I Made a Mistake. Alan.

One of the ancient trails that got us into this mess:  greed.

Sometime a while ago, I listened to Alan Greenspan’s account of his years at the Fed.  Three things struck me about it.  First, he was a personal friend and long time follower of Ayn Rand.  Second, he was a libertarian.  Third, perhaps because of one and two, he trusted in what he called peer review instead of regulation.  That is, he believed financiers entering into contracts would do their due diligence, vet the loan applicant and act in their own and their shareholders self-interest.  Talk about idealism and objectivism.  When I heard that back then, I thought, OMG, this guy is naive.  Yep, he was and in the passage below from a NYT article, he admits it.

“…in a tense exchange with Representative Henry A. Waxman, the California Democrat who is chairman of the (House Committee of Government Oversight and Reform) committee, Mr. Greenspan conceded a more serious flaw in his own philosophy that unfettered free markets sit at the root of a superior economy.

I made a mistake in presuming that the self-interests of organizations, specifically banks and others, were such as that they were best capable of protecting their own shareholders and their equity in the firms,” Mr. Greenspan said.”

NYT, 10/23/08

Crash Under the Blood Moon

46 bar falls 30.22  6mph  ENE  windchill 43  Autumn

Last Quarter of the Blood Moon

It looks like the most violent moments of the credit crisis, stock market crash will have come under the aegis of the Blood Moon.  Coincidence?  I think so, but it’s still metaphorically powerful.

All the trimmed hemerocallis in the back have been tucked away in piles to decompose for the good of the land.  The umbrella for the patio table has been deconstructed; it broke during a powerful windstorm in August.  We will use the skeleton of the umbrella as a tutor for some climbing vegetable next spring, probably beans.

There are no more major fall clean-up tasks.  The orchard has fall tasks, but I’ve only begun to learn about them, so I won’t do any of them until we come back from Colorado.

I also need to clear a fifteen foot edge on the woods, then cover it with black plastic and  hay.  That one I’m going to let nature start by killing back the existing plants.  Once we have some snow on the ground I plan to burn two large brush piles in the way.  A couple of other areas need black plastic or newspaper and hay, that I may start tomorrow.

Kate and I have our business meeting now.  Tomorrow we have to get packed, finish up the usual pre-trip stuff.  Later.

An Old Political Junkie

Made more phone calls.  Liked it not at all, but I agreed to do them.  Now I find out they won’t need me to make calls on November 4th.  Darn.

An old political junkie like me has more information available than I can possibly digest.  The internet brings more and more and more, at finer and finer levels of detail.  When I have the time, I love to read the data, down to the precinct level if I can find it.  Other folks like baseball stats, for me it’s election numbers, political analysis.

Political analysis brought my dad and I close together when I was young.  We would sit up late watching conventions and election returns.  Political analysis pushed my dad and I far apart when I was 19.  Opposition to the Vietnam War and long hair  did not sit well with him.

Tired.

I Say, Not Until We’re in the Grave, Baby

Life has sped up since September.  Tonight I  drove in to represent the Political Committee with Bethann.  It could have been a long drive for little result, but the dialogue was good.  The ex-com had an interest in the committee’s work.  It pleased me to see that the table held more gray hairs than youngsters, so I felt at home.

The meeting took longer than the 3 minutes Margaret had planned for our report, but I think it was time well spent.  The ex-com got to listen to our logic and get a sense of the criteria we used to make decisions.

Bethann hails from Pittsburgh.  She finds the Minnesota culture a bit reticent, not forward or assertive enough.  Hard to tell for me after 30+ years here.  I went native a long while back.

A sore point for me these days.  I’m tired of baby boomer bashing.  Those who criticize us did not live in the world we grew up in.  They do not remember the days of forced and enforced segregation.  They do not remember the days when women were second class, assumed ditzy and inconsequential.  They do not remember the days of queer bashing.  They do not remember the days of back alley abortions.  They did not face the draft for a war as egregiously stupid as the current war in Iraq.

Why don’t they remember these things?  Because the baby boomer generation, led by some progressive activists just a bit older than we were, embraced the need for change.  We lived the struggles.  It was our marriages and relationships in which the sexual revolution came to life.  It was our solidarity that helped push people of color and same-sex relationships into the cultural mainstream.  We fought the draft so that others would not need to fight it again.

Yes, we instigated the culture wars.  Yes, the conservative revolution led by Ronald Reagan was a direct challenge to all we had accomplished.  But note this, it was a reactive  challenge, a challenge made necessary by the scope and depth of cultural change in the 60’s and 70’s.  The nation needed a cooling off period from the hot, intense life on the streets and in the bedroom.

Those sensibilities remain with many of us.  We fight on, stuck in the confrontational politics of our youth, insensitive to the changes that have happened.  It is this anachronistic flavor to the baby boomer generation that feeds the ongoing felt need to put us in our place.  Well, I say, not until we are in the grave, baby.

Love and Politics

Another busy week.  Guess it’s a good thing we’re headed to Colorado on Saturday.  Time for a rest.

Yesterday I worked outside all morning, then took a nap, worked out and went to the Woollys at Paul’s house.  We talked about love.  Love was central to each of our lives and, we all agreed, to the Woolly’s.  Scott talked about the tough, tough time financial planners had in the last month and how it had been very difficult for him personally.  Stefan spoke of his children and the active love a houseful of teens requires.  Frank feels bringing novelty to people’s often boring lives is a way to show love.  Bill read poetry.  Love, marriage (31 years), fear and family dominated Paul’s presentation.  My stuff you read yesterday.

This morning I worked on material for the Sierra Club’s Ex-Com, it’s local (Minnesota) board of directors.  I have to present a report on the candidates whose races we chose for targeted effort.  That’s tonight at 7:30pm.

This afternoon the Africa checkout tour tomorrow morning at 9:30 requires my attention.  Then, phone-calling at the Sierra Club tomorrow night.  After that I can return to work outside until we leave on Saturday.

A Good Shed, Cleaned

You know that garden shed that appeared in some of the orchard pictures?  Jon built it for us quite a while back and a good shed it is.

Like most sheds and their smaller inside counterparts, closets, the stuff fairy goes around sprinkling this and that until one day, ten years later, you discover a no longer usable space.  In and out of the shed for the last couple of years I have thought, clean this up.

So, this morning I did.  I hauled out old garden implements, discovered a big pipe wrench nearly dissolved by oxidation, pitched various sorts of garden detritus and opened up a large space in the shed.  I needed to store the six bales of hay I bought last Saturday.  Room to spare.

My right hand has a large bruise where the IV went in for my anesthetics last Wednesday.  As I look at it, it reminds me of hospital patients I visited during my days in the active ministry, especially older patients whose skin seemed to take a bruise and keep it awhile.

Over the Back Fence

Truck unloaded, then filled up with 6 bales of straw.  All the outside plants inside.  The morning.  Along with a few miscellaneous things:  watering the orchard, deconstructing a run of fence, talking with the neighbors over the back fence.

Now.  A nap.

Quack Will Inherit the Earth

42  bar steady 30.28  0mph WNW  windchill 42  Autumn

Waxing Gibbous Blood Moon

That damned quack.  It has begun to overtake our new plantings.  So, purity to the wind.  If it warms up to 60 degrees, we’ll hit it with Roundup.  Then again.  And, probably, given the tenacious qualities of quack grass, again quackgrass_rhizome2300.jpgnext spring.

Over the years I have become a grudging fan of these hardy herbaceous plants, the weeds.  Without sophisticated gardening intervention they thrive; in fact, they often thrive in spite of it.   They are true survivors and give succor to anyone worried about humankind’s ultimate effect on the planet.

Herbicide us.  Nuke us.  Poison Gas.  Plague.  Quack grass and creeping charlie will soldier on.  I have not yet read The World Without Us but if it’s honest, it will tell the tale of a world dominated by weeds.  Only they will not be weeds anymore, since a weed is a plant out of place.  No, The World Without Us will be quack world, dandelion heaven, creeping charlie nirvana.  Long may they reign.

Until then, however, I want to get the damned stuff out of my young orchard.

Right now I have no Sierra Club responsibilities, except my last rounds of stranger phone calls ever.  I have no tours for which I have to prepare.  My sermons have left the computer and entered the world.  So for the next week or so I can devote myself to finishing up gardening chores, cleaning up my spaces infected with piles and perhaps catching up on a bit of reading.

Speaking of that, I have a recommendation for those of you who like literature and mysteries:  The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, by Swedish author Steig Larson.  A smart mystery and an intriguing look into contemporary Swedish life.

The Ancient Trail of Gratitude

quick note:  Boy, the pace of life accelerated with the coming of autumn.  This last week it felt like I’d gone back to full-time employment.  I’m glad the week-end is here.

Mine is a small life, no encyclopedia entries or feistschrifts, no monuments.  Ordinary.  I’ve been lucky so far.  The major stumbles I made got turned around by mid-life.  Kate came along and made the journey forward companionable.  There are few friends, but good ones.  The things I do, I love.  Dig.  Plant.  Harvest.  Write.  Preach.  Tour.  Spend time with the kids and their kids.  Read.

Thanksgiving is not a one-day holiday, but, rather, a life way, the ancient trail of gratitude.