The news that Obama has moved to open a new front and a new war in Libya is another example of American military interventionism in Muslim lands which will likely add another sad page to the already sad history of those places. In similar circumstances in the oldest and first democracy of ancient Athens, the great philospher, Socrates (469 BC -399BC) would have been plying the Agora, cornering members of the boule to use his questions (elenchus or the Socratic method) to probe the validity of the decisions of the Greek archons (leaders) of his time. But in modern America, few raise any serious questions. Our government, press and citizens all seem to fall in line with our President's statements, however untrue or even ridiculous they appear.
When I heard of Obama's plan to enter Libya brandishing cruise missiles, cluster bombs and napalm canisters---to be used only for humanitarian purposes" a quote from Virgil, (aka Publius Vergilius Maro, Roman Poet, 70BC to 19BC) popped into my mind. It is: "Aegrescit Medendo" which literally means "it becomes worse for the treatment used," but is often translated as "the cure is worse than the disease". This seemed so appropriate to the present case. Can anyone truly believe that Obama's motives are what he states and he is acting so belligerently in Libya to save human life? To me, Obama seems more a man ready to acquiesce to the existing power structure when he thinks he is cornered, or because he perceives some political gain in his aquiescence. His deep, dark eyes are presently focused, not on saving the lives of Libya's insurgents, but on saving his 2012 election bid--where he perceives a need to present a tough, macho persona to the electorate in November next. In politics, looking tough is more important than making tough decisions. One need not look further than his troop-surge in Afghanistan and its expansion into neighboring Pakistan, for evidence of what can go wrong with a largely aerial war. In both these places there are too numerous instances of "accidents, mistaken-identity, and also some obviously purposeful cruise-missile strikes and bombings targeting innocent civilians (at this juncture, I can not pass up the opportunity to remind my readers of the recent tragic deaths of nine(9)--young Afghan boys ages 9-14 who were blasted to smithereens by US bombs as they peacefully collected firewood for their parents on a hillside.) To "suppress" Libyan-air-defenses (read destroy emplacements and kill operators) there will have to be many strikes which will no doubt kill scores of innocent civilians who happen to live near-by, since many defense facilities are sited in populous areas. In what Obama proposes civilian casualties are inevitable. Therefore Obama's stated "cure" to prevent the potential for a "slaughter of innocents" is certain to slaughter innocents. Furthermore, I found his language simply too reminiscent of George Bush's syntax and rationale when GW presented his cooked-up reasons for going to war in Iraq to protect the US from the "possibility" of nuclear holocaust, by creating a conventional holocaust where nearly a million Iraqis lost their lives. It seems that Obama's rational is: if the patient needs a tooth pulled to ease the pain in his jaw, send in a surgeon to cut off the patient's head. That tooth will not hurt him any more! Agrescit medendo!
After writing that last paragraph a second quote from Virgil came to mind: "Facilis descensus averni"--(Aen.6.126) "Easy is the descent into Hell". One need not have a degree in military history to recall how unpredictable war is. And also how quickly motives and military missions magically change and morph from one thing into another. Your memory bank need go back no further than Bush II's Iraq war where, "sending a message" became, "finding weapons of mass destruction", which altered to: "spreading democracy", which changed to: "making the Middle East safe", and which finally resulted in a plaintive and surly: "getting rid of Saddam". Bush and Cheney expressed so many different aims of war over such a short period of time that it would often make one's head spin. These changes in reasons, purpose and motives are of-course tailored by our leaders to fit the political needs and vagaries of the day, minute, or to explain away unpleasant realities of the war enterprise. These alterations are termed "mission creep" by the military. Thus as Virgil stated, It's so easy to descend into hell! "Facilis descensus averni". But what is more disgraceful than a politician who affronts us with bald-faced lies (as he spends money we do not have to send our young men and women into harms way, and for highly questionable purposes)? Unhappily, such behavior is something that we almost come to expect from them! But what is more disgusting than a mendacious politician is a compliant electorate and citizenry in which no one speaks up to confront the lies and misrepresentations. Instead, Americans all line up to nod their collective heads in agreement as the President and his functionaries (and the press) shovel the manure our way. Oh where are our skeptics and our questioners? Where is our Socrates?
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
UNDERLYING CAUSES--UNEMPLOYMENT AND OFFSHORING JOBS--PLUS A WHISPER OF HOPE
My friend Howie visted us recently sporting a fine red and gold baseball cap which blared out in bold red letters in the gold crown “Espagna”.
“It’s a gift from my daughter!” he stated proudly. “She brought it back for me from the Ebitha, in Spain, where she was vacationing,” he explained.
But when the proud dad turned it over, he was surprised to read “Made in China” on the inner band.
“Oh, I guess, it came from China via Spain!” quipped Howie.
But no one else was really surprised. The cap was just another bit of hard evidence we see all around us everyday of how and where things are manufactured these days.
“You’d think they could make their own hats in Spain,” mused Howie, a bit disappointed in the provenance of his gift.
"Don’t feel bad my friend,” I assured him, “Everything is made in China or Asia these days—where labor is cheap.”
But the cap did have a story to tell. The yellow and red hat, like many other manufactured products was made in some Chinese busy, Chinese manufactory. It was packed up with thousands of others, shipped out and spent some time on a vessel on its way to Spain. There it set on some shelf in a trinket store in Ebitha for a few months. Finally, it was purchased by a young American woman to bring home to her dad, and wound up in Southampton, New York.
Not long ago I wrote a blog lamenting the fact that we do not make anything here in the US any longer and that is why today,two-and-one-half-years since the market collapse and Great Recession of 2008, we still have 14 million people out of work. But perhaps the story is more complex than simply cheaper wages.
Today, March 27, 2011, I read a piece by Robert Kuttner entitled “American Industrial Rennaissance” (which appeared in the Huffington Post) which helps to explain the underlying reasons why most American business find it profitable to “offshore” so much of their manufacturing. It goes a good way to explain as well, why we have an unemployment rate here in the US which remains so intractable years after the Recession of 2008.
Kuttner explains that US businesses are attracted offshore “to take advantage of lower labor and environmental standards in foreign countries.” Its cheaper to make things in countries where labor has no rights, and companies can freely pollute their host country’s environment with little cost or worry to themselves.
“Then too, foreign governments offer US companies subsidies to encourage them to locate production in their country . These subsidies are illegal, in principle, under the World Trade Organization. But China's entire industrial system depends on subsidies intended to attract western companies to shift production to China.
And finally offshoring makes it easier to book profits in such a way that avoids national tax liability. It was recently reported that GE, with worldwide profits of $14.2 billion in 2010, paid no US taxes. In fact, the US ended up owing GE $3.2 billion.”
But according to Kuttner, the recent tragic events in Japan, aside from the Iodine 131 and Ce 137 raining down on us, have caused some companies to rethink aspects of their policies regarding the advantages of their offshore operations.
Japan is right now, and for sometime to come, going to be off-line. It will not be able to produce the large number of computer “chips” and other products it manufacutres and sells abroad. Many of its automotive products, components of vehicles which are “manufactured” here, will not be available either. Those companies which depend on these component parts will not be able to put their products on the shelves or in the showrooms of the US.
Modern US industries (and many of those in Spain too) have long and fragile supply lines. Raw matierials travel long distances to a manufacturing site and then more long miles to the place where they are sold. These long-distance supply lines have their weaknesses. Wars, natural disasters, hurricanes, tsunamis, pirates and earthquakes can easily disrupt the supply line somewhere along its course—as in Japan—and the longer the line the more it is subject to interdiction. There are advantages to producing component parts closer to home. Furthermore, there are increasing energy costs to bear when production is “offshored”. Today with the costs of fuel rising rapidly (a barrel of oil is well over $100 dollars theres days) it is becoming increasingly expensive to move manufactured products, their component parts and raw matierials from place to place over the earth’s surface.
With the high cost of eneergy and increased mechanization the relative advantage of cheap labor has been partly nullified. The fact that mechanization has decreased the number of workers needed, lowers the cost of labor in that product. So that in the past, on an assembly line where forty or fifty workers were needed, now there are only five—pushing buttons on a big surface-active screen. Thus, the relative advantage of cheap Asian labor has fallen. Kutner states: “labor represents a dwindling share manufacturing costs”, while the energy costs of production have risen. “So even if a Chinese worker is paid just one-twentieth the wage of his or her US counterpart, there is only so much that can be saved by moving production abroad. “
Kuttner states: “As energy and the cost of shipping become expensive, and production becomes more automated, the logic of production shifts back in favor of more domestic manufacturing.” However, don’t expect a renaissance of US industry or vast increases of US jobs, because there remain those other advantages of "offshoring". But the hope lies in the fact that those aspects or advantages to business can be addressed legislatively. Why should we permit GE and other giant coprorations to manipulate the tax code and offshore jobs so they pay zero taxes? Why continue to provide businsesses tax relief and other subsidies when they offshore jobs? Products which arrive on our shores should have been produces in ways that do not pollute the environment of abuse basic rights of foreign workers. These issues may be addressed if President Obama screws up some gumption to tackle the reactionary forces. Perhaps as a start he should dump some of the rabidly pro-business people in his cabinet and begin to look at these problems with an eye for the needs of the nation as a whole. Perhaps, he might even give voice to a new more just industrial policy, that which will bring back manufacturing jobs to the US and save energy as well.
Get the picture?
rjk
“It’s a gift from my daughter!” he stated proudly. “She brought it back for me from the Ebitha, in Spain, where she was vacationing,” he explained.
But when the proud dad turned it over, he was surprised to read “Made in China” on the inner band.
“Oh, I guess, it came from China via Spain!” quipped Howie.
But no one else was really surprised. The cap was just another bit of hard evidence we see all around us everyday of how and where things are manufactured these days.
“You’d think they could make their own hats in Spain,” mused Howie, a bit disappointed in the provenance of his gift.
"Don’t feel bad my friend,” I assured him, “Everything is made in China or Asia these days—where labor is cheap.”
But the cap did have a story to tell. The yellow and red hat, like many other manufactured products was made in some Chinese busy, Chinese manufactory. It was packed up with thousands of others, shipped out and spent some time on a vessel on its way to Spain. There it set on some shelf in a trinket store in Ebitha for a few months. Finally, it was purchased by a young American woman to bring home to her dad, and wound up in Southampton, New York.
Not long ago I wrote a blog lamenting the fact that we do not make anything here in the US any longer and that is why today,two-and-one-half-years since the market collapse and Great Recession of 2008, we still have 14 million people out of work. But perhaps the story is more complex than simply cheaper wages.
Today, March 27, 2011, I read a piece by Robert Kuttner entitled “American Industrial Rennaissance” (which appeared in the Huffington Post) which helps to explain the underlying reasons why most American business find it profitable to “offshore” so much of their manufacturing. It goes a good way to explain as well, why we have an unemployment rate here in the US which remains so intractable years after the Recession of 2008.
Kuttner explains that US businesses are attracted offshore “to take advantage of lower labor and environmental standards in foreign countries.” Its cheaper to make things in countries where labor has no rights, and companies can freely pollute their host country’s environment with little cost or worry to themselves.
“Then too, foreign governments offer US companies subsidies to encourage them to locate production in their country . These subsidies are illegal, in principle, under the World Trade Organization. But China's entire industrial system depends on subsidies intended to attract western companies to shift production to China.
And finally offshoring makes it easier to book profits in such a way that avoids national tax liability. It was recently reported that GE, with worldwide profits of $14.2 billion in 2010, paid no US taxes. In fact, the US ended up owing GE $3.2 billion.”
But according to Kuttner, the recent tragic events in Japan, aside from the Iodine 131 and Ce 137 raining down on us, have caused some companies to rethink aspects of their policies regarding the advantages of their offshore operations.
Japan is right now, and for sometime to come, going to be off-line. It will not be able to produce the large number of computer “chips” and other products it manufacutres and sells abroad. Many of its automotive products, components of vehicles which are “manufactured” here, will not be available either. Those companies which depend on these component parts will not be able to put their products on the shelves or in the showrooms of the US.
Modern US industries (and many of those in Spain too) have long and fragile supply lines. Raw matierials travel long distances to a manufacturing site and then more long miles to the place where they are sold. These long-distance supply lines have their weaknesses. Wars, natural disasters, hurricanes, tsunamis, pirates and earthquakes can easily disrupt the supply line somewhere along its course—as in Japan—and the longer the line the more it is subject to interdiction. There are advantages to producing component parts closer to home. Furthermore, there are increasing energy costs to bear when production is “offshored”. Today with the costs of fuel rising rapidly (a barrel of oil is well over $100 dollars theres days) it is becoming increasingly expensive to move manufactured products, their component parts and raw matierials from place to place over the earth’s surface.
With the high cost of eneergy and increased mechanization the relative advantage of cheap labor has been partly nullified. The fact that mechanization has decreased the number of workers needed, lowers the cost of labor in that product. So that in the past, on an assembly line where forty or fifty workers were needed, now there are only five—pushing buttons on a big surface-active screen. Thus, the relative advantage of cheap Asian labor has fallen. Kutner states: “labor represents a dwindling share manufacturing costs”, while the energy costs of production have risen. “So even if a Chinese worker is paid just one-twentieth the wage of his or her US counterpart, there is only so much that can be saved by moving production abroad. “
Kuttner states: “As energy and the cost of shipping become expensive, and production becomes more automated, the logic of production shifts back in favor of more domestic manufacturing.” However, don’t expect a renaissance of US industry or vast increases of US jobs, because there remain those other advantages of "offshoring". But the hope lies in the fact that those aspects or advantages to business can be addressed legislatively. Why should we permit GE and other giant coprorations to manipulate the tax code and offshore jobs so they pay zero taxes? Why continue to provide businsesses tax relief and other subsidies when they offshore jobs? Products which arrive on our shores should have been produces in ways that do not pollute the environment of abuse basic rights of foreign workers. These issues may be addressed if President Obama screws up some gumption to tackle the reactionary forces. Perhaps as a start he should dump some of the rabidly pro-business people in his cabinet and begin to look at these problems with an eye for the needs of the nation as a whole. Perhaps, he might even give voice to a new more just industrial policy, that which will bring back manufacturing jobs to the US and save energy as well.
Get the picture?
rjk
WARS- A "JOBS PROJECT" FOR BIG CORPORATIONS
In these days of financial pain, (so aptly summarized by the NYT Bob Herbert's last column) "when 14 million Americans remain jobless and when only one job is available for every five applicants, when the richest 10 percent of Americans received an unconscionable 100 percent of the average income growth, and the wealthiest top 5 percent claimed 63.5 percent of the nation’s wealth, leaving the overwhelming majority, the bottom 80 percent, collectively holding just 12.8 percent of that wealth."
With that as background we should be shocked and angered(at least I am) to listen to our gevernment representatives of both parties bewail the government deficit, as they ignore the "big ticket" items of unnecessary wars and so-called "defense spending" (read here jobs program for the very rich and huge influential corporations) while they gleefully slash at the minimalist social-saftey-net of this nation (which by the way is the weakest and most shabby in all of the industrial nations of the western world) for spending cuts to balance the budget. We must be shocked and flabbergasted at the unbeleivable hutspaha, cynicism, and hypocracy of these so-called deficit hawks. They glibly target social security, medicare and medicaid, and any expeditures for education, and child care, but remain silent as a sphinx regarding the trillions of dollars spent on the unwarranted Iraq, Afghanistan, (and covert Pakistan) and now Lybian wars.
But today there surfaces a story from the Center For Public Integrity that goes a long way to explain the underlying motives and reasons for our present circumstances. Read it and understand why we spend so much on "defence" and where your tax dollar really goes. It will also make it clear why the middle class have become an underclass in last last several decades and why the upper 5% of earners own nearly two-thirds of the nation's wealth.
From the Center for Publicv Integrity (http://www.publicintegrity.org/) March 27, 2011
"As the invasion of Iraq turned into an occupation, a new and deadly threat to U.S. troops emerged, one for which the U.S. was ill prepared: the roadside bomb.
This piece is a collaboration between the Center for Public Integrity and McClatchy Newspapers. Peter Cary is a freelance writer working for the Center. Nancy Youssef is the Pentagon correspondent for McClatchy.
So in February 2006, with casualties mounting, the Pentagon responded by creating a new agency designed to attack the problem by harnessing the full might of America’s technology community. The new organization was dubbed the Joint Improvised Explosive Device Defeat Organization, or JIEDDO, and a retired four-star general was tasked to run it.
The launch of JIEDDO eventually turned what had been a 12-person Army anti-homemade bomb task force into a 1,900 person behemoth with nearly $21 billion to spend.
Yet after five years of work, hundreds of projects, and a blizzard of cash paid to some of America’s biggest defense contractors, JIEDDO has not found a high-tech way to detect or defeat these so-called Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs) from a safe distance. In fact, the rate at which soldiers are able to find IEDs before they explode has remained mostly steady, at roughly 50 percent, since JIEDDO was formed. And while in the past few months the detection rate of IEDs has improved a bit, it is not clear whether this trend can be maintained.
JIEDDO’s outgoing director, Lt. General Michael Oates admits “there are no silver bullets that are going to solve this problem,” Indeed, the most effective IED detectors today are the same as before JIEDDO, and they don’t hum, whir, shoot, scan, or fly. They talk. And they bark. The best bomb detectors, Oates says, are still dogs working with handlers, local informants, and the trained soldier’s eye."
Lets forget the three trillion dollar Iraq war and the fact that it was a sham..there were no weapons of mass destruction, no threat and no need for the vast expenditure or blood and treasure there. There was no need for the JIEDDO project's
21 billion dollars either. Wasted money! Wasted lives! Think what could have been done with that 21 billion dollars spent here in the USA. But the money entered the coffers of the giant defense contractors. It moved from your pocket into the government's coffers and there into the pockests of the wealthy. Who profited? The top echelon. Who is pauperized the poor and middle class. Follow the money trail and undertand why we manufacture enemies (Gaddafi is our newest) and why we fight "terrorism" abroad. There is great profit in it for the wealthy and the giant corporations. But why is there no complaint from those of us who sacrifice our money, our young men and women, and the well being of future generations? Is it blissful ignorance? Perhaps! Don't forget somehow the media and government of this nation have somehow convinced its citizens that it is rational and necessary to field 100,000 plus troops in Afghanistan (at a million bucks a piece) to fight the estimated 100 or so al Qaida known to be there!
With that as background we should be shocked and angered(at least I am) to listen to our gevernment representatives of both parties bewail the government deficit, as they ignore the "big ticket" items of unnecessary wars and so-called "defense spending" (read here jobs program for the very rich and huge influential corporations) while they gleefully slash at the minimalist social-saftey-net of this nation (which by the way is the weakest and most shabby in all of the industrial nations of the western world) for spending cuts to balance the budget. We must be shocked and flabbergasted at the unbeleivable hutspaha, cynicism, and hypocracy of these so-called deficit hawks. They glibly target social security, medicare and medicaid, and any expeditures for education, and child care, but remain silent as a sphinx regarding the trillions of dollars spent on the unwarranted Iraq, Afghanistan, (and covert Pakistan) and now Lybian wars.
But today there surfaces a story from the Center For Public Integrity that goes a long way to explain the underlying motives and reasons for our present circumstances. Read it and understand why we spend so much on "defence" and where your tax dollar really goes. It will also make it clear why the middle class have become an underclass in last last several decades and why the upper 5% of earners own nearly two-thirds of the nation's wealth.
From the Center for Publicv Integrity (http://www.publicintegrity.org/) March 27, 2011
"As the invasion of Iraq turned into an occupation, a new and deadly threat to U.S. troops emerged, one for which the U.S. was ill prepared: the roadside bomb.
This piece is a collaboration between the Center for Public Integrity and McClatchy Newspapers. Peter Cary is a freelance writer working for the Center. Nancy Youssef is the Pentagon correspondent for McClatchy.
So in February 2006, with casualties mounting, the Pentagon responded by creating a new agency designed to attack the problem by harnessing the full might of America’s technology community. The new organization was dubbed the Joint Improvised Explosive Device Defeat Organization, or JIEDDO, and a retired four-star general was tasked to run it.
The launch of JIEDDO eventually turned what had been a 12-person Army anti-homemade bomb task force into a 1,900 person behemoth with nearly $21 billion to spend.
Yet after five years of work, hundreds of projects, and a blizzard of cash paid to some of America’s biggest defense contractors, JIEDDO has not found a high-tech way to detect or defeat these so-called Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs) from a safe distance. In fact, the rate at which soldiers are able to find IEDs before they explode has remained mostly steady, at roughly 50 percent, since JIEDDO was formed. And while in the past few months the detection rate of IEDs has improved a bit, it is not clear whether this trend can be maintained.
JIEDDO’s outgoing director, Lt. General Michael Oates admits “there are no silver bullets that are going to solve this problem,” Indeed, the most effective IED detectors today are the same as before JIEDDO, and they don’t hum, whir, shoot, scan, or fly. They talk. And they bark. The best bomb detectors, Oates says, are still dogs working with handlers, local informants, and the trained soldier’s eye."
Lets forget the three trillion dollar Iraq war and the fact that it was a sham..there were no weapons of mass destruction, no threat and no need for the vast expenditure or blood and treasure there. There was no need for the JIEDDO project's
21 billion dollars either. Wasted money! Wasted lives! Think what could have been done with that 21 billion dollars spent here in the USA. But the money entered the coffers of the giant defense contractors. It moved from your pocket into the government's coffers and there into the pockests of the wealthy. Who profited? The top echelon. Who is pauperized the poor and middle class. Follow the money trail and undertand why we manufacture enemies (Gaddafi is our newest) and why we fight "terrorism" abroad. There is great profit in it for the wealthy and the giant corporations. But why is there no complaint from those of us who sacrifice our money, our young men and women, and the well being of future generations? Is it blissful ignorance? Perhaps! Don't forget somehow the media and government of this nation have somehow convinced its citizens that it is rational and necessary to field 100,000 plus troops in Afghanistan (at a million bucks a piece) to fight the estimated 100 or so al Qaida known to be there!
Thursday, March 17, 2011
MOST DANGEROUS WAY TO BOIL WATER
THE MOST DANGEROUS WAY TO BOIL WATER
(Or Playing With Fire In A Ship’s Gun-Powder Magazine)
The 104 nuclear power plants operating in the USA produce electricity the old fashioned way---they simply boil water and let the steam produced expand across the blades of a turbine fan. The fan turns a dynamo –much like the generator (alternator) in your automobile—and produces electricity. The process is based on the 18th century concept of James Watt who modified earlier designs dating back to Greek experimental steam-machines of the first century AD. The engines of Watt were piston-type engines which could be hooked up to farm machinery. But late in the 19th century, Charles Parson (1884) devised the steam turbine to convert steam into more useful mechanical energy by way of a complex “fan” which rotates in the stream of expanding gas and generates electricity by turning an electromagnetic dynamo. The only thing that has changed much over time is how we boil the water to make the steam. The early Greek machines used olive-oil lamps placed under the metal “boiler”. Early 19th century designs burned wood, later ones burned coal or petroleum and even natural gas. But the most modern and most dangerous of all-- use nuclear energy (that is: nuclear, pronounced nu clee arrrr! There is no “u” after the “c” in “nuclear” as President Bush was wont to add).
To produce nuclear energy one must acquire and concentrate large, heavy, unstable atomic nuclei which naturally decay into lighter more stable nuclei (a natural process known as nuclear fission); or alternately permit nuclei of lighter elements to combine into heavier more stable ones (nuclear fusion). The former process is what is commonly used to generate electricity. By this means (nuclear fission) unstable heavy elements such as certain forms of Uranium and Plutonium (which decay naturally by releasing particles of matter such as protons or neutrons) alter into lighter elements. As they alter from one element or one state of matter into another they give off radiation (the nuclear particles noted above) and great quantities of heat. That heat can be trapped to boil water. The reactor where this process takes place must be shielded by great thicknesses of metal and concrete to protect the staff, workers and general population from dangerous radiation. The problem with nuclear fission is that the process besides producing ionizing radiation which is harmful to all living things also generates great quantities of highly radioactive waste material which must be stored and isolated from the biosphere and which requires long-term (permanent) storage deep underground (though sometimes that does not take place as it should—as in the exposed used fuel rod pools at the Fukushima incident).
The water in the reactor is heated in an enclosed vessel by long fuel rods each filled with pellets of uranium ore. The sealed rods are surrounded by water and as the eclosed uranium decays into its fusion products the pellets give off energy which heats the surrounding water to the boiling point. The steam is directed over the blades of the turbine which rotates and generates the electricity. The steam is condensed and carried back by pipes into the boiler vessel so that the process can continue. To modulate the rate of reaction, control rods (often of graphite) are used which can be introduced into the spaces between the fuel rods. The control rods absorb the radiation which would otherwise interact with other nuclei and increase heat production. To slow the reaction and shut the core reactor down, the control rods are introduced in such a way as to interpose their mass between the fuel rods and thus maximize their absorption and modulation effects. As this is going on the excess heat must be drawn away by circulating water. If it is not constantly flowing through the core within the boiler-vessel, heat will build up. Loss of water circulation or loss of water may cause the fuel rods to decay and melt. Some of the substances produced (such as Cesium 137) are gases at these high temperatures and if the containment vessel is breached, these radioactive gases can escape into the atmosphere. If the entire mass of fuel melts it can produce an extremely hot molten mass which can actually melt its way through the floor of the containment vessel. This is sometimes referred to as a “China syndrome” or “complete meltdown”. In a meltdown there is no longer any way to modulate the reaction and an uncontrolled chain reaction can ensue. The boiler vessel and the containment structure could be damaged and breached and the radioactive elements can escape into the atmosphere, seep into the groundwater, be run off into surface waters or the ocean. In each case the substances which are released are deadly to living things and will remain so sometimes for thousands of years. Cesium 137 however, has a short half-life of about 30 years. Thus half of the atoms will have altered to some other more stable element after 30 years, then after 60 years that half would have halved itself and so on.
In the Chernobyl Disaster of April 26, 1986 in what is now north-central Ukraine an accident during a routine shutdown of the plant ultimately caused the loss of water, an great explosion and exposure of the plants fuel and graphite moderator rods. The graphite rods began to burn and an explosion blew the top off the less-than-adequate containment vessel. Radioactive debris was carried across much of Eastern Europe by upper-air winds. Nearly a quarter of a century later, the plant and the near-by city are deserted as radiation exclusion zones. The radiation caused the deaths of several hundred who lived near the plant and those many valiant Russians who gave their lives to contain the disaster. Years later scientists using statistical methods estimated that in those areas affected by the fall-out nearly a million people died as a consequence of their exposure. Even today nearly a quarter-century later the incidence of thyroid cancer in affected areas is 500 times what is was prior to 1986.
The disaster at Fukushima in Japan has made it clear to all that there are no assurances that nuclear energy can be “tamed” and made safe.
Oh there will be many who will claim that this was a “unique” set of circumstances; the disaster occurred at an old, outdated plant that was going to be retired soon that was simultaneously hit by a massive earthquake and then a tsunami. “What do you expect?” they might add? You counter with…”What about the disaster in 1976 at the American nuclear plant in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania (Three Mile Island)? Their response would be: “That was the result of a simple careless mistake.” “The plant itself and the construction were flawless!”
But what about the massive nuclear disaster in the USSR (Ukraine) in 1986 at Chernobyl? They would be sure to cite the facts that the Chernobyl melt down and explosion in 1986 happened at an old plant, designed by Russians. Would you ever buy a Russian-designed and manufactured motor-vehicle? You roll your eyes, and think, “No, probably not”, remembering those cheap “Lada” vehicles that the Russians exported to Cuba and other Soviet-block countries in the 80s and 90s. While Americans can be creative and inventive, they are not the ones you would want to repair your antique watch or fiddle with the fine mechanisms in your Infinity Sedan. You know that they have little interest in fixing that auto when we know that they all want to be either top executives or wealthy entrepreneurs (that is if they have no talent for baseball or football where they can really make money). You can expect Americans to make sloppy mistakes—just compare the maintenance records and finish on a Dodge Caravan-(a great idea that Chrysler Corporation came up with) with the Honda Odyssey—a copy-cat-design but mostly manufactured by the Japanese with better finish, and better maintenance performance. The Japanese have the mindset and the cultural background for that kind of work and success. They are methodical, systematic, precise and disciplined. So if the Japanese cannot keep the nuclear “tiger” under control, how could we expect the Americans—and all the others who want to use this dangerous way to boil water—the Chinese, Indians, Brazilians and others to do so?
It’s a sure thing that the name “Fukushima” will become another metonym for nuclear disaster. “What do you want to have another Fukushima here? The answer from most citizens, faced with the possibility of constructing a nuclear power plant in “their back yard” would be: “No Fukushima for us!”
And of course we would feel the same way ourselves!
Get the picture?
(Or Playing With Fire In A Ship’s Gun-Powder Magazine)
The 104 nuclear power plants operating in the USA produce electricity the old fashioned way---they simply boil water and let the steam produced expand across the blades of a turbine fan. The fan turns a dynamo –much like the generator (alternator) in your automobile—and produces electricity. The process is based on the 18th century concept of James Watt who modified earlier designs dating back to Greek experimental steam-machines of the first century AD. The engines of Watt were piston-type engines which could be hooked up to farm machinery. But late in the 19th century, Charles Parson (1884) devised the steam turbine to convert steam into more useful mechanical energy by way of a complex “fan” which rotates in the stream of expanding gas and generates electricity by turning an electromagnetic dynamo. The only thing that has changed much over time is how we boil the water to make the steam. The early Greek machines used olive-oil lamps placed under the metal “boiler”. Early 19th century designs burned wood, later ones burned coal or petroleum and even natural gas. But the most modern and most dangerous of all-- use nuclear energy (that is: nuclear, pronounced nu clee arrrr! There is no “u” after the “c” in “nuclear” as President Bush was wont to add).
To produce nuclear energy one must acquire and concentrate large, heavy, unstable atomic nuclei which naturally decay into lighter more stable nuclei (a natural process known as nuclear fission); or alternately permit nuclei of lighter elements to combine into heavier more stable ones (nuclear fusion). The former process is what is commonly used to generate electricity. By this means (nuclear fission) unstable heavy elements such as certain forms of Uranium and Plutonium (which decay naturally by releasing particles of matter such as protons or neutrons) alter into lighter elements. As they alter from one element or one state of matter into another they give off radiation (the nuclear particles noted above) and great quantities of heat. That heat can be trapped to boil water. The reactor where this process takes place must be shielded by great thicknesses of metal and concrete to protect the staff, workers and general population from dangerous radiation. The problem with nuclear fission is that the process besides producing ionizing radiation which is harmful to all living things also generates great quantities of highly radioactive waste material which must be stored and isolated from the biosphere and which requires long-term (permanent) storage deep underground (though sometimes that does not take place as it should—as in the exposed used fuel rod pools at the Fukushima incident).
The water in the reactor is heated in an enclosed vessel by long fuel rods each filled with pellets of uranium ore. The sealed rods are surrounded by water and as the eclosed uranium decays into its fusion products the pellets give off energy which heats the surrounding water to the boiling point. The steam is directed over the blades of the turbine which rotates and generates the electricity. The steam is condensed and carried back by pipes into the boiler vessel so that the process can continue. To modulate the rate of reaction, control rods (often of graphite) are used which can be introduced into the spaces between the fuel rods. The control rods absorb the radiation which would otherwise interact with other nuclei and increase heat production. To slow the reaction and shut the core reactor down, the control rods are introduced in such a way as to interpose their mass between the fuel rods and thus maximize their absorption and modulation effects. As this is going on the excess heat must be drawn away by circulating water. If it is not constantly flowing through the core within the boiler-vessel, heat will build up. Loss of water circulation or loss of water may cause the fuel rods to decay and melt. Some of the substances produced (such as Cesium 137) are gases at these high temperatures and if the containment vessel is breached, these radioactive gases can escape into the atmosphere. If the entire mass of fuel melts it can produce an extremely hot molten mass which can actually melt its way through the floor of the containment vessel. This is sometimes referred to as a “China syndrome” or “complete meltdown”. In a meltdown there is no longer any way to modulate the reaction and an uncontrolled chain reaction can ensue. The boiler vessel and the containment structure could be damaged and breached and the radioactive elements can escape into the atmosphere, seep into the groundwater, be run off into surface waters or the ocean. In each case the substances which are released are deadly to living things and will remain so sometimes for thousands of years. Cesium 137 however, has a short half-life of about 30 years. Thus half of the atoms will have altered to some other more stable element after 30 years, then after 60 years that half would have halved itself and so on.
In the Chernobyl Disaster of April 26, 1986 in what is now north-central Ukraine an accident during a routine shutdown of the plant ultimately caused the loss of water, an great explosion and exposure of the plants fuel and graphite moderator rods. The graphite rods began to burn and an explosion blew the top off the less-than-adequate containment vessel. Radioactive debris was carried across much of Eastern Europe by upper-air winds. Nearly a quarter of a century later, the plant and the near-by city are deserted as radiation exclusion zones. The radiation caused the deaths of several hundred who lived near the plant and those many valiant Russians who gave their lives to contain the disaster. Years later scientists using statistical methods estimated that in those areas affected by the fall-out nearly a million people died as a consequence of their exposure. Even today nearly a quarter-century later the incidence of thyroid cancer in affected areas is 500 times what is was prior to 1986.
The disaster at Fukushima in Japan has made it clear to all that there are no assurances that nuclear energy can be “tamed” and made safe.
Oh there will be many who will claim that this was a “unique” set of circumstances; the disaster occurred at an old, outdated plant that was going to be retired soon that was simultaneously hit by a massive earthquake and then a tsunami. “What do you expect?” they might add? You counter with…”What about the disaster in 1976 at the American nuclear plant in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania (Three Mile Island)? Their response would be: “That was the result of a simple careless mistake.” “The plant itself and the construction were flawless!”
But what about the massive nuclear disaster in the USSR (Ukraine) in 1986 at Chernobyl? They would be sure to cite the facts that the Chernobyl melt down and explosion in 1986 happened at an old plant, designed by Russians. Would you ever buy a Russian-designed and manufactured motor-vehicle? You roll your eyes, and think, “No, probably not”, remembering those cheap “Lada” vehicles that the Russians exported to Cuba and other Soviet-block countries in the 80s and 90s. While Americans can be creative and inventive, they are not the ones you would want to repair your antique watch or fiddle with the fine mechanisms in your Infinity Sedan. You know that they have little interest in fixing that auto when we know that they all want to be either top executives or wealthy entrepreneurs (that is if they have no talent for baseball or football where they can really make money). You can expect Americans to make sloppy mistakes—just compare the maintenance records and finish on a Dodge Caravan-(a great idea that Chrysler Corporation came up with) with the Honda Odyssey—a copy-cat-design but mostly manufactured by the Japanese with better finish, and better maintenance performance. The Japanese have the mindset and the cultural background for that kind of work and success. They are methodical, systematic, precise and disciplined. So if the Japanese cannot keep the nuclear “tiger” under control, how could we expect the Americans—and all the others who want to use this dangerous way to boil water—the Chinese, Indians, Brazilians and others to do so?
It’s a sure thing that the name “Fukushima” will become another metonym for nuclear disaster. “What do you want to have another Fukushima here? The answer from most citizens, faced with the possibility of constructing a nuclear power plant in “their back yard” would be: “No Fukushima for us!”
And of course we would feel the same way ourselves!
Get the picture?
Saturday, March 5, 2011
OLIGARCHS CONFISCATE OUR NATION'S WEALTH
THE AWFUL TRUTH
You have heard the Republicans complain about confiscatory taxes. Their complaint is that their clients, the just plain wealthy, the super-wealthy, and the true oligarchs, do not want their “hard won” profits to be confiscated by the government. The awful truth is: it’s the other way around---the oligarchs are confiscating the nation’s wealth.
According to G Wiliam Domhoff ( Univ California) in “Wealth Income, and Power, (9-2009 updated 1-2011) “wealth in the US is highly concentrated in a relatively few hands”. That fact probably comes as a shock to most of you (readers). Based on a recent study, most Americans from every walk of life and political persuasion have no idea just how concentrated wealth is in this nation (Demhoff quotes a study by Norton & Ariely, 2010). Who would believe that the top 20% of the population controls more than 90% of the nation’s liquid assets?
First a few definitions. Wealth is defined by Demhoff and other sociologists as what we would call “net worth”, the value of everything a person or family owns, minus its debts. The figures that most economists use to calculate this value are “marketable assets” such as homes, land, commercial properties, stocks and bonds—all those items that are readily convertible into cash, but not cars and household items, which are valuable to people for personal use but difficult to convert into ready cash for investment. Financial wealth is defined as “non-home-wealth” or a person’s or family’s net-worth, minus the family’s “home value” (net worth-minus net-equity in owner–occupied housing). This latter term is a better measure of the “liquid” assets of a person or family which may be available for consumption or investment.
According to Demhoff, net-wealth in the USA is highly concentrated in a few hands. As of 2007, according to figures compiled by the top 1% of households owned nearly 35% of all privately held wealth, and the next 19% (managerial, professional, and small business owners) held 51%. That means that the top 20% of the nation’s families owned 85% of all the private wealth in the nation, leaving only 15% to be distributed by the bottom 80% (the wage and salary workers)! If we were to examine the financial wealth of these groups the picture becomes even more skewed toward the higher income level, since ownership of a private home is such a large portion of middle class American wealth. Thus in a measure of the financial wealth (net wealth –home value) a better measure of liquid assets--the top 1% of households held 43% of the nation’s financial wealth, the next 19% held 50%, and the workers and salaried people held only 7%. Thus in terms of financial wealth the top 20% of the population holds 93% of all liquid or disposable privately held wealth.
So when you hear the term confiscatory taxes, or of certain classes of people unwilling to pay their fair share--review these figures for a better understanding of what they want. The awful truth is that they want all of the pie!
Get the picture?
You have heard the Republicans complain about confiscatory taxes. Their complaint is that their clients, the just plain wealthy, the super-wealthy, and the true oligarchs, do not want their “hard won” profits to be confiscated by the government. The awful truth is: it’s the other way around---the oligarchs are confiscating the nation’s wealth.
According to G Wiliam Domhoff ( Univ California) in “Wealth Income, and Power, (9-2009 updated 1-2011) “wealth in the US is highly concentrated in a relatively few hands”. That fact probably comes as a shock to most of you (readers). Based on a recent study, most Americans from every walk of life and political persuasion have no idea just how concentrated wealth is in this nation (Demhoff quotes a study by Norton & Ariely, 2010). Who would believe that the top 20% of the population controls more than 90% of the nation’s liquid assets?
First a few definitions. Wealth is defined by Demhoff and other sociologists as what we would call “net worth”, the value of everything a person or family owns, minus its debts. The figures that most economists use to calculate this value are “marketable assets” such as homes, land, commercial properties, stocks and bonds—all those items that are readily convertible into cash, but not cars and household items, which are valuable to people for personal use but difficult to convert into ready cash for investment. Financial wealth is defined as “non-home-wealth” or a person’s or family’s net-worth, minus the family’s “home value” (net worth-minus net-equity in owner–occupied housing). This latter term is a better measure of the “liquid” assets of a person or family which may be available for consumption or investment.
According to Demhoff, net-wealth in the USA is highly concentrated in a few hands. As of 2007, according to figures compiled by the top 1% of households owned nearly 35% of all privately held wealth, and the next 19% (managerial, professional, and small business owners) held 51%. That means that the top 20% of the nation’s families owned 85% of all the private wealth in the nation, leaving only 15% to be distributed by the bottom 80% (the wage and salary workers)! If we were to examine the financial wealth of these groups the picture becomes even more skewed toward the higher income level, since ownership of a private home is such a large portion of middle class American wealth. Thus in a measure of the financial wealth (net wealth –home value) a better measure of liquid assets--the top 1% of households held 43% of the nation’s financial wealth, the next 19% held 50%, and the workers and salaried people held only 7%. Thus in terms of financial wealth the top 20% of the population holds 93% of all liquid or disposable privately held wealth.
So when you hear the term confiscatory taxes, or of certain classes of people unwilling to pay their fair share--review these figures for a better understanding of what they want. The awful truth is that they want all of the pie!
Get the picture?
Thursday, March 3, 2011
THREAT TO AFRICAN LIONS--WEALTHY AMERICAN HUNTERS
When we again take up the question of taxing Americans of the top one percent income bracket we should think of the impact on African lions! How can those two topics possibly be related? According to recent reports, the great beast of the African veldt teeters today on the edge of extinction. Their populations, once numbering in the millions are now down to a few scattered thousands in each of several economically challenged African nations. And who threatens these remnant populations? The answer is wealthy American hunters! It's hard to believe in this day and age..but apparently some Americans are still able to live in the "gilded age" of the past--when "great white hunters" killed animals for "sport" all over the world, bringing back the remains of their kills to decorate the walls of their palatial residences. These wealthy Americans not only want to return to the political and economic circumstances of the era of British imperialism of the 19th Century, but apparently desire to spend their leisure-time recreating that era and living like the phenomenally wealthy elites and nobility of the past.
According to a recent study by the International Fund for Animal Welfare, (as well as the Humane Society of the United States, Humane Society International, Born Free and Defenders of Wildlife) American hunters are emerging as a strong and growing threat to the survival of African lions. (See: Le Monde: "The Lions of Africa threatened by American hunters" (Les lions d'Afrique menacés par les chasseurs américains, Le Monde 11-3-3). But beyond dealing with the threat to the lions of Africa,the Le Monde piece inadvertently revealed one way that wealthy Americans spend their largely untaxed incomes. They apparently spend a great deal on expensive African lion hunting expeditions! The target of their hunt, Panthera leo, has now become prey rather than predator, and been reduced from more than 200,000 in the mid 20th century to a mere 40,000 at the present time. Remnant populations exist in several non-contiguous parts of the African continent. The threat by mostly American hunters (67% of the trophy kills) is compounded by the fact that they have also stimulated a market in African lion body parts. So not only do Americans kill more of the lions in the wild, but they have encouraged a demand for trophy lion parts such as skin rugs, teeth-necklaces, claws, skulls, and even dried lion penes. Ugh! Reading this account I could not help but think of the paradigm of the wealthy-hunter type--such as Dick Cheney--as a member of this class. I imagined him with his trophy string of dead-quail draped around his neck (and his shot-up hunting buddy with a patched up face standing next to him). But Cheney is only a piker when it comes to wealthy American hunters and their need for trophies.
Apparently between 1999 and 2010 (note how these dates correspond well with the Bush II Years of profligate spending, a boom income period for the oligarchs, and low taxes for the super-wealthy) more than 2/3 of the lions killed in Africa by hunters were taken by Americans. These great white hunters demand their trophy kills are of large, black-maned, mature males. This need-to kill mature males tends to disrupt the social-structure of African lion prides. The death of the alpha male in a pride results in violent conflict between surviving males, the death of other contenders and more often and more tragically the death of young lion cubs which are killed by the new alfa male of the pride. Thus the kills and trophy parts sent home are only a small fraction of lion deaths actually occurring in Africa and directly related to the taking of trophies.
So that's how some American oligarchs spend their lightly taxed incomes--not reinvestment in the US economy (as the Republican agents of this wealthy class so glibly state and restate) but many spend it away off in Africa-- and to the detriment of the African lion population.
So the next time the bill to repeal the Bush tax breaks for the super-wealthy comes up again, let us all think how a few extra percentage points on these wealthy Americans would help save the African lion (and those cute little cubs) from extinction. And if our super-wealthy can spend their excess money on destructive lion hunts, they can certainly afford to give a bit more to Uncle Sam...who needs it desperately in these trying times, to support our tattered school systems and shattered infrastructure.
Get the picture?
According to a recent study by the International Fund for Animal Welfare, (as well as the Humane Society of the United States, Humane Society International, Born Free and Defenders of Wildlife) American hunters are emerging as a strong and growing threat to the survival of African lions. (See: Le Monde: "The Lions of Africa threatened by American hunters" (Les lions d'Afrique menacés par les chasseurs américains, Le Monde 11-3-3). But beyond dealing with the threat to the lions of Africa,the Le Monde piece inadvertently revealed one way that wealthy Americans spend their largely untaxed incomes. They apparently spend a great deal on expensive African lion hunting expeditions! The target of their hunt, Panthera leo, has now become prey rather than predator, and been reduced from more than 200,000 in the mid 20th century to a mere 40,000 at the present time. Remnant populations exist in several non-contiguous parts of the African continent. The threat by mostly American hunters (67% of the trophy kills) is compounded by the fact that they have also stimulated a market in African lion body parts. So not only do Americans kill more of the lions in the wild, but they have encouraged a demand for trophy lion parts such as skin rugs, teeth-necklaces, claws, skulls, and even dried lion penes. Ugh! Reading this account I could not help but think of the paradigm of the wealthy-hunter type--such as Dick Cheney--as a member of this class. I imagined him with his trophy string of dead-quail draped around his neck (and his shot-up hunting buddy with a patched up face standing next to him). But Cheney is only a piker when it comes to wealthy American hunters and their need for trophies.
Apparently between 1999 and 2010 (note how these dates correspond well with the Bush II Years of profligate spending, a boom income period for the oligarchs, and low taxes for the super-wealthy) more than 2/3 of the lions killed in Africa by hunters were taken by Americans. These great white hunters demand their trophy kills are of large, black-maned, mature males. This need-to kill mature males tends to disrupt the social-structure of African lion prides. The death of the alpha male in a pride results in violent conflict between surviving males, the death of other contenders and more often and more tragically the death of young lion cubs which are killed by the new alfa male of the pride. Thus the kills and trophy parts sent home are only a small fraction of lion deaths actually occurring in Africa and directly related to the taking of trophies.
So that's how some American oligarchs spend their lightly taxed incomes--not reinvestment in the US economy (as the Republican agents of this wealthy class so glibly state and restate) but many spend it away off in Africa-- and to the detriment of the African lion population.
So the next time the bill to repeal the Bush tax breaks for the super-wealthy comes up again, let us all think how a few extra percentage points on these wealthy Americans would help save the African lion (and those cute little cubs) from extinction. And if our super-wealthy can spend their excess money on destructive lion hunts, they can certainly afford to give a bit more to Uncle Sam...who needs it desperately in these trying times, to support our tattered school systems and shattered infrastructure.
Get the picture?
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
1975 CHRISTMAS--DINNER FOR A RECESSION YEAR
On a cold blustery late-December morning, a few days before Christmas, my daughter arrived dressed in her chic jogging outfit.
“You go for your walk yet, Dad?” she asked.
“No, not yet---‘I was just getting ready to do it,” I said, happy with the prospect of some company.
“Wanna go together?”
“Love to!”
In a few minutes we were walking briskly toward the harbor. The Christmas season seemed to intensify interest in the economy and we began chatting about the Great Recession, the 2010-11 economy, our unemployment rate, and Obama‘s tax deal with the Republicans which was to give away $600 billion dollars to the super-wealthy, increase our national debt, but add little to help the plight of the poor or 10% of the population which were unemployed.
Near the end of Pipe Stave Hollow Road, we glimpsed the lovely expanse of the harbor through the bare trees. Out on the edark gray mud flats the forms of several clammers could be seen hunched over their digs. The low, winter sun glistened off the wind-riffled water and brightened wide expanses of drab-brown cordgrass marsh. We turned north at Hopkin's Landing and continued on toward Harbor Beach Road, walking briskly along the harbor edge, bordered here with a stand of wind-rattled Phragmites. The wind pushed up small waves, which rolled in over winter-sheared cord grass stems and foamed through the reed stems at the marsh edge, where patches of last-night’s snow still lay like torn, bed sheet. The wind bent the ten foot tall reed stems into a fishing-pole-arch. Their fluffy seed-heads dipped and bobbed in the breeze like a prizefighter dodging blows. We passed on still chatting, the wind and cold acting as a stimulus to our conversation.
“Boom!, Boom! Ba..boom! Several loud concussions shattered the stillness and silenced us. The sound waves rolled across the open water and reverberated off the low hills that nearly enclose the harbor.
“What was that?” she asked.
I knew that sound well. “Hunters,” I said, looking across to the far side of the harbor out through the reeds. “They’re duck shooting there on the south side of the Harbor,“ I added, my breath made little vapor puffs which were quickly torn down wind.
We walked on silently for a while, each with our own thoughts. The season, the faltering economy, the duck hunters, and walking close to the snow-dappled reeds jogged my memory. My mind drifted back forty-years in time, and twenty miles across the Island to a very similar day just before Christmas.
“What are you thinking’ Dad,” she asked, as a quirky smile worked across her wind-chilled face.
“Oh just thinking back to a time--in 1975, you were only a little tot then, but it was this same time of year--a few days before Christmas, and like now the economy had gone sour, and my job prospects were shaky. We did’t have much to make a Christmas dinner for all you kids.“
“It wasn’t as bad as this recession!”
“Well not the same, but when you are down on the bottom economic rungs, you live on a kind of economic knife edge--so even a little change in the numbers hurts a lot.”
“So tell me about it.
“Well if you walk a little slower, I’ll tell you the story of our Christmas dinner for 1975 a recession year.”
The wind died down and we slowed down to a stroll as I began to reminisce.
I remember, my alarm clock went off about 5:30 AM, and I slammed my hand down over the brass bell on the top. You know the kind, it was one of those old-time wind up clocks. .
I didn’t want to wake Mom up. But she heard me rustling around and got up anyway.
She made breakfast and nagged me--but only a tiny bit.
“I hate to see you go out in the dark…wandrin’ about on them marshes. Alone too. It’s crazy.” she complained, as she poured dark, steaming coffee into a big mug.
I said nothing as I sipped at the hot brew. I puffed gently across the thick, scratched-up ceramic rim at the dark-brown surface, driving a little bubble of foam to the far side.
I put the warm mug down heavily on the oilcloth-covered kitchen table. The pink and green pattern was pretty much worn off.
“I figured if I got out early, I could get us a nice brace of mallards for Christmas Dinner--it‘s only a few days away now.”
“Oh please!”…she complained.
“Remember, last week we stopped at Milowski’s and all we could afford to do was rub our noses on his frosted display window. You’ve seen his prices! He wants twenty bucks for his smallest bird.”
“He’s always more expensive,” she agreed. "But we'll find something....no need to go caveman on us."
"I'm not. It's the economics of it. The game is there just for the taking. and its only a few miles to the Point. And think of those crisply-browned birds with their little foil booties coming out of the oven over there on Christmas day."
"Yes, you know how I love duck," she smiled.
“So what were you planning for our Christmas dinner?” I asked.
“That’s…well….it..ah …it’s still in the planning stages…”
“Well, if I could bag a couple of “greenies” or even a brace of black ducks…” I trailed off.
She looked up from the sink, “But with no dog. How are you going to retrieve them even if you do make a lucky shot.”. I winced at the "lucky shot" quip.
“ Old Kim there, can’t go with you“…she raised her gloved hand from dirty dishes in the sink to point across over to Kim our big yellow Lab, lying on a worn, old bathroom rug in the corner, near the hot-air register.
Kim looked up at us whimsically. His big brown eyes looked sad. He knew we were talking about him. I would swear on a stack of bibles that Kim could think like a human --and had emotions just like us too. I often imagined that if he had a human mouth with lips he’d be able to hold a real conversation.
“Sorry old boy…Doc Goode says you need some rest for a few weeks.” I scratched the old dog’s great wide head between his ears where the yellowish tan fur was turning white.
He settled his big head back down on his great big paws. But his brown eyes continued to follow me as I quickly threw my hunting jacket over my shoulder and walked to the back door.
“See you honey.” I called to my wife.
“Be careful!” she called back, adding, "Don’t worry we’ll think of something fine for dinner!”.
“Don’t worry…be back soon.”
I looked over my shoulder, as I reached the door.
“See you old boy!” I called out to Kim, as I slipped out through the open door and into the dark, cold morning air.
The loose and rusty hinges on the rear-gate of our ’54 Ford pickup complained as I dropped the gate to slide a gunny sack full of well-used wood decoys into the truck bed. I unhooked my my patched up waders from their place on the side of the barn door and piled them on top of the decoys. I opened the action of my beat-up old Mossberg 12-gauge, and slid that behind the bench seat in the cab, with a box of #4 high-brass shells. Then I started up the straight-six engine. As always it roared to life--as dependable as death and taxes. The sound always reassured me that even in bad times--on the simplest of levels, all was right with the world or could be fixed with some effort. With the half-full (now only warm) mug of coffee balancing between my legs, I drove carefully out of the long, dark, potholed driveway and onto Half Moon Pond Road, in Ridge.
In a half hour, I was out on what we called “Duck Point”—a narrow spit of reed-choked marsh that poked out into the western end of Great South Bay. Here one could breath in the wind off the Atlantic and absorb the great vista of the bay and salt mashes of the south shore. That morning a winter breeze off Great South Bay rattled the reeds. The night before, a cold-front rolled over us and left a light dusting of snow. The wind had backed into the northwest and the bay was ruffled with small waves that made the reeds creak and crackle, I had a good view of the bay from my “blind” (it was just an old wood and metal milk bottle container I sat on). I shivered as I watched, through the rattling reeds, the sun rise into a clear sky in the southeast close to the winter solstice. The bay sparkled in the clear light of a cold blue-bird day. These few minutes were the ones when birds seem to fly best in to a “set”. I scanned the sky above the reed tops. I missed Kim who would sit at my feet and stare up into the sky, looking for birds, every bit like any hunter. When he saw a flight he would crouch and get ready. If I missed an easy shot, he would look back at me over his shoulder with great disdain and disappointment. That day--all alone-- I saw a few birds fly past my set, but they didn’t come in even with me calling my well-practiced “hey come on in and visit” chuckle call. Others flew warily over the point but were too far out for my old Mossberg 12 gauge bolt action--or any twelve. Even with the variable choke screwed down tight to “full“, the number four lead shot in the new plastic cartridges with the “shot-carrier” was good at maybe fifty yards out, but beyond that you were just winging game. Any kills would be too far out in deep water to get without Kim. So I didn’t even bust one cap.
The bright sun warmed my face as I stared out into the sparkling bay where I could see ducks on the water, way off and hear the tinkling calls of Old Squaws. I saw a few white wing scaup, and even a small flock of rare Canvas Backs, but nothing came my way. The sun rose higher in a clear cloudless sky-what the hunters call a “blue-bird day”. Disappointed, I finally decided to “pack it in”. I waded out and pulled my decoys from the cold water, wrapped the dripping anchor-lines around each one and placed them in the damp gunnysack. My hunt was over and there was still nothing for Christmas Dinner.
I pulled off my waders, and slipped into an old worn pair of LL Bean shoe-pacs I carry for the long walk through the reeds to where I parked the truck. I slung the waders over my shoulder and tossed the soggy bag of decoys on top, and with my gun in my other hand, I began to follow the narrow foot-trail that wended its way through the ten foot high reeds. I hadn’t gone more than fifty feet from the blind, when I caught the glimpse of something darting through the reeds ahead of me. It dashed across the path. A big cock pheasant was on the run! I could see the iridescent colors on its neck and the white neck-ring. I dropped my waders and bag of decoys and raced after it. As I ran I chambered a shell, hoping it would jump up, and perhaps I would get a shot off at a piece of game ---after all. But not this wise old pheasant. He stayed on the ground dodging one way and another and out of range way ahead of me.
Finally, after chasing him for about fifty yards, we approached a place where the reeds narrowed to a thin wedge, following along a sea-bulkhead that ran on the side of an old inlet of the Bay. Here the bird dashed across the foot-trail again and entered into a small patch of reeds about the size of a back yard shed--and disappeared!. On one side, the reed-patch bordered the bulkhead and the old boat channel with deep water, and on the other was a wide-open sea-side meadow with patches of snow covered sand and brown bunch grass. I approached the reed patch breathlessly. I realized my dilemma. If I flushed the bird, it was likely to fly over the old boat channel where I could not retrieve it. Gritting my teeth in frustration, I only now closed the bolt on the action which slid the cartridge into the chamber. I thought of another problem. It was those number "4s" --all I carried that day. Even if I could flush the cock, I couldn’t take a fast shot, but would have to let the bird fly off a good way before those the closed choke and #4 shot would develop a wide enough pattern. My plan had to be that if it flushed left over the water…I would just watch it fly off. My only chance to bag it was if it went right---over the sandy meadow.
I pushed on, slowly looking ahead of me, searching through the reed stems and the brown patches of soil and dry grass between the snow-covered patches. I pressed into the dense reeds, pushing them aside with the barrel of my gun and slipping along as quiet as I could be, expecting to hear any minute the loud cackle of the cock as he jumped for the sky. The reeds crinkled and creaked loudly in the cold. My feet crunched on the stiff broken stems. I could feel the hard, reedy ground through the thin worn bottom of my shoe pacs.
Then, just about five yards ahead of me, I saw through the vertical pattern of reeds, a dark-brown object, which to me, looked like a piece of old drift wood. It appeared tapered at both ends—it was a big brown bird lying prostrate. That old cock pheasant was smart! He literally went to ground! There he was--- in the dense patch of reeds with his body stretched out flat on the ground. I could have easily walked by without seeing him.
I made a quick field decision. I could be a sportsman and charge up on it to make him flush. But, it was more than likely he would fly to safety over water on the left. But at that point, I could see that bird, all crispy-brown coming out of our oven with two crisp bacon strips over his big chest. Then I saw him on the table, his legs trussed up neatly with little red booties Frances always made for our Christmas turkeys. I could just imagine the aroma, of the kitchen and the happy hungry looks of the kids and my wife, as I raised the old Mossberg and took aim. At that range, I estimated the shot pattern to be at most four inches across. I didn’t want to waste any meat. So I aimed carefully, focusing at a point where I would have enough of the shot pattern just to take off the head neatly and leave the rest of the bird intact. I lined up the elongate red-bead on the barrel-end so all I could see was a small red cross-section and slowly squeezed the trigger.
The gun kicked back sharply. When you are firing at moving game, you hardly ever notice the recoil on a shotgun, but with an aimed shot…a 12 punches back like a “30 30“. Recovering from the recoil and back on aim, I was mightily surprised to hear the sound of the cock cackling angrily and loudly as he rose up to the top of the reeds. I could see his red and green neck stretched out, his big powerful wings beating air downward as they drove him up…up and away. I did notice, as he topped the the reeds he had a very short tail for a big cock bird!
I stared open-mouth over the barrel as the cock flew straight over the boat channel. About 100 yards out he set his wings into two curved arches—then with a few strong beats of his wings he glided off to disappear into the marsh on the far side of the boat channel.
I walked up to the spot where the wily cock had hid. A few reeds lay there, cut in half by the shot charge. Next to them I picked up the six-inch long graceful end of his tail. It was just the very end of a good cock’s tail.
I stuffed it into my game bag to bring home.
I kept it on my desk in a pretty ceramic cup one of my students made for me from Long Island clay. It always reminded me of how easy it was to make a mistake.
Oh yes…I remember now—the Christmas dinner for the recession year of 1975 was an “on-sale” frozen chicken from the Patchogue A&P.
“You go for your walk yet, Dad?” she asked.
“No, not yet---‘I was just getting ready to do it,” I said, happy with the prospect of some company.
“Wanna go together?”
“Love to!”
In a few minutes we were walking briskly toward the harbor. The Christmas season seemed to intensify interest in the economy and we began chatting about the Great Recession, the 2010-11 economy, our unemployment rate, and Obama‘s tax deal with the Republicans which was to give away $600 billion dollars to the super-wealthy, increase our national debt, but add little to help the plight of the poor or 10% of the population which were unemployed.
Near the end of Pipe Stave Hollow Road, we glimpsed the lovely expanse of the harbor through the bare trees. Out on the edark gray mud flats the forms of several clammers could be seen hunched over their digs. The low, winter sun glistened off the wind-riffled water and brightened wide expanses of drab-brown cordgrass marsh. We turned north at Hopkin's Landing and continued on toward Harbor Beach Road, walking briskly along the harbor edge, bordered here with a stand of wind-rattled Phragmites. The wind pushed up small waves, which rolled in over winter-sheared cord grass stems and foamed through the reed stems at the marsh edge, where patches of last-night’s snow still lay like torn, bed sheet. The wind bent the ten foot tall reed stems into a fishing-pole-arch. Their fluffy seed-heads dipped and bobbed in the breeze like a prizefighter dodging blows. We passed on still chatting, the wind and cold acting as a stimulus to our conversation.
“Boom!, Boom! Ba..boom! Several loud concussions shattered the stillness and silenced us. The sound waves rolled across the open water and reverberated off the low hills that nearly enclose the harbor.
“What was that?” she asked.
I knew that sound well. “Hunters,” I said, looking across to the far side of the harbor out through the reeds. “They’re duck shooting there on the south side of the Harbor,“ I added, my breath made little vapor puffs which were quickly torn down wind.
We walked on silently for a while, each with our own thoughts. The season, the faltering economy, the duck hunters, and walking close to the snow-dappled reeds jogged my memory. My mind drifted back forty-years in time, and twenty miles across the Island to a very similar day just before Christmas.
“What are you thinking’ Dad,” she asked, as a quirky smile worked across her wind-chilled face.
“Oh just thinking back to a time--in 1975, you were only a little tot then, but it was this same time of year--a few days before Christmas, and like now the economy had gone sour, and my job prospects were shaky. We did’t have much to make a Christmas dinner for all you kids.“
“It wasn’t as bad as this recession!”
“Well not the same, but when you are down on the bottom economic rungs, you live on a kind of economic knife edge--so even a little change in the numbers hurts a lot.”
“So tell me about it.
“Well if you walk a little slower, I’ll tell you the story of our Christmas dinner for 1975 a recession year.”
The wind died down and we slowed down to a stroll as I began to reminisce.
I remember, my alarm clock went off about 5:30 AM, and I slammed my hand down over the brass bell on the top. You know the kind, it was one of those old-time wind up clocks. .
I didn’t want to wake Mom up. But she heard me rustling around and got up anyway.
She made breakfast and nagged me--but only a tiny bit.
“I hate to see you go out in the dark…wandrin’ about on them marshes. Alone too. It’s crazy.” she complained, as she poured dark, steaming coffee into a big mug.
I said nothing as I sipped at the hot brew. I puffed gently across the thick, scratched-up ceramic rim at the dark-brown surface, driving a little bubble of foam to the far side.
I put the warm mug down heavily on the oilcloth-covered kitchen table. The pink and green pattern was pretty much worn off.
“I figured if I got out early, I could get us a nice brace of mallards for Christmas Dinner--it‘s only a few days away now.”
“Oh please!”…she complained.
“Remember, last week we stopped at Milowski’s and all we could afford to do was rub our noses on his frosted display window. You’ve seen his prices! He wants twenty bucks for his smallest bird.”
“He’s always more expensive,” she agreed. "But we'll find something....no need to go caveman on us."
"I'm not. It's the economics of it. The game is there just for the taking. and its only a few miles to the Point. And think of those crisply-browned birds with their little foil booties coming out of the oven over there on Christmas day."
"Yes, you know how I love duck," she smiled.
“So what were you planning for our Christmas dinner?” I asked.
“That’s…well….it..ah …it’s still in the planning stages…”
“Well, if I could bag a couple of “greenies” or even a brace of black ducks…” I trailed off.
She looked up from the sink, “But with no dog. How are you going to retrieve them even if you do make a lucky shot.”. I winced at the "lucky shot" quip.
“ Old Kim there, can’t go with you“…she raised her gloved hand from dirty dishes in the sink to point across over to Kim our big yellow Lab, lying on a worn, old bathroom rug in the corner, near the hot-air register.
Kim looked up at us whimsically. His big brown eyes looked sad. He knew we were talking about him. I would swear on a stack of bibles that Kim could think like a human --and had emotions just like us too. I often imagined that if he had a human mouth with lips he’d be able to hold a real conversation.
“Sorry old boy…Doc Goode says you need some rest for a few weeks.” I scratched the old dog’s great wide head between his ears where the yellowish tan fur was turning white.
He settled his big head back down on his great big paws. But his brown eyes continued to follow me as I quickly threw my hunting jacket over my shoulder and walked to the back door.
“See you honey.” I called to my wife.
“Be careful!” she called back, adding, "Don’t worry we’ll think of something fine for dinner!”.
“Don’t worry…be back soon.”
I looked over my shoulder, as I reached the door.
“See you old boy!” I called out to Kim, as I slipped out through the open door and into the dark, cold morning air.
The loose and rusty hinges on the rear-gate of our ’54 Ford pickup complained as I dropped the gate to slide a gunny sack full of well-used wood decoys into the truck bed. I unhooked my my patched up waders from their place on the side of the barn door and piled them on top of the decoys. I opened the action of my beat-up old Mossberg 12-gauge, and slid that behind the bench seat in the cab, with a box of #4 high-brass shells. Then I started up the straight-six engine. As always it roared to life--as dependable as death and taxes. The sound always reassured me that even in bad times--on the simplest of levels, all was right with the world or could be fixed with some effort. With the half-full (now only warm) mug of coffee balancing between my legs, I drove carefully out of the long, dark, potholed driveway and onto Half Moon Pond Road, in Ridge.
In a half hour, I was out on what we called “Duck Point”—a narrow spit of reed-choked marsh that poked out into the western end of Great South Bay. Here one could breath in the wind off the Atlantic and absorb the great vista of the bay and salt mashes of the south shore. That morning a winter breeze off Great South Bay rattled the reeds. The night before, a cold-front rolled over us and left a light dusting of snow. The wind had backed into the northwest and the bay was ruffled with small waves that made the reeds creak and crackle, I had a good view of the bay from my “blind” (it was just an old wood and metal milk bottle container I sat on). I shivered as I watched, through the rattling reeds, the sun rise into a clear sky in the southeast close to the winter solstice. The bay sparkled in the clear light of a cold blue-bird day. These few minutes were the ones when birds seem to fly best in to a “set”. I scanned the sky above the reed tops. I missed Kim who would sit at my feet and stare up into the sky, looking for birds, every bit like any hunter. When he saw a flight he would crouch and get ready. If I missed an easy shot, he would look back at me over his shoulder with great disdain and disappointment. That day--all alone-- I saw a few birds fly past my set, but they didn’t come in even with me calling my well-practiced “hey come on in and visit” chuckle call. Others flew warily over the point but were too far out for my old Mossberg 12 gauge bolt action--or any twelve. Even with the variable choke screwed down tight to “full“, the number four lead shot in the new plastic cartridges with the “shot-carrier” was good at maybe fifty yards out, but beyond that you were just winging game. Any kills would be too far out in deep water to get without Kim. So I didn’t even bust one cap.
The bright sun warmed my face as I stared out into the sparkling bay where I could see ducks on the water, way off and hear the tinkling calls of Old Squaws. I saw a few white wing scaup, and even a small flock of rare Canvas Backs, but nothing came my way. The sun rose higher in a clear cloudless sky-what the hunters call a “blue-bird day”. Disappointed, I finally decided to “pack it in”. I waded out and pulled my decoys from the cold water, wrapped the dripping anchor-lines around each one and placed them in the damp gunnysack. My hunt was over and there was still nothing for Christmas Dinner.
I pulled off my waders, and slipped into an old worn pair of LL Bean shoe-pacs I carry for the long walk through the reeds to where I parked the truck. I slung the waders over my shoulder and tossed the soggy bag of decoys on top, and with my gun in my other hand, I began to follow the narrow foot-trail that wended its way through the ten foot high reeds. I hadn’t gone more than fifty feet from the blind, when I caught the glimpse of something darting through the reeds ahead of me. It dashed across the path. A big cock pheasant was on the run! I could see the iridescent colors on its neck and the white neck-ring. I dropped my waders and bag of decoys and raced after it. As I ran I chambered a shell, hoping it would jump up, and perhaps I would get a shot off at a piece of game ---after all. But not this wise old pheasant. He stayed on the ground dodging one way and another and out of range way ahead of me.
Finally, after chasing him for about fifty yards, we approached a place where the reeds narrowed to a thin wedge, following along a sea-bulkhead that ran on the side of an old inlet of the Bay. Here the bird dashed across the foot-trail again and entered into a small patch of reeds about the size of a back yard shed--and disappeared!. On one side, the reed-patch bordered the bulkhead and the old boat channel with deep water, and on the other was a wide-open sea-side meadow with patches of snow covered sand and brown bunch grass. I approached the reed patch breathlessly. I realized my dilemma. If I flushed the bird, it was likely to fly over the old boat channel where I could not retrieve it. Gritting my teeth in frustration, I only now closed the bolt on the action which slid the cartridge into the chamber. I thought of another problem. It was those number "4s" --all I carried that day. Even if I could flush the cock, I couldn’t take a fast shot, but would have to let the bird fly off a good way before those the closed choke and #4 shot would develop a wide enough pattern. My plan had to be that if it flushed left over the water…I would just watch it fly off. My only chance to bag it was if it went right---over the sandy meadow.
I pushed on, slowly looking ahead of me, searching through the reed stems and the brown patches of soil and dry grass between the snow-covered patches. I pressed into the dense reeds, pushing them aside with the barrel of my gun and slipping along as quiet as I could be, expecting to hear any minute the loud cackle of the cock as he jumped for the sky. The reeds crinkled and creaked loudly in the cold. My feet crunched on the stiff broken stems. I could feel the hard, reedy ground through the thin worn bottom of my shoe pacs.
Then, just about five yards ahead of me, I saw through the vertical pattern of reeds, a dark-brown object, which to me, looked like a piece of old drift wood. It appeared tapered at both ends—it was a big brown bird lying prostrate. That old cock pheasant was smart! He literally went to ground! There he was--- in the dense patch of reeds with his body stretched out flat on the ground. I could have easily walked by without seeing him.
I made a quick field decision. I could be a sportsman and charge up on it to make him flush. But, it was more than likely he would fly to safety over water on the left. But at that point, I could see that bird, all crispy-brown coming out of our oven with two crisp bacon strips over his big chest. Then I saw him on the table, his legs trussed up neatly with little red booties Frances always made for our Christmas turkeys. I could just imagine the aroma, of the kitchen and the happy hungry looks of the kids and my wife, as I raised the old Mossberg and took aim. At that range, I estimated the shot pattern to be at most four inches across. I didn’t want to waste any meat. So I aimed carefully, focusing at a point where I would have enough of the shot pattern just to take off the head neatly and leave the rest of the bird intact. I lined up the elongate red-bead on the barrel-end so all I could see was a small red cross-section and slowly squeezed the trigger.
The gun kicked back sharply. When you are firing at moving game, you hardly ever notice the recoil on a shotgun, but with an aimed shot…a 12 punches back like a “30 30“. Recovering from the recoil and back on aim, I was mightily surprised to hear the sound of the cock cackling angrily and loudly as he rose up to the top of the reeds. I could see his red and green neck stretched out, his big powerful wings beating air downward as they drove him up…up and away. I did notice, as he topped the the reeds he had a very short tail for a big cock bird!
I stared open-mouth over the barrel as the cock flew straight over the boat channel. About 100 yards out he set his wings into two curved arches—then with a few strong beats of his wings he glided off to disappear into the marsh on the far side of the boat channel.
I walked up to the spot where the wily cock had hid. A few reeds lay there, cut in half by the shot charge. Next to them I picked up the six-inch long graceful end of his tail. It was just the very end of a good cock’s tail.
I stuffed it into my game bag to bring home.
I kept it on my desk in a pretty ceramic cup one of my students made for me from Long Island clay. It always reminded me of how easy it was to make a mistake.
Oh yes…I remember now—the Christmas dinner for the recession year of 1975 was an “on-sale” frozen chicken from the Patchogue A&P.
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