Can broken governnance fix broken climate?

This morning's snow-covered ground came as a surprise. I hadn't expected it to "flurry" that much last night. It's brought even more birds than usual to the feeders. It also made it easier this morning to spot the handful of whitetails as they headed through the gap (back behind the dwarf cedar in the middle of the photo). That's the first time in weeks, perhaps months, I've seen either deer or turkeys this Winter.

St. Patrick's Day is supposed to be green, not white

Photo by J. Harrington

A week or so ago we noted that the Legislative Auditor's Report on the Iron Range Resources and Rehabilitation Board (IRRRB) was due to be released today. It's available here. These are the major findings:

"We found that the IRRRB has not adequately overseen the use and impact of loans and grants it awards. We also found that Giants Ridge, a resort owned by the IRRRB, has had a large and growing operating loss for many years. In addition, we concluded that the law that establishes the membership and powers of the IRRRB Board is vulnerable to a constitutional challenge."

If you add these findings to what's passing for a political primary season, providing platforms for race-baiters and apologists for the status quo, plus the refusal of the Republican-controlled Senate to do its job and hold hearings and a vote on a Supreme Court nominee, and the fact that the Minnesota Pollution Control Agency has a number of expired permits to process for mining operations, and the failure, across all levels of government, to protect the citizens, especially the children, of Flint Michigan, it should come as no surprise that the guardian newspaper has concluded that government in this country of ours is broken. That's a theme we've been articulating for some time now, particularly about the finding of "adequate" for what we consider to be a deeply flawed environmental impact statement for the PolyMet project and insufficiently aggressive responses to global warming.

If it weren't for the fact that billions of people are looking to the US for leadership in responding to the global warming climate challenge, and that Minnesota, which was noted for the quality of its governance, could, I believe, provide much improved leadership in a number of areas, I might not care. At the time I moved here, I consciously chose Minnesota, not Mississippi or Louisiana. It's getting harder to tell the difference, except for the snow we can get 11 months of the year. Maybe you think the answer to this list and similar items is to vote for those who promise to cut your taxes. Let me point out that will probably just cause China to laugh at us all the more.

Democracy

By Dorianne Laux

When you’re cold—November, the streets icy and everyone you pass

homeless, Goodwill coats and Hefty bags torn up to make ponchos—

someone is always at the pay phone, hunched over the receiver

spewing winter’s germs, swollen lipped, face chapped, making the last

tired connection of the day. You keep walking to keep the cold

at bay, too cold to wait for the bus, too depressing the thought

of entering that blue light, the chilled eyes watching you decide

which seat to take: the man with one leg, his crutches bumping

the smudged window glass, the woman with her purse clutched

to her breasts like a dead child, the boy, pimpled, morose, his head

shorn, a swastika carved into the stubble, staring you down.

So you walk into the cold you know: the wind, indifferent blade,

familiar, the gold leaves heaped along the gutters. You have

a home, a house with gas heat, a toilet that flushes. You have

a credit card, cash. You could take a taxi if one would show up.

You can feel it now: why people become Republicans: Get that dog

off the street. Remove that spit and graffiti. Arrest those people huddled

on the steps of the church. If it weren’t for them you could believe in god,

in freedom, the bus would appear and open its doors, the driver dressed

in his tan uniform, pants legs creased, dapper hat: Hello Miss, watch

your step now. But you’re not a Republican. You’re only tired, hungry,

you want out of the cold. So you give up, walk back, step into line behind

the grubby vet who hides a bag of wine under his pea coat, holds out

his grimy 85 cents, takes each step slow as he pleases, releases his coins

into the box and waits as they chink down the chute, stakes out a seat

in the back and eases his body into the stained vinyl to dream

as the chips of shrapnel in his knee warm up and his good leg

flops into the aisle. And you’ll doze off, too, in a while, next to the girl

who can’t sit still, who listens to her Walkman and taps her boots

to a rhythm you can’t hear, but you can see it—when she bops

her head and her hands do a jive in the air—you can feel it

as the bus rolls on, stopping at each red light in a long wheeze,

jerking and idling, rumbling up and lurching off again.

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The wearing of the green

Happy St. Patrick's Day! [apologies on this day for the link's colors] If you're not already familiar with the song's background, here's a version of the lyrics to, and story behind, "The Wearing of the Green." I've a bit of Irish blood in me from several generations back on my mother's side. It's the part of my heritage, along with being a "New Englander," with which I identify the most.

shamrock? or not?

Photo by J. Harrington

Boston has had, since as far back as I can remember, and then some, a notable celebration of St. Patrick's Day, including a big parade in which I marched for a few years as a member of the parish band. Each year was a toss-up on the weather. Would Irish eyes be smiled upon with a day full of sunshine and mild temperatures, or would winds, howling like banshees, try to rip flags and instruments from marchers' hands and blow foam heads from the tops of glasses of green beer? My memories hold mostly heaven or hell for parade weather, rarely anything in between.

St. Paul, being "the last city of the east," shares with Boston and New York St. Patrick's Day parades worthy of attendance. In a good year, the weather on St. Patrick's Day is an "improvement" over that experienced during the Winter Carnival in January. All of this combines to help me feel pretty much at home in St. Paul. That feeling is no doubt enhanced by the city's street pattern, once described by a former Minnesota governor as having been laid our by "a crew of drunken Irishmen." I'm still pondering whether that pattern beats the wandering cow paths that served as the basis for Boston's street layouts.

One last thought about wearing green on this day: mother nature also starts to wear green about this time of year. Trees begin to wear pastel hues of emerald. The brown ground picks up slight tinctures of vermillion as grass blades and plant stems awaken from their long Winter's sleep, just in time for the Vernal Equinox in a few days. And another last thought, Billy Collins' poem sounds like my Irish relatives talking.

Irish Poetry

By Billy Collins

That morning under a pale hood of sky   

I heard the unambiguous scrape of spackling   

against the side of our wickered, penitential house.   

The day mirled and clabbered   

in the thick, stony light,   

and the rooks’ feathered narling   

astounded the salt waves, the plush coast.   

I lugged a bucket past the forked   

coercion of a tree, up toward   

the pious and nictitating preeminence of a school,   

hunkered there in its gully of learning.   

Only later, by the galvanized washstand,   

while gaunt, phosphorescent heifers   

swam beyond the windows,   

did the whorled and sparky gib of the indefinite   

wobble me into knowledge.   

Then, I heard the ghost-clink of milk bottle   

on the rough threshold   

and understood the meadow-bells   

that trembled over a nimbus of ragwort—   

the whole afternoon lambent, corrugated, puddle-mad.

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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.