I guess I don’t really get it. Nimby, or nimbyism that is. I mean I get that the pristine mountain ridge, the amber waves of grain and the wine dark sea are most lovely when unadulterated -- no houses, factories, power lines or wind turbines. What I don’t get is that the visual price of wind turbines on the top of our ridge, across the expanse of our prairie or on the horizon of our sea is seen as greater than the price of their West Virginian ridges with their tops removed for coal production or those rolling lawns dotted with white crosses from defending access to oil reserves or their beaches fouled and their seas slick with oil spilled from depths.
Growing up, Christmas was marked by stockings stuffed with presents that mysteriously appeared at the end of my bed on Christmas morning. As I grew older I resisted the logic (spoiler alert) that led me to the conclusion there really was no Santa Claus — but to acknowledge this would result in the retirement of that stocking full of treats. In the end it was necessary to recognize this reality or seriously undermine other ideas I espoused as a worldly young man.