This interview was originally published in 2020. Wendell Berry died two days ago at the age of 92.
Growing up amid the foothills of eastern Kentucky as a voracious reader and a proud, true-to-form hillbilly, I found myself instinctively drawn, like many country readers, to the work of Wendell Berry—an essayist, a novelist, and a poet whose books, especially titles such as Jayber Crow and The Memory of Old Jack, paint a portrait of a slow, beautiful homeland that I miss deeply now that I live in the noisier urban expanse of Columbus, Ohio.
In Berry’s perhaps most famous essay, “A Native Hill,” he tells of himself as a young Kentucky writer who lands in New York at the start of his career. After a short spell, he ends up writing primarily about the bluegrass state, and despite warnings from peers that this choice might derail him, he decides to return home. In the years that follow, Berry purchases land in the Kentucky watershed portion of the Ohio River Valley, in his hometown of Port Royal, or “Port William,” as you may know it from his fiction, and dedicates himself to a life of farming with a strong social conscience.
That essay, along with many other lessons Berry offers, sits with me. In 2015 I moved to Columbus with my partner, who was finishing a veterinary degree at The Ohio State University. I work in books—first at the Book Loft of German Village, one of the country’s largest independent bookstores—and while I relish my life here, there’s something about those rolling hills, the impossibly leaning Mail Pouch tobacco barns, and the old country stores that keeps my mind wandering. So I’ve made it my mission to introduce Wendell Berry’s books to as many readers as possible.
Continuing this mission and with the help of Counterpoint Publishing, Berry’s publisher, I had the chance to pose a few questions to a fellow admirer of Berry and a craftsman with a steady hand, Nick Offerman. Nick has spent years championing Berry’s writings and even devotes a full chapter to Berry’s enduring influence in his book Gumption: Relighting the Torch of Freedom with America’s Gutsiest Troublemakers.
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Gary Lovely: How did you come to become involved with Wendell Berry and, later, The Berry Center in Kentucky?
Nick Offerman: Back in 1995 I was performing at Chicago’s Steppenwolf Theatre with a Kentucky actor named Leo Burmester. He took a liking to me and handed me two Berry short-story volumes, Fidelity and Watch With Me. Berry’s writing struck me in a way nothing else had. I grew up in a family and a community that shared the same values Berry’s Port William citizens embody—honest work, thrift, affection for family and neighbors, care for animals, and a land that nourishes everything connected to it. In Wendell Berry I found a chronicler of the nobility that comes from such a way of life.
I have often asserted that if my job were simply to broadcast the works of Wendell Berry to the world, I’d die a happy man.
I immediately wanted to see Berry’s fiction adapted for stage or screen, so I wrote to him asking for permission. He replied with a charming note typed on an old manual typewriter, saying he wasn’t interested in any adaptation of his work. It was a frustrating reply, but it only intensified my resolve. I kept writing every few years, hinting that I was much younger than him and suggesting that he might consider granting permission before his final farewell. His responses were always courteous, yet he kept me at arm’s length.
Over the years since first reading him, I’ve publicly celebrated Berry’s work to anyone who would listen, insisting that his writing deserves a place in every school’s curriculum. Friends and acquaintances knew of my devotion. A charismatic friend of mine in Austin, Holly Sabiston, connected me with Laura Dunn, who was making a documentary about Wendell and his ideas. I told Laura I’d be thrilled to help in any way, and she made me a co-producer on her film, Look & See. The film was both beautiful and important, and it was a privilege to contribute to it, especially as it intersected with Berry’s life and philosophy.
This relationship proved fortuitous in another way: I was writing a book called Gumption, about my own heroes, and Laura introduced me to Mary Berry, the daughter of Wendell and Tanya Berry. As Mary’s parents are in their eighties, Mary has become the de facto captain of the Berry Center. We spoke on the phone, and it happened that a couple of her children recognized Parks and Recreation, which gave me a few points in their eyes. The Berrys receive many requests for various things, and it helped that I had a few advocates to vouch for me. Or, at least, to vouch for my mustache—and my ability to eat eggs without complaint.
Then, again, the agricultural training of my youth came into play. As my name circulated in the Berry household, Mary arranged a Sunday afternoon meeting, and her brother Den overheard and said, “Wait a minute. Nick Offerman is the guy from Fine Woodworking Magazine—I built his router sled to flatten my ash slabs.”
That recognition put me on a new footing in Wendell’s eyes: from a hopeful writer-actor connected to a film project to someone who actually builds with his hands. We scheduled a meeting. We shared a generous lunch at the farm, thanks to Tanya, took a walk around the grounds, and have had several conversations since. I’m deeply grateful for their friendship, and I strive not to abuse their time.
I’ve often said that if my only job were to spread Wendell Berry’s writings to the world, I’d be a content man. It turns out that Mary Berry has taken on much of that same work through the Berry Center, and I do my best to support her efforts because she truly knows what she is talking about. The Center runs several programs that support and educate small, locally oriented farming initiatives—an approach our entire country, perhaps the entire planet, needs more of. Berry’s writings, together with Mary’s hands-on care, point toward rural economies that are manageable in scale and deeply humane, a model that involves family, neighbors, and a broader community. I’m inspired by that example and try to be a good ambassador for their work.
I suppose that Wendell’s writing has influenced my own insofar as I think his writing to be the best writing, and so mine necessarily aspires to his.
GL: The Berry Center does remarkable work through their bookshop and in the surrounding community. I’ve especially taken an interest in Our Home Place Meats—a newer program that supports local farmers and produces Rose Veal, a cut that is incredibly delicious.
NO: I couldn’t agree more. They’re setting a powerful example with what amounts to a cooperative-like protectorate that maintains the quality of their beef and the welfare of their cattle from birth to plate. The ten farmers involved in the program are choosing an alternative to industrial farming—one that prioritizes the health of the farmer, the land, the animals, and the consumer. It’s a model we should demand from agriculture across the board.
GL: In Paddle Your Own Canoe you celebrate carrying a handkerchief—a habit that resonated with me and recalled the goodness found in Wendell’s writing, especially The Memory of Old Jack. What general lessons have you drawn from Berry’s work as a whole? Do you think his writing has shaped yours?
NO: The lessons Berry offers are too numerous to catalog in a single interview, but a few stand out right away:
–Set boundaries for yourself. What good does it do to manage a dozen chores if you end up working sixteen hours a day and never have time to enjoy what you’ve earned or to be with your loved ones?
–Turn away from consumerism. Steer clear of screens and the manufactured desires they push at you.
–Decelerate. Allow your senses to linger on a lemon tree, a hummingbird, or a stream, so that you can truly notice them.
–Wait until the hogs have been butchered before you start drinking whiskey, if you’re going to drink at all.
As for the second question, I suspect Berry’s writing has shaped mine insofar as I regard his writing as the finest, and consequently mine aspires toward his. I don’t expect to approach his mastery, but each time I reread him I think, “That’s exactly the point I hoped to make, though he can express it with far fewer words.”
GL: You’ve spent considerable time recording audiobooks and voice work. How did you find the process of recording The World-Ending Fire and The Unsettling of America?
NO: Reading those essays aloud for an audience of one is a privilege I take very seriously. Conveying a writer’s meaning and intention from page to spoken word demands more energy than I anticipated before I started doing audio work. When a text holds deep personal meaning for me—as it does with these Berry essays—it can be profoundly rewarding, but also draining. By contrast, when I’ve tackled fiction, such as a couple of Mark Twain titles, I usually cruise along with few hiccups. With these essays, I found myself rereading and re-recording many passages to ensure I captured the core message and cadence for the listener.
GL: Because fans of your work often become curious about Berry, is there a particular takeaway you hope this exposure yields for them?
NO: Certainly. If someone is brand-new to Berry’s work, I’d say this: you’re in for a real, substantial treat—not something fleeting like a dessert, but a reward that endures, perhaps as sturdy as leather or copper, something you build with and that teaches you how to use a barn to enrich your life. You can’t expect the barn itself to be the prize; it’s the process of building it and how you subsequently employ it that matters most. I hope new readers or listeners gain from this experience the core values of common sense, empathy, healthy contrarianism, and a respect for people and the world we’re lucky to inhabit.
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Wendell Berry’s books, and mine as well, can be found at your local independent bookstore, but I would urge you to order them through The Berry Center Bookstore.
