stick if they matter to you. After all, what’s so bad about wanting better than polyester, plastic, and TikTok for yourself—for your children? If that’s “pretentious,” well, I guess I’m pretentious. I won’t be apologizing for it, and neither should you. If enough of us raise our standards, refine our tastes, and train our children to do the same, we’ll begin taking back ground and re-normalizing a more excellent, more beautiful, and more virtuous world.

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Our age is one of atomization like no other. We live with the constant illusion of hyper-connection, yet people are finding themselves lonelier than ever. We carry dedicated connection devices with us at all times, yet we find ourselves having gone days (weeks?) without sitting down for a face-to-face meeting with anyone outside our immediate household. We curate our homes and our lives for the ‘gram without ever actually inviting people into them. This is the slow death of society.

Americans have long prized a “spirit of rugged individualism.” This quality—while it can be a virtue in the sense of taking responsibility for oneself out of self-respect and a sense of duty within the world, and eschewing entitlements and handouts—has been taken to a dangerous extreme which suggests that not only can you be isolated from everyone around you, but, in some sense, you should. Rootlessness is righteousness. Dependence, in any capacity, on an actual, physical community, is weakness. Instead, you must strive for self-sufficiency in all aspects of your life.

This is a trap, and a deadly one.

In 2020, we watched our world crack in real time. The long-predicted “apocalypse” happened. And people scattered like rats into their holes. Terrified. Helpless. Alone. The illusion that we even really had a society anymore vaporized and a naked dystopia took its place.

This has been called out by many people, myself included, for years. We know it’s bad. And yet, people seem paralyzed in want of a solution.

Perhaps it is telling just how dire the situation is that the solution—shockingly simple—is staring us in the face, and still, few seem able or willing to see it.

Invite people into your home.

That’s it. That’s the magic bullet. For all our emphasis on “rugged individualism,” and “just doing things,” we certainly seem desperate to outsource this issue—to look for “community” (whatever that means)—“out there” instead of growing it from in here, in our homes. Which is the only way for it to really be Real.

What’s disturbing is how daunting this seems. Invite people into our home? What, like, actual humans? The notion seems to plant a deep panic in the bones of the modern Westerner. The modern Westerner who probably, like most modern Westerners, plasters her life in pixels across the internet in the name of “authenticity.” So what gives?

Many of us are attracted to the idea of curating an elegant home, yet balk at the idea of opening it to others. But if that isn’t the whole point, then what is?

If you’re willing to put effort into beautifying your space and refining the culture of your home, yet refuse to participate in hospitality, the truth is that you’re adding to the problem rather than helping to solve it. Because the problem is this: a society filled with isolated, vain consumers in abject denial over what’s causing their crushing loneliness.

Hospitality is not optional for a civilization that values its own survival. Join or Die was the motto of the American Revolutionaries, and it may seem dramatic to apply it within the context of something as “mundane” as hosting gatherings in your home, but that’s the very mentality that has put us in such a precarious position. We’ve forgotten what it means to be together.

It doesn’t have to be fancy. You can start small. Instead of saying, “Let’s meet somewhere,” invite a friend or a neighbor over for coffee. Maybe bake a little snack, or ask them to bring something. Keep the pressure low—low enough to repeat regularly. There’s something distinct and powerful about being in each other’s homes that cannot be replicated in a public space.

If we want to restore Western civilization, we must revitalize our culture of hospitality, or everything done “out there” (if it’s able to be done in this social vacuum at all) will be for nothing, as it rests upon, well, ~vibes~, I guess.

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Style—not to be confused with “fashion”—is a topic I’ve taken a deep interest in over the past year or so, having grown up largely illiterate of the matter. Since then, it has been my goal to curate a wardrobe of classic, timeless pieces of a quality made to last for years rather than need replacing each season.

The sphere of fast fashion is one of the most enticing (and corrupt) industries within trashworld, designed to produce goods that are cheaply manufactured, using fake, plastic materials, with planned obsolescence and trend-chasing in mind. They want you chained to their treadmill of conspicuous consumption forever. But the good news is, there’s an off-ramp, and it doesn’t have to cost you an arm and a leg.

If your goal is to create an elevated, timeless wardrobe (not chasing trends), here’s my advice to you—and the rules I live by when shopping for my clothes.

Rule #1: Strategize First

I don’t go into a store without knowing what I’m looking for. At least, broadly. A white button-down, a black blazer, leather loafers. I have my shopping goals in the back of my mind from the outset, and it has helped me avoid settling for items that don’t absolutely fit the bill—and therefore, will not get worn (know thyself!). Having a solid idea of the pieces you’re looking for (and the discipline to stick to it) will save you from the pit of impulse-buying. I’ve found Pinterest to be an excellent source of style inspiration to help me plot my agenda before I ever step into a store.

Rule #2: Always Look at Tags

The secret to high-end thrifting is to always, always check your tags. Another way I filter my pieces when shopping is by weeding out anything that doesn’t meet my quality standards. Polyester? Gone. Straight to jail. I don’t care how cute it is, if it’s plastic, I’m not buying it. I am ruthless with this. Nearly every piece I purchase from a thrift store (or anywhere else) is 100% natural fibers (cotton, linen, silk, wool, cashmere), and while it takes patience and discipline, this is not nearly as difficult to achieve as it may seem—if you know where to look.

Rule #3: Don’t Waste Time in Dumpy Stores

As I’m sure we’re all aware, not all thrift stores are created equal. Some are simply stuffed to the brim with fast-fashion trash, and are not worth your time to scour through. My best advice for avoiding this situation is to target higher-end neighborhoods (and regularly)—although sometimes small towns have incredible gems as well. Avoid inner-cities.

Rule #4: Quality Construction Over Flashy Brand Logos

There are very few brand names I watch for when I shop (and they never feature a flashy logo). And, even when I see them, they still get run through the material check. What matters more than brand is fabric quality and fit. I’ll buy something from a Nobody-brand if it’s 100% natural fiber before I’d buy something from Ralph Lauren made of some kind of poly-blend.

Rule #5: Focus on Basics Before Expanding

When I shop, I always focus on creating a solid foundation of basics in my wardrobe before adding on anything else such as jewelry or accessories. Think good-quality cotton t-shirts in white, black, camel, and beige. Good jeans that fit well. Shoes I’ll wear every day. Linen pants. A good midi skirt. When your basics don’t work, nothing else will either.

Rule #6: Always Consider Versatility

When I consider purchasing an item, I always try to think of at least three ways I can wear it with things I already own. I’m not trying to chase trends, I’m trying to build a wardrobe that will last for years, in which everything plays well with everything else. This doesn’t necessarily mean I never buy a statement piece that can only really be styled one or two ways—or a special occasion outfit, but those things drop way down my list of priorities. Generally speaking, if I can’t make at least three or four outfits out of it, I don’t need it.

Rule #7: Reject the Instant-Gratification Mindset

I will often spends weeks or months looking for a single item. Case in point: the organic cotton J. Crew white button down I found today. It’s been on my mental list for months, and because I knew precisely what I was looking for, I had peace of mind walking away from dozens of other sub-par finds that would have been a waste of my money—even if only a few dollars. In order for this approach to work for you, you must unlearn the conditioning of fast-fashion trashworld that says, if I don’t acquire precisely this item right now, I shall perish (or at least fail to keep up with so-and-so). That being said, there have been occasions, where I’ve searched for weeks or months and simply been unable to find a certain item, in which case I have had to resort to ordering it new. This happens quite rarely, though, and is generally considered losing the game.

So, there you have it, friends. The real key to crafting a high-quality, timeless wardrobe is restraint—no matter where you shop. I hope you will find this advice useful in your own quest to improve and elevate your style without falling into the bottomless pit of fast-fashion consumerism.

Cheers!

This is because “leisure,” as understood in the classical sense, is not merely “free time” that ought to be stuffed with or frittered away doing something (especially something “productive” or at least vaguely stimulating), as we moderns are woefully accustomed to. Rather, it’s time to simply exist without the crutch of passive consumption. To be present; perhaps entertain (potentially unproductive!) hobbies, contemplation, and rest. It’s not scheduled. It’s often unplanned. But that’s where the magic happens.

Because this notion of leisure is alien to most modern adults, our children miss out on it by proxy. Because we are so thoroughly used to “being productive” (at least, feeling that we are so) or at a minimum, being entertained—and because these things are considered virtues by modernity—naturally, we feel the need to impose them upon our children as well. School: eight hours a day. Free time: video games, shows, the doomscroll. God forbid we allow any silence—or worse—boredom!

God forbid we allow the language of thought and imagination to develop.

No, we must introduce slop early and often! Besides, children with leisure are often a nuisance—best put them away with their homework and AI robot nannies. This is what we call “polite society.”

This is how we raise children to be exactly what this decrepit modern dystopia wants: another good cog in the system, never thinking too much or asking too many questions. A good little ant without higher aspirations or virtues to get in the way of “progress.”

The thing is—we don’t have to do this. We don’t have to live this way. Our children don’t have to grow up this way. In fact, they shouldn’t. Our children deserve better.

But here’s the rub: Better doesn’t always mean “easy.” Often, it means the opposite. If you’re serious about giving your children true freedom, true leisure, it will mean saying no to the ease of The Screen. It will mean not filling their weekends and evenings with scheduled activities that must constantly be bustled about to in order to keep them occupied. It will mean putting up with noise and nuisance and mess for the sake of allowing these little people to explore the world around them and develop their minds without a dependency on constant entertainment and stimuli. Ever try taking a road trip with two toddlers and zero tablets? It ain’t easy, friend.

But it is worth it.

Part of giving your children this invaluable gift (and this may be the most difficult thing) is modeling it yourself. When you have a moment of downtime, do you reach for your phone and log into Instagram? Or do you pick up a novel? Knitting? Or even nothing? Do you paint? Listen to music? Go for a walk? Do you take time to sit and be present, or are you constantly rutting about, scouring the slop pits for the next dopamine hit? Or perhaps, if you do allow yourself to simply “be,” you feel guilty, thinking well this isn’t very productive, is it?

The truth is, few of us have loads of extra time lying around—however, all of us have more than we think. Imagine how much space would be left in your life and your mind if it wasn’t always being pumped full of the digital equivalent of packing peanuts?

And I get it—when you find yourself constantly seeking passive stimuli and a false sense of “productivity,” you may even feel guilty for not foisting the same onto your children. After all, how could you let your child be bored when you simply could entertain him? What kind of a mother does that?

The kind of mother who intends to raise thinkers.

The kind of mother who intends to raise strong, noble men and women of culture and virtue.

The kind of mother who intends for her children to remain free in a world determined to shackle them—mentally and spiritually—to its soul-eating machine.

So the question is, what kind of mother will you be?

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We’re surrounded on all sides by a manufactured dystopia of thin, astro-turfed convenience and the societal twilight of multiculturalism: A world made to devour souls.

Things look rather bleak, and naturally, it follows that there are a multitude of terminally-online doomers banging their proverbial pots together, clanking up and down the streets and calling for us to bring out our dead. Our enemies likewise would be eager to accept this surrender. However, we will not give it to them.

Let me tell you a secret: you have a certain power that cannot be broken. As a woman, you hold the keys to your home—the inner sanctum of your family; you guard its atmosphere, you cultivate its culture, and you can keep the rot from creeping in. And guess what?—nobody can stop you.

There is a particular nobility in resolute hope: in planting seeds while the world burns—not out of denial or naivete with regard to the enemy at the gate, but out of a stalwart resolve to plot your course towards victory regardless. To give in to the pressure that says, it’s hopeless—what can you do, anyway? Just log onto Instagram and fritter away the last days of the West in the bliss of the dopamine casino is to be exactly where the enemy wants you. Disillusioned. Passive. Resigned.

Powerless.

But you don’t have to take the blackpill. The blackpill is the coward’s way out.

There is profound power in the intentional cultivation of an elevated home culture. Simply saying no to the frictionless existence offered by trashworld is a potent statement of strength and dignity with the ability to transform your home (and subsequent sphere of influence) into a breath of fresh air that others will want to be around and emulate. And, as this mentality spreads, culture is revived. Don’t underestimate your ability to just do things. And let us not despise the days of small beginnings.

Don’t succumb to the societal pressure to accept that ugly is “just the way things are now.” That there’s “no point” in the small acts of everyday kindness and love, as Gandalf tells Frodo, that keep evil at bay. There is a point. And the point is to be a light in this bleak twilight, because when people see light, they’re drawn to it.

So here’s my charge to you: Decorate your home well. Cook the best meals you can and linger with family and friends to enjoy them. Dress with elegance and carry yourself with poise. Listen to classical music. Read great literature. Practice regular hospitality. Spend time in nature. Work with your hands and learn to value those skills. Give your children access to beauty and quality from a young age. Cultivate their tastes as well as your own with purpose.

This lost way of life is magnetic, which is is why our enemies want so desperately to keep us blinded to it, paralyzed by the blackpill. Because once you begin to make a habit of these things, the false luxuries and cheap conveniences of trashworld fade to an undesireable grunge: they become part of a reality parallel to your own, blown away while you put down roots. Surrender becomes out of the question.

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Announcing The Magnolia Post

So, why The Magnolia Post? When I first set out to begin this publication, I’d been looking for a name that was less descriptive and more evocative/symbolic of the themes and ideas I wanted to explore, but for some reason, nothing quite clicked. Then, it dawned on me, rather randomly, What about magnolias? Timeless symbols of purity, nobility, strength, femininity, endurance, and old southern/American charm. In a nutshell: everything we love to dig into here in this little corner of Substack.

And anyway? I just like it.

And now, with this brief announcement out of the way, we shall return to our regularly scheduled programming anon.

I hear these sorts of comments from time to time when people come into our home and see that we have Nice Things: i.e. real wood, upholstered furniture (which we’ve bought second-hand), china dishes (which are used daily), old lamps, and other various antiques. I also have two children, ages four and one.

Quite some time back, I remember having a discussion with a friend of mine (who also has Small Children and Nice Things) about the relationship between these two: its benefits and pitfalls, because it’s true that there are two sides to this coin. It’s my belief, though, that children do deserve nice things, and I’ll explain why.

First let’s define Nice Things(TM). These would be things that are well-crafted and made of real materials, which often comes with some investment and upkeep; hopefully in some cases, these things will endure and become family heirlooms, if they aren’t already.

Potential pitfalls of curating an environment filled with these sorts of things include:

• Stuff Could Break – Obviously, this is the first pitfall that comes to mind, and I’ve had it happen. In fact, with small children, it’s more of an inevitability.

• You’ll find that You Place Too Much Value on the Stuff – The other (and much worse) major pitfall here is a heart issue, and that is the fact that you care too much about the stuff you buy, by which I mean, you care more about the stuff than you care about your children. After all, your home exists for the people, not the people for the home. You’re not doing this for the ‘gram (or at least, you shouldn’t be). So if you find yourself facing a crisis every time something breaks—I’ll just be frank with you—that’s a you problem. Maybe hold your things (however nice they are) a little more loosely. In other words, make sure your children never feel that you value a lamp more than you value them, even if that lamp was your great-great-grandmother’s.

Now, let’s get to the benefits.

As I said, your home is for the people in it. Fundamentally, this is the most basic reason why you should care to make your home beautiful. It is worth curating elegance and quality because being in a beautiful, peaceful, and clean environment is good for humans—including small humans. Adorning your home in the cheaply manufactured aesthetics (if they can be called such) of Trashworld “for the benefit of the children” is not the moral high ground you may think it is. After all, taste—good or bad—is cultivated in the home.

Another significant benefit of allowing children to have access to quality items is that they feel valued, trusted, and respected when allowed to participate in the “adult world.” This breeds confidence as well as manners. When allowed to use things generally considered “nice” and of an objectively higher quality, it also creates the expectation of responsibility to care for these things. Of course my four-year-old has broken dishes, but he is also excellent at handling delicate items with care, and accidents happen far more rarely than a person might think. It’s always such a pleasure to me as his mother to see him excited to enjoy a cup of tea—which he requests nearly every day—to the point that a broken dish here and there is an extremely small price to pay, considering the investment in his personal culture and tastes.

And of course, because we make an effort to treat the things in our own home with care (because they aren’t just cheap pieces of trashworld Chineseium, easily discarded and replaced), this has helped to teach our children to be mindful and respectful of other peoples’ spaces—both public and private. (“We don’t jump on the couch at home, so of course we can’t jump on the couch at the coffee shop.” “We don’t throw balls in our living room, so of course we aren’t going to throw balls in grandma’s living room.”)

It’s easy to justify withholding nice things from children, thinking we’re doing them some kind of service, when really, the only service we’re doing is to ourselves. Making our lives easier. Maybe we think we’re saving ourselves from the “stress” of having nice things around children because, as I mentioned earlier, we’ve actually fallen into the ditch of caring more for the stuff itself than the environment it creates for the people we love.

Even when it comes to my children’s own possessions, I try to be mindful of the quality of what I invest in for them. I don’t want them relegated to cheap plastic gadgetry meant to be played with for a week and then broken or lost without a thought; instead I look for wooden toys meant to last for years, and potentially even pass through the hands of multiple little ones.

I’ve written before about the utility of beauty and the fact that investing in beauty carries an intrinsic value because when something is well-crafted and beautiful, people naturally want to use it—and not only use it, but they want to care for and steward it properly. They want it to last. Our attitude becomes one of preservation rather than replacement and consumerism, which fosters gratitude rather than entitlement, and these are values worth instilling in children from a young age.

If there’s one thing I hope to impart to you here, it’s this: don’t be afraid to give your children the pleasure of being exposed to nice things in your home. They deserve, recognize, and crave beauty as much as adults, because they are just as human.

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There are a lot of homesteading influencers out there who will talk a big game about self sufficiency, off-grid living, and apocalypse prep, but they often miss a critical aspect of what makes this lifestyle both sustainable (actually!) and resilient, and that is community. You cannot do it alone. People who try this become discouraged, disillusioned, and exhausted. They burn out. If you want to succeed in breaking away from the systems of modernity and leaving the gilded cage of trashworld behind, perhaps the best thing you can focus on in 2026 is building yourself a real-world community.

How Do You Do This?

If you don’t already have one, the prospect of finding a solid community of like-minded friends can be daunting. Here are a few starting places:

1: Get Involved in a Church

Probably the best place to connect with other serious, committed people is to find a good church and get yourself involved in it. Don’t just show up on Sunday mornings to check a box; actually meet people and follow up with them. Invite them into your home. Participate in events. Organize events if nobody else is. This was the single most positive and productive lifestyle change we have made in the past five years, and it’s not even close.

2: Find a Homeschool Co-Op

If you homeschool your children, see if you can find a local co-op to participate in. Your chances of meeting people with similar values, goals, and lifestyles are fairly decent—especially if you’re part of a classical homeschool community. If no co-op exists, consider reaching out to other homeschool families in your area and facilitating meetups with them, even in a non-formal setting.

3: Use Social Media to Help You

I read an article recently that delved into the dual nature of social media, and it’s true that this technology is a magic wand to be wielded for good or ill—and it’s up to you which way you’ll use it. Social media can be quite useful for discovering like-minded connections in your local community, if you choose to use it that way—and only if those connections then move offline. Remember, “community” online is an illusion.

It used to be that nobody had to think about “how to build a community,” because communities developed naturally out of necessity and simply proximity before the internet. Now, building a community “IRL” can feel next to impossible. In fact, it feels so out of reach for so many people that the idea of “self sufficiency” seems plausible and achievable by comparison. Besides, with the many illusions offered by social media, it’s easy to forget, or not even realize, you’re a silo until it’s too late.

Building a strong community in 2026 will take effort. It will take dedication and discipline. It will mean showing up when it’s hard, when you don’t feel like it, or sometimes even when someone has hurt or offended you. Unlike the online (fake!) world, real-life community isn’t something you can just quit or log out of when things aren’t perfectly composed or curated to your liking. But the truth is, if you want real independence that lasts, this is the only way forward.

It’s time to learn to exist in a human-scale world again. A world of local gatherings, dinners with friends, project days, and tea times. The online world—while not inherently bad—can be a devouring force, making us feel as if we “don’t have time” to engage with people in our real lives, because we’re too busy “engaging” with people in our fake lives. We have to reject this mentality. Reality must always take precedence over illusion. Use the online world to your advantage (in building better community offline) instead of letting it use you.

If you’re currently on the bandwagon of trying to hack it and become “self sufficient” in order to “beat the system,” I promise you, you will fail. Humans were never meant to exist alone. So as we hurdle into the sun—I mean, 2026—let me encourage you to make it a goal to begin building yourself a solid community in your real life. You won’t regret it. In fact, I can guarantee you will be far more hearty, far more independent of modernity, and far more happy if you do.

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Eventually, we got a screen projector for watching movies, which we got out about once a week, and I remember at one point during high school (this would have been the early teens), we had a tiny brick of a TV that looked like it was from the 80s. I suppose it might have been; it could only play VHS and we had no cable. There was no revolving door of cartoons, Xbox sessions, or Netflix binges.

The result of this was that most of my childhood was spent in the Techless Void, or what we used to call “outside.” And books. I read lots of books.

As you can imagine, I had little appreciation for this at the time. I wasn’t bitter and I don’t recall being jealous, or even really thinking of the fact that we didn’t “do” TV. Actually, I thought so little of it that I didn’t realize I’d been gifted with a profoundly superior experience to that of most of my peers. (I also had the luxury of being homeschooled my entire life.)

I had some sense of what it meant to be free.

I remember countless hours spent with my siblings and our cool friends, roaming the wilds of the Rocky Mountains, searching for prospectors’ lost gold, building fairy cities along riverbanks, and exploring spooky abandoned cabins—rumored to be haunted, of course. And we never brought the parents. Obviously.

Little did I know that, while we were scaling rock faces and fording streams frigid with snowmelt, tunneling through brush and rigging elaborate pulley systems in the trees, a tragically high number of our generation was simply vegetating before the alter of Modernity: placid, subdued, compliant, the toxic spores of radical consumerism taking root within their brains.

This is one reason, I think, why I have become so deeply disillusioned with the online world (particularly social media) of late. To quote John Savage from Brave New World, “I don’t want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.”

The world we live in has become so incredibly fake, so incredibly plastic, it’s as if the very nature of it is meant to demoralize the human spirit. Our asphalt jungles and corporate ant hills seem perfectly designed to crush the air from the lungs of the imagination until, finally, it offers up one last choking breath before surrendering to life in the pod.

I have children of my own now, and we don’t have a TV. In fact, my husband and I have been married almost ten years, and we never bought one—not because we had any profound feelings on the subject at the time; we just didn’t want to haul one up the stairs to our second-story apartment. And we were broke college kids, so there was that.

Now, people come into our house, flabbergasted (some with admiration and others with strange horror) at the fact that someone—especially someone with young children!—could manage to stay alive in 2025 without owning a TV, but we’ve never missed it. In fact, every time I think about what it would be like to have one, I can only come up with negative impacts to our lifestyle.

When I was twelve, my family moved away from the Rockies where we always lived near an urban sprawl, to the rural south-central Midwest, fifteen minutes outside of a sleepy town of 1,500 people. Here, you could see the stars: a canopy of light so real it almost seemed fake, as if someone might come in and flip a switch, only for you to realize you’d been staring at the vast, glowing dome of a planetarium. There were no lights here. As Maggie Stiefvater describes in her novel, Call Down the Hawk, “You could see by starlight [back then], after the sun went down. Hundreds of headlights chained together in the sky, good enough to eat, good enough to write legends about, good enough to launch men at.”

We would go outside at 3AM to lay in the grass and watch meteorites rip across the velvet expanse. When I was eighteen, I brought my boyfriend to sit on our porch in the midnight chill of March to study the sky we’d spent the past nine months looking at from a thousand miles apart as we snuck out of our windows to talk on the phone while the world slept.

Impossible things happened under that sky.

Without the incessant whining of the digital world, I spent my childhood free to wander, free to read, to write, to look at the stars and explore the deep well of an unadulterated imagination. I want that back. I want it for my kids. I want it for all of us in this cracked, decaying ruin of a civilization. And I suspect that, probably, you do too.

I’m not sure how we get there, exactly, but in his book On Writing, Stephen King advises that, if you want to free your imagination, “[…] you could do worse than to strip your television’s electric plug-wire, wrap a spike around it, and then stick in back into the wall. See what blows, and how far. Just an idea.”

And I think that’s pretty solid.

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To many modern Americans, this is Christmas. Jolly, ain’t it?

To be honest, I’m not sure why we do this to ourselves. Some idea of “tradition”? Obligation? Nostalgia? Because “it’s what we’ve always done”?

Obviously, it’s a racket. Many realize this, but do it anyway—lemmings over a cliff, as it were.

But it doesn’t have to be this way. Actually, you can simply reject this trashworld nonsense by doing a few intentional things.

1: Invest in quality over quantity

It has become so deeply ingrained in the American mind that “more is more,” even if it’s more of something worthless. We pile up items never intended to last just because “we can,” or something. But if you want your Christmas liberated from trashworld, you need to change your mindset about this: more China-made plastic slop isn’t actually more—let’s less. Less thoughtful, less interesting, less valuable. Instead, consider buying fewer gifts (imagine! the horror—how bare the tree shall look!) that are of a quality meant to endure and be valued for years to come.

2: Don’t default to trends

It’s easy to chase trends when you’re scrambling to find a gift at the last moment, but that’s a slippery slope into spending your money on cheap slop—again. Instead of defaulting to “what’s hot right now,” think about the person you’re shopping for, really think about them: what are their hobbies, interests, tastes; what’s something they won’t just smile at when they take it out of the wrapping, but that they’ll sincerely treasure, regardless of whether it’s “in fashion”? What will add value to their life for more than five minutes?

3: View time as currency

One of the worst side-effects of trashworld upon the Christmas season is the frenzied rush it puts people into, bustling to and fro to consume stuff that won’t be remembered a year from now. Time, like money, is currency to be invested wisely. Consider the way you spend the holiday season, and prioritize the cultivation of deep, lasting memories—not filling your schedule with proverbial packing peanuts. Invest in slow mornings, winter walks, baking special treats, cozy evenings, and hospitality. Prioritize the kind of luxury money can’t buy.

I hope you’ll join me in rejecting trashworld and curating an intentional, grounded Christmas season filled with peace, elegance, light, and above all, the joy of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Wishing all the best to you and yours this season!

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The argument often made in support of appalling architecture is that it’s practical. This betrays a worldview that holds utility in esteem above all else, which is bleak indeed. It also assumes a frivolous lack of utility in beauty itself—thereby confessing its fundamental lack of anything resembling a soul. However, as I discussed in another article, the view of beauty as something frivolous, impractical, and anti-utilitarian is incorrect, just like the worldview from which it stems.

Another possible argument to be made in favor of these architectural monstrosities is that they’re affordable. This is nonsense. While many modern buildings are built from the cheapest materials possible in order to increase profit margins, some of the most criminally ugly pieces of architecture have cost positively staggering amounts of money; take for example the new Obama Center currently under construction in Chicago, which clocks in at, oh, several hundred million dollars. Now, I’m not inherently opposed to investing in architecture, but it should be illegal for something that costs that much to be so blatantly hideous.

This brings me to my point: this is being done on purpose. On a note I posted recently, someone made the astute observation that classical architecture was designed with the end user in mind. It was constructed in such a way as to be pleasant to the observer and to the user, whereas modern architecture is aimed inward toward the gratification of architect himself. It’s his “unique genius” on display. For this reason, rather than prioritizing elegance, cultural identity, and a pleasant atmosphere, modern architecture aims to shock, specifically at the expense of these things. We have a name for this school of design: Brutalist. The system is what it does.

We’re so sunk into in this miasma that many have accepted defeat; it’s just the way things are now. The demoralization campaign has worked. This is the year 2025. Things can’t be beautiful anymore. Don’t mourn the past! And anyway, it’s surely a form of vanity or “privilege” to want the place you live in to be pleasant and attractive. What are you, some kind of elitist? Shut up and enjoy the pods, bigot.

The thing is, it doesn’t have to be this way. Just recently, in 2023, construction was completed on the stunning Christ the King Chapel at Christendom College in Virginia. This year, in 2025, four new stained glass windows—every bit as lovely as something you’d find in a medieval church—were added to the building. (And, lest you assume the cost too exorbitant to be justified, it was built for a mere $30 million.) Turns out, you can just do things.

And this fact—that you can just do things—is further evidence that our society is being uglified on purpose, for the gratification of those with the morally relative and nonsensical worldview that gives them the audacity to believe they can “reinvent” or “redefine” beauty. And of course, there is a large spectrum of ways in which beauty can be captured, conveyed, or expressed, but due to its unseverable ties to Truth and Goodness, Beauty is not—and cannot be—wholly subjective. This is why you’re not wrong (or a bad person!) for noticing that things just aren’t built the way they used to be. Our society has been undergoing a careful and deliberate de-souling for decades, and it’s time we do something about it.

This is, undeniably, a tall order, which is why it’s important to start where we are: in our own homes. One of the primary aims of The Classic Ordinary is to inspire, encourage, and empower the individual to reintroduce elegance, culture, and beauty to the home, because it is only from this position of strength that we can begin to influence and shift the standards of society.

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Can a thing be useful and not be beautiful? Of course. Trashworld is full of such things. But can a thing be beautiful and not be useful? I don’t think so. In fact, I believe there is an intrinsic utility to beauty (and in making a thing beautiful and excellent) because “beauty” is not actually skin-deep (stop falling for that propaganda), but soul-deep.

Think about when someone purchases a 100-200 year old home. In many cases, these houses have been empty for decades and fallen into disrepair. Some aren’t even outfitted with all of the modern conveniences we expect—yet people desire them and they’ll put time, money, and effort into their restoration. Why?

On the flip-side: can you imagine someone going to such lengths for a home built in the past 30-50 years? It’s laughable. Absurd. They’d just tear it down and rebuild. Why?

The same could be said of many things: wind-up clocks, cashmere sweaters, fine china; when a thing is beautiful, people want to use it. They take pleasure in using it and want to care for and preserve it. When it isn’t, they throw it out. It’s replaceable. It’s soulless. And on that level, it is useless.

In order for the utility of beauty to be properly understood, we must understand something about the nature of our world and the nature of human beings. Many years ago, I came across this video on The Economy of Wonder, in which the narrator says that, “[…] beauty demands for itself at least as much courage and decision as do truth and goodness, and she will not allow herself to be separated and banned from her two sisters without taking them along with herself in an act of mysterious vengeance. We can be sure that whoever sneers at her name as if she were an ornament of a bourgeois past—whether he admits it or not—can no longer pray, and soon will no longer be able to love.”

This video was made ten years ago and was chillingly prophetic, as we look around today and find ourselves in that world: a world where beauty is not valued, and by proxy, neither are the inseparable objects of truth and goodness. They are, in fact, scoffed at. In contrast, earlier in the video, the narrator says that, “without [beauty] the ancient world refused to understand itself.”

Psalm19:1-4 tells us, “The heavens declare the glory of God and the sky above proclaims his handiwork. Day to day pours out speech, and night to night reveals knowledge. There is no speech, nor are there words, whose voice is not heard. Their voice goes out through all the earth and their words to the end of the world.” God made our world beautiful on purpose, and we are made in His image.

The utility of beauty is that it connects us to something deeper than ourselves. It connects us to truth, to goodness, and ultimately, to our own Creator. This is why our hunger for beauty—even in the minutia of life—is not “shallow.” If anything, in fact, it is the opposite.

The restoration of beauty—and with it, goodness and truth—is a noble pursuit and must be something we strive for if we ever hope to “re-enchant” and revitalize our culture. And we can start small, within the walls of our own homes. We can care for and cultivate beauty within the context of our daily lives—and we should never underestimate the value, power, and utility of this endeavor.

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--Aldous Huxley, Brave New World

For the better part of the 20^th and 21^st centuries, our society has defined “status” a certain way—not necessarily explicitly, but certainly implicitly: “status” is represented by things like new cars, trendy designer clothes, large homes filled with the hottest décor trends, the most Instagrammable vacations—and of course, just plain, simple money (although, what good is that if you don’t spend it on all of the above, amiright? Que Margaritaville.). Sure, these things are impressive. They glitter and shine, but as we learned long ago from Shakespeare, “all that glitters is not gold.” And many things that purport to be beacons of elegance and luxury...aren’t.

The perceptive eye may have detected a subtle but profound shift in this realm over the past few years—particularly since the start of this decade—as we begin, slowly, to realize that those things we once thought of as “status symbols” are increasingly becoming (and perhaps always have been) symbols of our dependence and servitude. Rather than representing an image of power and liberation, these old “status symbols” have worn down, their glamorous veneer peeling to show what’s really underneath: the well-oiled, silently turning gears of the machine that owns us. A machine that values profit margins above people, efficiency above excellence, and flashy trends above lasting legacy. This is a machine that not only has no place for the true, the good, and the beautiful, but which actively despises and seeks to rip such things from the fabric of our culture—and even from our psyche.

In reality, all of the things propped up as markers of “status” within the realm of trashworld have strings attached. If it’s material items (such as fancy cars that depreciate the second they’re driven off the lot, or manicured McMansions built from prefabbed kits by unskilled laborers), the strings are often things like crippling debt and a spiraling addiction to consumerism, which ultimately leads to depression and anxiety. If it’s chasing after fame or praise in an industry, the price is much higher—usually something on a level with your soul. The generally-accepted solution to this? Stay on that hamster wheel, because as long as you’re staying ahead of them, the consequences aren’t really there (and other lies Boomers tell themselves).

At least, that’s the way it has been. But for those who know where to look, a new paradigm is emerging.

In this new world, “status” has an entirely different, and far more intrinsic meaning. In this world, status is earned, not bought. As a result, the respect one garners is real, not simply some thin imitation propped up by manufactured consensus.

I’m talking about independence.

This idea goes deep into the roots what it means to be an American. The oldest parts of our heritage are marked by the spirit of settlers: a spirit that embodies 1 Thessalonians 4:11-12 which says we as Christians ought to, “[…] aspire to live quietly and to mind your own affairs, and to work with your hands, as we instructed you, so that you may walk properly before outsiders and be dependent on no one.” Paul calls this “a life pleasing to God.”

It is becoming increasingly evident that any real fulfillment in life comes from throwing off the shackles that bind us in servitude to trashworld in whatever form they take, from seeking contracts and validation from woke institutions to the web of convenience and fake “luxury” that is modern suburban life. Doing things yourself is empowering—and more people are starting to notice and aspire to an independent life. A life lived with the understanding of what is truly valuable.

And here’s the reality: independence as a status symbol goes down into the minutia of everyday life, from cooking your own food to fixing your own cars to homeschooling your children. The mentality of production over consumption; resilience over reliance; quality over quantity is, slowly but surely, spreading throughout society—and this is good. This is true luxury because this the bedrock of legacy.

If we ever hope to wage a successful revolution against the trashworld we’ve inherited, it starts here, with simple acts of independence in our private lives, in our own homes. And that’s actually something within our grasp.

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Recently, I shared a story about visiting my husband’s childhood home and my first exposure to the sort of graceful and dignified way of life that used to be common in American (and European) families, but which has since been lost to the rat race of consumerism, multiculturalism, and the complacent contentment with the convenient “luxuries” of trashworld. Sure, their home had an impeccable aesthetic of understated elegance typical to colonial America, but beneath that was a foundational mindset that rejected the modern American lifestyle. So today, I want to talk about five ways you can begin transforming the culture of your home without spending a penny.

1: Slow mealtimes

One of the most powerful and transformative elements you can incorporate to begin cultivating a refined home culture is mealtimes when the whole family gathers around the table for an intentional, unhurried bit of quality time. No phones. No screens. No deadlines. Just good fellowship and memory-making. What good is a set of fine china if you rush through every meal and scatter into different rooms to continue the evening’s doomscroll?

2: Intentional coffee and/or tea time

The same can be said of your morning coffee ritual. So much in way of increasing refinement in your lifestyle is found in the practice of slowing down. In the modern West, we rush about—if not physically, bustling from one appointment, meeting, or activity to another, then certainly mentally and digitally, flitting from one task or app to another like a schizophrenic bumblebee. This is not becoming of an elegant woman aiming to run a well-kept, elegant household. Whether alone, or with your husband/family, taking time to be intentional in savoring your morning coffee routine will set the tone for your daily rhythm. On certain days, you may have to grab the tumbler and head out the door (reality), but whenever possible, opt for the ceramic cups paired with a nice sugar dish and creamer to encourage lingering.

3: Declutter your space

It likely goes without saying that clutter is the antitheses of elegance. However, when I talk about “decluttering,” I’m not advocating for minimalism; I think, actually, that there is a great degree of soullessness and vapidity in the “minimalist” aesthetic, which is why many Americans are currently suffering from “minimalist fatigue.” Instead, I’m simply talking about being intentional with your possessions—or, to use a trite and possibly cringe(?) phrase, keep what brings you joy and jettison the rest. Every item in your home should have a purpose, and it’s okay if that purpose is primarily aesthetic. But you should know and be able to articulate its utility, or it needs to go. Be ruthless.

4: Read more, scroll less

It’s incredibly easy to spend all of your free time scrolling one app or another, always out of focus, a lost soul wandering the digital hall of pixels in search of meaning—or at least entertainment. This is no way to cultivate elegance, and we must fight the temptation to loiter in the dopamine casino, choosing instead to rebuild our attention spans and expand our intellects with essays or books (fiction or non), or even writing or journaling our own thoughts. Twitterbrain is a stealthy yet deadly killer of culture. Be on your guard against it and encourage everyone in your family to do the same.

5: No screens in the living room

Over many decades, the American parlor was transformed slowly from a place of intimate conversation and hospitality to a den of slothful vegetation before The Screen. In the year of our Lord 2025, TVs occupy the focal point of nearly every home in America. Every living room is arranged so as to best facilitate the collective consumption of media, rather than the intentional cultivation of relationship. I’m not saying having a TV is wrong, but having it placed so prominently and allowing it to dictate the way your home’s primary space is furnished indicates the priorities of a household and the culture therein.

If we’re serious about rebellion against trashworld and the revival of a culture of quiet dignity and sophistication in our homes, we must start here—with elements that may be less glamorous, but which will provide the stone foundation upon which any aesthetic can be built.

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When I entered the house, fresh off the plane, I was struck at once with a sense of history: years of a family living here with very little change—scratches in the floorboards built up over nine childhoods, two stories of sunlight crawling up the walls of the great room the same way every day, a grandfather clock that had been in that exact spot for as long as my husband could remember; and not only that, but decades, generations, of this family in this place, on this land. Because, of course, his ancestors had lived in that part Virginia forever. It was all much more real than his stories made it sound.

The table was set for dinner when we arrived and I remember, a bit panicked, whispering to my husband, “Oh my gosh, do they do this all the time?” Because the table was laid with the prettiest blue and white china, full sets of silverware and linen napkins at every place. The food was served in special dishes, and everything was just...lovely. The atmosphere seemed imbued with intention and care: sophisticated, elevated, yet understated in its elegance. I was sure they must be rolling out the red carpet—after all, I was the first girlfriend in the family—but my husband said, “Oh yeah, this is normal.”

In my debut post on this ‘Stack, Kettles and Culture Wars, I wrote about how culture is created in the home; in a podcast I listened to recently, the hosts discussed how we cannot hope to revive a high standard for culture in the cathedral (the pillars of society, as it were) until we have first made its cultivation a priority in our own homes. At once, I recalled that experience in my husband’s childhood home and had the epiphany: Oh, that’s what this means. Because with that sense of culture came a strong sense of identity, of heritage, of virtue—something I’d always found attractive in my husband, and something I’d seen very little of anywhere else.

This led me to consider the question: What defines a “home culture”? What makes it powerful? What gives it the weight to last a lifetime, perhaps—and hopefully—even beyond?

My husband’s family wasn’t wealthy, despite that first impression. In fact, my own family had been far more well-to-do when I was a young child, yet I had no such sense of culture or identity in our home. We just did what everybody else did: we shopped where everyone else shopped, ate where they ate, vacationed where they vacationed, the insides of all of our houses looked pretty much the same. I had a good childhood, don’t get me wrong; my parents are wonderful, but I was instantly aware of the fact that my husband had something I didn’t—something money can’t buy. Despite all the “status symbols” we owned, there was no story in them.

What Elevates a Home Culture?

After a good deal (months and months) of thought, I’ve identified three core aspects needed to cultivate an elevated (by which I mean a morally and intellectually superior) home culture:

• Intentionality

• Worthy values and virtues

• Respect for the traditions that built Western civilization

These combined drivers influence decisions about everything from family customs and habits to décor to financial management and priorities. Keeping these elements in view will prevent the lapse into the soulless consumerism of Modernity and begin transforming your home into a beacon of culture, elegance, and dignified grace.

Why We Need a Return to Elegance in Home Culture

Among the many ills of trashworld, in America, we are suffering increasingly from what Substacker Eddie Larow identifies as “minimalist fatigue.” He writes, “People don’t just want houses that look good on Instagram. They want homes that feel like home. They want spaces that tell stories, that hold memories, that invite you in instead of making you afraid to leave a mug on the coffee table. […] We crave value and homeliness over emptiness. We want warmth, not just cleanliness. We want to walk into a room and be reminded of people, places, and seasons that matter to us.”

As I’ve written about before, “We’ve [as Americans] come completely unmoored from something deep and ancient: a way of life that knew what was worth investing in.” This has been intentional. Without strength on the homefront, without the substance of heritage and the backbone of virtue, we have become a people easily manipulated, easily conquered. And our society has rotted from within.

Let this be the day we decide to reclaim the souls of our homes and cultivate them with intention, because from there, we can begin to reclaim the soul of our nation.

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“It began with small changes. The classic brown menus replaced. Uniforms relaxed. Dress codes done away with to pander to ‘blue haired employees.’ Then alcohol was introduced, breaking with decades of staying dry to preserve a family-first atmosphere set up by the original Christian owners.

Service and management standards slowly degraded as corporate pushed for expansion into new markets. The food quality changed along with the drive for new ‘modern’ customers. ‘The logo and store redesign is simply the last step in total brand destruction by corporate vandals who seemed to despise the Cracker Barrel core culture,’ says Erik.

The logo symbolized a bygone era of front porch values and simpler times—the very spirit that inspired the company’s founding. That logo, like everything else meaningful, has now been sanitized and stripped of its soul.”

--from Benny Johnson, via X

The story of Cracker Barrel is really the story of America. It’s the story of the systematic dismantling of a culture, an identity: a deliberate de-souling meant to disillusion and disenfranchise the people belonging to it. What has happened to Cracker Barrel over the past few years has happened to America over the past few decades, perhaps even centuries, as we’ve devolved, slowly but surely, into the bog of what is referred to as “multiculturalism,” but what is really quite simply a cultural vacuum waiting to be injected with something distinctly not-American.

Just as few seemed to notice or raise the alarm about the fall of Cracker Barrel until the logo change, few realized the extent or implications of the cultural rot in America until the symbols of our heritage began to be torn down and replaced. But the damage began long before that.

It began when we started to value convenience and consumption above community and quality. This gluttonous spirit subtlety but purposefully shifted the pursuit of “the American dream” from building legacy to chasing trends and collecting “status symbols” like Pokemon: new cars, trendy décor, trendy clothes, new homes, more social media followers—gotta catch ‘em all! Before long, as I wrote in my previous article, we’d “[...] come completely unmoored from something deep and ancient: a way of life that knew what was worth investing in.”

Cracker Barrel, like America, had to be destroyed because of the value system that founded it. The logo change is the symbolic raising up of the flag of trashworld; a declaration of victory on the battlefield of culture. A sudden and shocking display after years of quiet erosion.

Things like this are easy to dismiss. “It’s just a restaurant rebrand, who cares?” “It’s just a statue.” “It’s just a piece of land.” “It’s just a historic building.”

It’s just a culture.

It’s just an identity.

It’s just a soul.

And it’s ours.

It’s time to start rebuilding what was taken from us. Our culture. America. To a certain extent, it will be an archaeological endeavor to understand, in its entirety, what that even is. Who are we? Who are we really? Who are we meant to become? Just as it was a long road in getting here, it’ll be a long road getting out of trashworld, but we have to start the re-souling process somewhere. If we don’t, our children will have nothing but a thousand copies of the same souless Cracker Barrel as their inheritance.

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This wasn’t a simple Amazon search—scroll, click and ship—it was an odyssey. It took months. I went about the city, scouring the corners of thrift and antique stores, hunting for this kettle. Sometimes, I’d find something close, something that tempted me to compromise, but I never caved. Then, at last, I found it.

I’d spent so many months training my eyes to spot every glint of copper in every antique store I entered that there was no way to miss it. It was perfect. Ecstatic, I took it home and proceeded to clean and reorganize my entire kitchen so as to be worthy of displaying it.

Now, it may seem like just an ordinary kettle—which it is. There’s nothing particularly special about it; it’s not even perfectly shiny. I probably spent twenty bucks. But it was the first seed in bringing to life a vision I had for my home. It was an aesthetic vision, sure, but it was more than that. It was a feeling I wanted my home to evoke, a feeling I wanted others to experience when they walked through our door.

My quest for this kettle was the unconscious beginning of my realization that culture is created in the home. And, from then on, my home would be a place of intentionally cultivated elegance and grounding; a place that felt timeless—a place where what happens out there is a distant whine, if anything. You might even forget, while you’re here, about the dominance and noise of trashworld and modernity.

At this point, I had an epiphany. In every war there is a home front, and the stronger the home front, the stronger the offensive campaigns and the more resilient the defensive positions. Culture wars are no different.

Home is the backbone of society, and yet “home” is a concept few Americans even understand anymore. No wonder we’ve suffered such things as IKEA furniture, fast fashion, and fake food to become normal. We’ve come completely unmoored from something deep and ancient: a way of life that knew what was worth investing in.

There’s a lot of talk about “winning the culture war” and how we (the conservative Right) are possibly to do that. Make movies, say some; boycotts, say others—and these things are good and arguably necessary, but ultimately, they’re houses built on sand. The home front (home culture) is the rock, and forging a strong one is the winning ticket. It’s a long game. It isn’t easy, and it isn’t flashy; it won’t make you famous—won’t perform well in algorithms designed to keep you scrolling and discontent, immobilized by envy and apathy. But guess what? That’s okay, because those things are all part of trashworld and we can aim higher than that. In fact, we must.

I hope you’ll join me here at The Classic Ordinary as we embark on this quest to jettison the ideals of trashworld and restore a culture of elegance, dignity, and intention to the home front.

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Perhaps you’ve noticed a few things about the society we live in that have left you disappointed, disillusioned, or perhaps even disgusted by the state of modern culture. Perhaps you’ve realized that in America (and the West) we’re more affluent, more connected, and more materialistic than ever before—but it’s all an illusion: our money is inflated, leaving our purchasing power at all time lows, plunging us into unfathomable debt; we’re more atomized and isolated despite “social” media, wondering why we have so many “friends” yet so little authentic community; and the things we consume (at frankly horrifying rates) are—for the most part—thin, soulless garbage.

Perhaps you’ve seen all of this and decided that you want better—better for your family, your community, and your nation. If that’s you, you’ve come to the right place. Welcome to The Classic Ordinary where we’ll discuss cultivating elegance and intentional stewardship in our daily lives, and restoring quality and dignity to our culture, one household at a time.

If you’re interested, hit subscribe and join me in escaping trashworld and building a fresh culture where quality trumps quantity, curation trumps consumption, and beauty is invested in with intention.