New York Times: 12/24/08, pp A14.
April 1972, President Richard Nixon got on the phone with his national security adviser, Henry A. Kissinger.
“They dropped a million pounds of bombs.” Mr. Kissinger said.
“God damn, that must have been a good strike!” Mr. Nixon said.
But then, “Johnson bombed them for years and it didn’t do any good.”
“But, Mr. President, Johnson never had a strategy. He was sort of picking away at them. He would go in with 50 planes, 20 planes. I bet you we will have had more planes over there in one day than Johnson had in a month.”
Add to this the bombing of Cambodia and Laos. The destruction of the democratically elected government of Chili and you have a picture of American terrorists, un-indicted war criminals.
I get sick to my stomach and enraged each time I see the press trot Henry Kissinger out to make a pronouncement on some currant crisis. Why isn’t he in jail? Because he is our War Criminal.
Why is he still alive? I think he is afraid to die.
It is hard to be reminded at this time of the year.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Remembering Whitney Hubbard
I want to remember Whitney Hubbard and his wife. They were my mother’s friends in Greenport Long Island during the Second World War, 1941-43.
Whitney Hubbard taught my mother watercolor. She included me though I found it boring. The first class was private at our house. I painted, labored over, a picture of the doghouse. I chose it because it related to my dog, King.
One day when we were painting on the pier in the Village of Greenport my mother looked up to see me diving off the end of the pier into the harbor. I had taken advantage of her distraction to beg a dollar to buy a bathing suit and the next thing I was in the water. That was the last time she asked me to paint with the class.
I remember Whitney as grey haired, a small slender frail looking man in a dark suit with hat and tie. He may have had a little mustache. I remember him as being quiet and patient. He and his wife lived in a run down house in the village across from the Episcopal Church and up the street a bit. I went there often with my mother. His wife whose name I will try to remember was probably manic at times but she greatly amused my mother. She was very funny. She was large, with a prominent nose, a bit over weight and had brown hair. They seemed an incongruous couple to me.
Mrs. Hubbard was a musician. One of their sources of income were her engagements to play the piano. She may have played the organ at local churches as well.
I remember her description of one of the “Ladies” clubs in the village. She imitated one of the fat ladies with a big bottom seating herself at the piano bench. My mother and I were in hysterics.
You entered their house through a gate and stepped into an over grown and neglected garden. Kind of like an enchanted forest to my child’s eyes. Their house had a lot of plants. The floors were uneven and it was musty. I remember a green house room along one side with lots of windows and a brick floor. It did look to me at aged eight to ten, like it was about to fall down.
The Hubbards were very poor. Mrs. Hubbard always had tea for us when we stopped by. My mother tried to help them by taking lessons and buying one of Whitney’s paintings
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Fire!
In 1935, when I was three years old my mother took the opportunity to teach me about fire. The Rossiter House in Nyack, New York had burned. The roof was collapsed and the windows were gaping dark holes. There were streaks of smoke across the exterior, a bleak scene indeed.
“This is what happens when children play with matches.” She said.
The scene emerged from the oldest memories stored in the deep recesses of my brain where first traumatic scenes are encoded.
Today I went with my friend Eugenia to view what is left of her condominium association building in Lexington Massachusetts.
“I’ve seen this before,” bubbled up in my minds eye. We stood looking at the big brick historic building, the Hancock School on the National Register. Workmen setting up a Pigeon trap on the roof had ignited the roof with their acetylene torch.
What a sad scene. The thick brick walls and chimneys stood clean, almost new looking, but the slate roof looked like some broken rollercoaster ride created by the "Mad Hatter". It heaved and sagged, gave way to the burned timbers that had supported it these one hundred and ten years. The rough edges of the slates dangled as if still trying to cover and protect that top floor. The fourth floor under the roof was totally burned out. Across the facade the windows of the third floor were dark holes.
Eugie and I stood at the yellow tape looking up to the windows of her unit. She was on the third floor, a home to twenty-five people, four floors, four units on each, twenty-five souls who called this building home. They are now caste upon the waters to find a new berth. No one was hurt. Most residents were at work. Eugenia's bedroom windows are intact but the window to her sitting room was gone. We heard there was only water damage on the third floor.
Eugie had been stopped as she turned into her street.
“There is a fire.”
“At what address?”
“33 Forest Street”
“That’s where I live.”
I have her with me now, in my extra bedroom. We are both in shock.
“I’ve lost everything.” She says.
Slowly, protectively, her mind recalls the material representation of her life.
“Its just things” she says. Then later, “I feel sick to my stomach.”
How do you deal with such a loss, death come early, books, Manuscripts. Photographs, Antiques passed on by your parents.
My twins started kindergarten here. One had suffered from school phobia after the neighboring building where they walked in a line for gym, burned down.
“I always thought it was a fire trap.” He said.
“This is what happens when children play with matches.” She said.
The scene emerged from the oldest memories stored in the deep recesses of my brain where first traumatic scenes are encoded.
Today I went with my friend Eugenia to view what is left of her condominium association building in Lexington Massachusetts.
“I’ve seen this before,” bubbled up in my minds eye. We stood looking at the big brick historic building, the Hancock School on the National Register. Workmen setting up a Pigeon trap on the roof had ignited the roof with their acetylene torch.
What a sad scene. The thick brick walls and chimneys stood clean, almost new looking, but the slate roof looked like some broken rollercoaster ride created by the "Mad Hatter". It heaved and sagged, gave way to the burned timbers that had supported it these one hundred and ten years. The rough edges of the slates dangled as if still trying to cover and protect that top floor. The fourth floor under the roof was totally burned out. Across the facade the windows of the third floor were dark holes.
Eugie and I stood at the yellow tape looking up to the windows of her unit. She was on the third floor, a home to twenty-five people, four floors, four units on each, twenty-five souls who called this building home. They are now caste upon the waters to find a new berth. No one was hurt. Most residents were at work. Eugenia's bedroom windows are intact but the window to her sitting room was gone. We heard there was only water damage on the third floor.
Eugie had been stopped as she turned into her street.
“There is a fire.”
“At what address?”
“33 Forest Street”
“That’s where I live.”
I have her with me now, in my extra bedroom. We are both in shock.
“I’ve lost everything.” She says.
Slowly, protectively, her mind recalls the material representation of her life.
“Its just things” she says. Then later, “I feel sick to my stomach.”
How do you deal with such a loss, death come early, books, Manuscripts. Photographs, Antiques passed on by your parents.
My twins started kindergarten here. One had suffered from school phobia after the neighboring building where they walked in a line for gym, burned down.
“I always thought it was a fire trap.” He said.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Remember Jane Swift?
Remember Jane Swift? You would have to be from Massachusetts.
She came to my mind when I saw John McCain choose Sarah Palin to be his vice president.
Jane Swift’s story should be one of caution for Sarah.
You have to go back to William Floyd Weld our Republican Governor who chose Paul Cellucci to be his running mate.
After a couple of years in the Governors Office Weld grew bored and decided he would like it better as American Ambassador in Mexico City.
Now Jessie Helms was the gatekeeper for Ambassadorial Appointments and he did not like William Weld. Weld spent some time sitting in Jessie’s outer office waiting to be interviewed and appointed. It must have been very demeaning and embarrassing for Weld. After and extended period cooling his heals and being ignored he went off to join a law firm in New York City.
Meanwhile back in Massachusetts, Paul Cellucci stepped into the Governorship. When he ran for election on his own merits he felt he needed to carry the western part of the state to win office.
Enter Jane Swift, the unknown mayor of North Adams? Or was it Pittsfield. Jane welcomed the opportunity to take the stage on Beacon Hill.
All went well. She and her husband conceived and bore twins!
Then Paul Cellucci was appointed Ambassador to Canada and there was Jane, Governor! There were the twins still in the Berkshires. She was criticized for taking the State Police helicopter home on the weekends.
Jane was willing to run again on her own merits. I liked her because, by executive decree she shut down the “Filthy Five” power plants that were poisoning coastal Massachusetts, especially Salem.
However along comes Mitt Romney who decided he wanted to be the Governor of Massachusetts. What he and his machine did to Jane was not pretty. I don’t know the details but you could see it in her face that she had, like Daniel, been in the lion’s den.
I recount this as a cautionary tale for Sarah Palin. She doesn’t even know WHAT SHE DOESN’T KNOW!
She came to my mind when I saw John McCain choose Sarah Palin to be his vice president.
Jane Swift’s story should be one of caution for Sarah.
You have to go back to William Floyd Weld our Republican Governor who chose Paul Cellucci to be his running mate.
After a couple of years in the Governors Office Weld grew bored and decided he would like it better as American Ambassador in Mexico City.
Now Jessie Helms was the gatekeeper for Ambassadorial Appointments and he did not like William Weld. Weld spent some time sitting in Jessie’s outer office waiting to be interviewed and appointed. It must have been very demeaning and embarrassing for Weld. After and extended period cooling his heals and being ignored he went off to join a law firm in New York City.
Meanwhile back in Massachusetts, Paul Cellucci stepped into the Governorship. When he ran for election on his own merits he felt he needed to carry the western part of the state to win office.
Enter Jane Swift, the unknown mayor of North Adams? Or was it Pittsfield. Jane welcomed the opportunity to take the stage on Beacon Hill.
All went well. She and her husband conceived and bore twins!
Then Paul Cellucci was appointed Ambassador to Canada and there was Jane, Governor! There were the twins still in the Berkshires. She was criticized for taking the State Police helicopter home on the weekends.
Jane was willing to run again on her own merits. I liked her because, by executive decree she shut down the “Filthy Five” power plants that were poisoning coastal Massachusetts, especially Salem.
However along comes Mitt Romney who decided he wanted to be the Governor of Massachusetts. What he and his machine did to Jane was not pretty. I don’t know the details but you could see it in her face that she had, like Daniel, been in the lion’s den.
I recount this as a cautionary tale for Sarah Palin. She doesn’t even know WHAT SHE DOESN’T KNOW!
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Twilight at Montecello
by Alan Pell Crawford
I thoroughly enjoyed this book. Being retired and elderly my self I am interested to see how others reach closure on their lives.What interested me is the consistency of Jefferson's response to the ebb and flow of his life. Denial was his main ego defense and he honed its use till there was barely a pause between the event and his response.
You realize you are dealing with a good man beset by what he wanted and his ability to deliver for himself and his family. You are saddened by the life he dealt his grandson Jefferson Randolph, then self protectively blaming Jeff for not finishing his education.
Reading about his son in law and his grand daughters husband, Charles Bankhead one wishes that AA had been created 200 years earlier. Jefferson was remarkably insightful in his realization that Alcoholism was a medical illness.
Jefferson spoke to me when he wrote,
"When you and I look back on the country over which we have passed, what a field of slaughter does it exhibit! Where are all the friends who entered it with us, under all the inspiring energies of health and hope? As if pursued by the havoc of war, they are strewed by the way, some earlier, some later, and scarce a few stragglers remain to count the numbers fallen, and to mark yet, by their own fall, the last footsteps of their party. Is it a desirable thing to bear up through the heat of action, to witness the death of all our companions, and merely be the last victim?
I recommend this thoughtful book to you.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Agriculture for Profit
By a circuitous route I arrived at Vicksburg: a People at War, 1860 to 1865, by Peter R Walker.
This little book is a very interesting read. It presents the experience of a city under siege from the view of the inhabitants. It is a romantic book and glosses over the reality of the pain and suffering with the veneer of heroics. You get the feeling and idea that this was a people of a different era, immune to the suffering depicted in the modern press and literature.
There is no discussion that would lead to a diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, though there must have been such symptoms under a different name.
The city endures daily shelling from both the river and Grant’s siege from the surrounding land. People starve and people hoard. They dig into the ground and live in caves.
What caught my attention was the account of the continued production of cotton, in the face of the extreme need for food crops. Plantations continued to plant cotton because of the high price they would get for the crop if they could successfully run the blockade.
Corn for ethanol? Poppies for Opium? This is capitalism as applied to Agriculture. Where is agriculture policy? It is the modern day equivalent to cotton on the national and international scale.
Granted, Afghanistan is a failed state in the hands of drug lords. Afghanistan is headed for a big hunger, addiction and HIV morass. It is spilling over into Iran and all along the delivery routes. Opium is more toxic than cotton.
This little book is a very interesting read. It presents the experience of a city under siege from the view of the inhabitants. It is a romantic book and glosses over the reality of the pain and suffering with the veneer of heroics. You get the feeling and idea that this was a people of a different era, immune to the suffering depicted in the modern press and literature.
There is no discussion that would lead to a diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, though there must have been such symptoms under a different name.
The city endures daily shelling from both the river and Grant’s siege from the surrounding land. People starve and people hoard. They dig into the ground and live in caves.
What caught my attention was the account of the continued production of cotton, in the face of the extreme need for food crops. Plantations continued to plant cotton because of the high price they would get for the crop if they could successfully run the blockade.
Corn for ethanol? Poppies for Opium? This is capitalism as applied to Agriculture. Where is agriculture policy? It is the modern day equivalent to cotton on the national and international scale.
Granted, Afghanistan is a failed state in the hands of drug lords. Afghanistan is headed for a big hunger, addiction and HIV morass. It is spilling over into Iran and all along the delivery routes. Opium is more toxic than cotton.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Should I be surprised about the New York Times Home Section slobbering over Australian Outback Architecture?
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/03/garden/03australia.html
Some lady who “divorced well” has spared no expense to borrow features and transport them to Sonoma California.
“The interiors of the main house are a shrine to Australian art and craft.”
Now I lived in two out back houses in Alice Springs in 1959 and 1966. I found nothing redeeming about their architecture. Mostly they were tin roofed ovens surrounded by a louvered porch.
One had its septic tank outside the back door between the bathroom and the laundry house. It was covered with sheets of tin for easy access.
Our family roasted in the summer and froze in the winter. I made kangaroo skin inserts for our shoes after getting frostbite standing on the interior floors during the winter.
Our thoughts about how one might improve on “bush” housing revolved around starting a company that built bermed houses.
Ms. Dodwell’s “Art Studio and Massage Room” triggered my memories of the “meat house” at Brunette Downs Station on the Barkley Tablelands, 1960. The shadows and the slats took me back to the time we were offered fresh meat. “Go to the meat house and help your selves. We just butchered a beef.”
We stepped inside the simple structure to see a large table in the middle of the concrete floored room. The table was heaped with pieces of red meat. We took a small piece and cooked it on a shovel over a campfire that night.
What can I say? Money corrupts? Money allows one to indulge whatever crazy enthusiasms one entertains? Waste not. Want not.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Where the Oil Hits the Tank
My final oil bill for the season arrived today. I had been paying $140.00 a month for 10 months so I was surprised to see that I still owed $458.67.
The office of my Oil Company, Arlington Fuel Oil Co, Inc. is at the end of my street. I thought I would go and get their help understanding my rate of use, success at conserving, in short find out how they think I am doing.
We reviewed my house, new windows, heavy insulation in the ceiling and walls and a programmable thermostat.
After an intra-office struggle with their computers, the Campbells, Father, Mother, and Son got me a print out that showed everything in black and white.
I’ve gotten four deliveries this heating season. Starting with a full tank and ending with a full tank, I used 442 gallons this season for heat and hot water. The first delivery was $2.82 a gallon. The second was $3.45 a gallon. The third was $3.62 and the fourth was $4.69.
“You did very well.” “Most of our customers living on the ground floor of two family homes used about 900 gallons.“
Mrs. Campbell held up a three-inch stack of order slips.
“These are the people who didn’t want us to top them off at the end of the season. Some of them haven’t paid their bill.”
As I went out the door, Mr. Campbell said, “Don’t sell that house.”
The office of my Oil Company, Arlington Fuel Oil Co, Inc. is at the end of my street. I thought I would go and get their help understanding my rate of use, success at conserving, in short find out how they think I am doing.
We reviewed my house, new windows, heavy insulation in the ceiling and walls and a programmable thermostat.
After an intra-office struggle with their computers, the Campbells, Father, Mother, and Son got me a print out that showed everything in black and white.
I’ve gotten four deliveries this heating season. Starting with a full tank and ending with a full tank, I used 442 gallons this season for heat and hot water. The first delivery was $2.82 a gallon. The second was $3.45 a gallon. The third was $3.62 and the fourth was $4.69.
“You did very well.” “Most of our customers living on the ground floor of two family homes used about 900 gallons.“
Mrs. Campbell held up a three-inch stack of order slips.
“These are the people who didn’t want us to top them off at the end of the season. Some of them haven’t paid their bill.”
As I went out the door, Mr. Campbell said, “Don’t sell that house.”
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Conversations in Retirement
I have been talking with Kazue Campbell. She is a Scholar of Japanese, now retired from BU. She is busy translating a book from Japanese. The Book is an account of William Wheeler, of Concord Massachusetts and his efforts to improve the Agriculture in the North part of Japan beginning in 1876. Kazue was complaining about loosing steam on the work of translation. I said, “Please keep going. I want to read the book.”
I told her about my Grandfather’s visits to Japan about this time with the U S Navy and sent her pictures of his ship, at the time, the USS Kearsarge. She replied;
“Do you have any idea why did this ship went to Japan in 1874? It was 2 years before William Wheeler went to Japan together with William Clark and David Penhallow to start the first agricultural college in Japan, perhaps in Asia. ( Japan and the U.S.A. had the first commercial treaty in 1858, opening a number of ports. ) I look forward to talking with you on the subject.”
The Kearsarge was a US Navy war ship. If you look closely at the pictures you can imagine being underway at sea, the sails spread, a minimum of smoke from the stack. They would keep the boilers going to enable them to quickly "fire up" and increase speed with the steam driven engine, which was a new innovation in a war ship, increasing maneuverability in a battle encounter. My Grandfather was an "Engineer" in charge of the steam boiler. They probably burned coal which would have dirtied the sails and drifted over the deck. Quarters must have been tight below deck
where you shared space with the steam engine, coal, canon balls and black powder, guns, sailors, galley, infirmary. The Officers would have tiny private quarters. My grandfather had a "sea" chest made out of Camphorwood in China. I still have it. It would be loaded on board when he reported to a ship for duty. The mementos he brought back, mostly from China, were small things, buttons, the wood cut print from Hiogo Harbor small pictures, a fan, a couple of daggers, things that wouldn't take up much space in his chest.Looking at the pictures of the Kearsarge I am filled with awe and nostalgia. The beauty of the ship's lines, the craftsmanship the idea of a self contained community crossing the Pacific to Japan, under sail. It was all wood, with brass and iron fittings, built in Maine. It was the top of technology in its day.
I look forward to reading William Wheeler’s account of his multiple trips to Japan to establish a College of Agriculture. I must say I am more in sympathy with the purpose of his trips though my Grandfather’s mission may have helped William to accomplish his.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Loss of Power
Virginia and I returned to my house in the midst of a “blackout”. There was no electricity from 12 pm till 8 pm. It was a shock after the air-conditioned coolness of the Museum of Fine Arts and then the secluded, quiet, cool car interior on the way home.
We kept the house closed and it stayed fairly cool inside. There is a lot of insulation. It really makes me understand how dependent I am on our electricity supply. We had no lights, cooking, cooling, refrigerator; telephone, computer, TV, radio, hot water. The house was "dead".
It was such a relief when the power returned at 8pm and the electric clock started flashing. The fan in the kitchen ceiling started turning, the furnace came on to heat up the water. It is all well and good to say we must save oil and gas but how are we to generate the power we have all become dependent on? The scary thing is, that we will be even more dependent on electricity as the earth warms and the summers become hotter. It is a vicious circle.
What happened to the swing in the shade of the front porch? Where is the hand held fan? How long since I’ve seen a pitcher of lemon aid with its sweating glass and floating ice cubes?
We kept the house closed and it stayed fairly cool inside. There is a lot of insulation. It really makes me understand how dependent I am on our electricity supply. We had no lights, cooking, cooling, refrigerator; telephone, computer, TV, radio, hot water. The house was "dead".
It was such a relief when the power returned at 8pm and the electric clock started flashing. The fan in the kitchen ceiling started turning, the furnace came on to heat up the water. It is all well and good to say we must save oil and gas but how are we to generate the power we have all become dependent on? The scary thing is, that we will be even more dependent on electricity as the earth warms and the summers become hotter. It is a vicious circle.
What happened to the swing in the shade of the front porch? Where is the hand held fan? How long since I’ve seen a pitcher of lemon aid with its sweating glass and floating ice cubes?
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Going Green
I have recently become truly alarmed about Global Warming. The trigger has been my taking a course at the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at Tufts University. The title of the course is “Rescuing an Ailing Planet” taught by a Graduate Student in the Department of Urban and Environmental Policy and Planning. The textbook is Plan B 3.0 : Mobilizing to Save Civilization by Lester R. Brown.
I didn’t consider myself a latecomer to the environmental movement. I had just been passive, contributing to the Nature Conservancy, Environmental Defense Fund, Earth Justice, Conservation Law Foundation, Wildlife Federation, Wilderness Society, Ocean Conservancy, writing the checks and figuring I was doing my part; contribute the money and let someone else do the legwork.
I’ve had a rude awakening. I need to do more. I need to reduce my carbon footprint. So far I’ve reduced my driving. I’m walking and taking the bus and red line more. I have stopped using my dryer. I hang my cloths on lines in the basement near the furnace. I installed a programmable thermostat, replaced my windows and back door with new insulated double paned units. I had more insulation (cellulose) blown into my exterior walls. I’ve replaced all the light bulbs with fluorescents. My next car will be a hybrid.
On the food and eating front I’ve cut out beef and reduced my chicken, fish and turkey to three times a week. I’m eating lower on the food pyramid, more fruit, vegetables, legumes and grains. I’ve learned some cool facts. Beef takes seven bushels of corn(water, fertilizer, oil for tractors and harvesters) to produce one pound of meat. Beef also consumes enormous amounts of fresh water and expels lots of carbon dioxide. To stop eating beef is the equivalent of giving up an SUV and driving a Prius in energy use and CO2 production.
Another cool fact is all this fresh produce we import, like grapes from Chile, bring with them fresh water (often scarce) from the producing country. Grapes are 95% water. We fly that water up here! It makes you think about eating locally or at least domestically.
Our economy and life style are petroleum based. Oil production is like a bell curve and we are already past the peak and on the downward part of the curve. All of the “easy” oil has been discovered. Oil from tar sands, for instance takes two barrels of energy from oil to produce one barrel for other uses. It requires a lot of sand being moved around and a lot of water as well.
Conservation is the way to go and after that we have to make significant life style changes. We should travel less, build smaller energy efficient houses, retrofit the old buildings and housing stock we have, live closer to where we work.
I’m thinking about how communities can get a handle on rental housing, enforcing, encouraging landlords to upgrade energy efficiency. There is a storm brewing for low to middle income tenants who cannot pay high rents and high utility bills too. Gas and Electric bills are in arrears and service will be cut off in May. The bills will have to be paid before service is restored for the next winter. This is the next housing crisis.
I didn’t consider myself a latecomer to the environmental movement. I had just been passive, contributing to the Nature Conservancy, Environmental Defense Fund, Earth Justice, Conservation Law Foundation, Wildlife Federation, Wilderness Society, Ocean Conservancy, writing the checks and figuring I was doing my part; contribute the money and let someone else do the legwork.
I’ve had a rude awakening. I need to do more. I need to reduce my carbon footprint. So far I’ve reduced my driving. I’m walking and taking the bus and red line more. I have stopped using my dryer. I hang my cloths on lines in the basement near the furnace. I installed a programmable thermostat, replaced my windows and back door with new insulated double paned units. I had more insulation (cellulose) blown into my exterior walls. I’ve replaced all the light bulbs with fluorescents. My next car will be a hybrid.
On the food and eating front I’ve cut out beef and reduced my chicken, fish and turkey to three times a week. I’m eating lower on the food pyramid, more fruit, vegetables, legumes and grains. I’ve learned some cool facts. Beef takes seven bushels of corn(water, fertilizer, oil for tractors and harvesters) to produce one pound of meat. Beef also consumes enormous amounts of fresh water and expels lots of carbon dioxide. To stop eating beef is the equivalent of giving up an SUV and driving a Prius in energy use and CO2 production.
Another cool fact is all this fresh produce we import, like grapes from Chile, bring with them fresh water (often scarce) from the producing country. Grapes are 95% water. We fly that water up here! It makes you think about eating locally or at least domestically.
Our economy and life style are petroleum based. Oil production is like a bell curve and we are already past the peak and on the downward part of the curve. All of the “easy” oil has been discovered. Oil from tar sands, for instance takes two barrels of energy from oil to produce one barrel for other uses. It requires a lot of sand being moved around and a lot of water as well.
Conservation is the way to go and after that we have to make significant life style changes. We should travel less, build smaller energy efficient houses, retrofit the old buildings and housing stock we have, live closer to where we work.
I’m thinking about how communities can get a handle on rental housing, enforcing, encouraging landlords to upgrade energy efficiency. There is a storm brewing for low to middle income tenants who cannot pay high rents and high utility bills too. Gas and Electric bills are in arrears and service will be cut off in May. The bills will have to be paid before service is restored for the next winter. This is the next housing crisis.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Journal of a Secesh Lady
I have just finished reading Catherine Edmondston’s journal of her life during the Civil War.
I am so grateful to “Kate” for making the effort to record each day, 1860 to 1866 as she experienced it. She recorded the reports, rumors, and her vitriolic response to the hated Yankee depredations. She also found time to record the ebb and flow of the plantation work her personal joys and sorrows. I feel she shared her life with me, a woman of different circumstance in 2008.
It is a hefty book, weighty in both substance and size. Many a night in bed I struggled to hold it upright at an angle harmonious with my bifocals. Reading it from beginning to end is a task of persistence and devotion. I feel rewarded by the effort.
The story offers the opportunity to travel back in time, to be immersed in the thinking and social fabric of the secessionist south.
At times I became impatient with her favorite themes, the gentlemanliness of the Confederate Officers contrasted with the “ill bread” Yankees, her acerbic abuse of Lincoln. Still what would you expect? Do you want social realism or some sanitized romantic novel?
The last entries, after Lee’s surrender, made the whole reading worth while. Catherine and her husband Patrick had three properties and about eighty-six slaves. She continues her entries for another year as they struggle, former master and former slave to work out a new social contract.
Catherine excoriates the “Freeman’s Bureau”, their meddling, rules and general mischief. It is frustration and miscommunication on all sides. The dysfunctional family that was the Plantation hierarchy falls apart before the reader’s eyes. There is a redistribution of power, misread on both sides as the model shifts from Master and Slave to Labor and Management. Kate has a wonderful ear for dialect and dialogue. You can hear the speech and see the participants confronting each other both uncomfortable and on unsure ground. It is the beginning of the transition period in race relations that may devolve into the Presidency of Barack Obama
I am so grateful to “Kate” for making the effort to record each day, 1860 to 1866 as she experienced it. She recorded the reports, rumors, and her vitriolic response to the hated Yankee depredations. She also found time to record the ebb and flow of the plantation work her personal joys and sorrows. I feel she shared her life with me, a woman of different circumstance in 2008.
It is a hefty book, weighty in both substance and size. Many a night in bed I struggled to hold it upright at an angle harmonious with my bifocals. Reading it from beginning to end is a task of persistence and devotion. I feel rewarded by the effort.
The story offers the opportunity to travel back in time, to be immersed in the thinking and social fabric of the secessionist south.
At times I became impatient with her favorite themes, the gentlemanliness of the Confederate Officers contrasted with the “ill bread” Yankees, her acerbic abuse of Lincoln. Still what would you expect? Do you want social realism or some sanitized romantic novel?
The last entries, after Lee’s surrender, made the whole reading worth while. Catherine and her husband Patrick had three properties and about eighty-six slaves. She continues her entries for another year as they struggle, former master and former slave to work out a new social contract.
Catherine excoriates the “Freeman’s Bureau”, their meddling, rules and general mischief. It is frustration and miscommunication on all sides. The dysfunctional family that was the Plantation hierarchy falls apart before the reader’s eyes. There is a redistribution of power, misread on both sides as the model shifts from Master and Slave to Labor and Management. Kate has a wonderful ear for dialect and dialogue. You can hear the speech and see the participants confronting each other both uncomfortable and on unsure ground. It is the beginning of the transition period in race relations that may devolve into the Presidency of Barack Obama
Friday, March 21, 2008
Loosing Friends As You Get Old
I am seventy-five now. The end of life losses are beginning to hit home. First was my husband. I thought I wouldn’t survive that one. He was literally my other half. His absence felt like standing next to an abyss. Connections that had been central to our lives together dropped away. My identity as his wife, the wife of a Professor, disappeared. I was floundering. Who was I and where was my place in the larger social context.
Now, seven years later I’ve managed to establish some sort of equilibrium. I’ve created a single life that is comfortable. I am at ease with myself. I think I would find it distasteful to have to accommodate to another persons wishes and decisions.
It has been a process. It was very unnerving to make my own decisions, with out consultation, and know I would have to live alone with the consequences.
The losses have continued. Old friends have died. One disappeared into dementia. And now a new ogre has appeared on the horizon, disengagement through personality change.
Yesterday at lunch I was discussing it with my friend Eugenia. “Some people get angry about getting old. My oldest friend isn’t speaking to me because I support Barack Obama. She thinks he is anti-Semitic and doesn’t support Israel.” I had been discussing it in the context of the loss of one of my old friends who has decided I am “rude” and “parsimonious”. I had been at a loss to explain her anger with me, which had grown and become more intense over a five-year period. When I finally confronted her I got a letter with a long list of my sins of omission and commission going back years. “That is crazy and obsessive.” Said Eugenia.
I had been trying to argue her out of her anger with me. This is the second episode so I think I will give up and let her go. It is a new variety of loss.
Now, seven years later I’ve managed to establish some sort of equilibrium. I’ve created a single life that is comfortable. I am at ease with myself. I think I would find it distasteful to have to accommodate to another persons wishes and decisions.
It has been a process. It was very unnerving to make my own decisions, with out consultation, and know I would have to live alone with the consequences.
The losses have continued. Old friends have died. One disappeared into dementia. And now a new ogre has appeared on the horizon, disengagement through personality change.
Yesterday at lunch I was discussing it with my friend Eugenia. “Some people get angry about getting old. My oldest friend isn’t speaking to me because I support Barack Obama. She thinks he is anti-Semitic and doesn’t support Israel.” I had been discussing it in the context of the loss of one of my old friends who has decided I am “rude” and “parsimonious”. I had been at a loss to explain her anger with me, which had grown and become more intense over a five-year period. When I finally confronted her I got a letter with a long list of my sins of omission and commission going back years. “That is crazy and obsessive.” Said Eugenia.
I had been trying to argue her out of her anger with me. This is the second episode so I think I will give up and let her go. It is a new variety of loss.
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