Yesterday was the Imbolc, the Celtic feast of pregnant ewes, a harbinger of spring soon to come.  There are no ewes, pregnant or otherwise, in my vicinity (no groundhogs either, for that matter), so I can’t report on their gestational progress.

I did hear a phoebe sing outside my window Tuesday and again this morning.  The phoebe’s song is one of my favorite voices of spring, but it shouldn’t arrive here for another six weeks.

The window of days likely below-zero temperatures is six weeks long; two of those weeks still remain, but we’ve only had a few days when the thermometer dipped below zero.  Yesterday afternoon was in the high forties.  There’s no snow on the ground and my snow shovels rest in a corner of the front porch, unused.

The Vermont Beekeepers Association held its winter meeting last week, weather talk dominated there, too.  A warm winter isn’t necessarily a good thing for bees, as they are more active, flying out in search of unavailable pollen, which can lead to consuming their honey stores at faster rate and shortening their life spans, which may reduce colony size in the crucial weeks before the first brood of the season hatch.  Last summer in the Champlain Valley was brutal for bees.  Many colonies (mine included) died and nucleus colonies for sale are few and expensive.

One beekeeper that has a horse-drawn sleigh reported he has yet to take it out this winter.  “I’ve never gone this late before.  I’ve had to return $3,000 worth of checks to people who’d prepaid for rides.  I had the trail all groomed last week, then this,” he said, making an upward gesture with his hand, meaning the rain that had come in the three previous days.  “I ought to just give up.”

Chickadees, sparrows and a female cardinal frequent the new feeder.  Haven’t seen the phoebe there yet.  Squirrels have learned to jump straight down on it from the porch roof in a Mission Impossible-style maneuver that succeeds in maybe one of five attempts.  I try not to dwell on that as I consider backyard squirrel obsession a sign of advancing age.

My New Year’s resolution was to pay more attention to day-to-day weather.  What a year to pick that one.  Last month, I said that I think by looking at a photo of northwestern Vermont, I could tell which week of winter it was taken.  Not this year.  It has seemed like the first week of April for the past three weeks.

There’s still the winter light for me to use to gauge the date.  It’s not exactly weather, but it changes day to day.  The time of dawn and dusk, the angle of the late afternoon sun, the particular peak of the Adirondacks behind which I see it sink, should I be fortunate enough to be walking lakeside as it sets.

Vernal equinox is still seven weeks away.  By the calendar, most of winter is still ahead of us, regardless of what groundhogs say or don’t say.  I don’t know what that means in our post-agricultural society.  It may be going the way of Imbolc.  Last autumn, I noted my neighbors lighting bonfires on the first Sunday of standard time.  Daylight time, when modern people welcome the return of the light, is five weeks away.  It might be time to plan a new ritual.

© Mark Floegel, 2012

In his 102-page ruling, Judge Murtha closely tracks the arguments made by attorneys for Entergy, the owner of Vermont Yankee.  Entergy argued and the judge agreed that while the statute passed by the legislature says that the state’s concerns about Vermont Yankee are based on issues of reliability and economic benefit, the legislators were really concerned with radiological safety and such safety is the sole province of the Nuclear regulatory Commission (NRC), which last year issued a permit for Vermont Yankee to operate for another 20 years.

(The plant’s reactor, which is the same design as the melted reactors at Fukushima, has been running for 40 years, which was the projected lifetime of the reactor when it was built.  Since 2006, it has been running at 120 percent of its design capacity, again with the blessing of the NRC.)

Judge Murtha devoted nearly half his ruling to a detailed legislative history of the past decade.  In it, he pointed to numerous statements on safety by legislators, just as Entergy’s attorneys did at trial.  He concluded that because the issue of safety had been broached, the statute passed by the legislature did not mean what its words said it meant, it was a ruse cooked up by politicians overstepping their boundaries.  Neither the judge nor Entergy’s attorneys (nor the state’s attorneys, for that matter) seem to have counted the number of times legislators mentioned “reliability” or “economics.”  Would it have mattered if someone had?  I’m sure Judge Murtha sees his ruling as qualitative, not quantitative.  He chose to base his decision on the legislative record, rather than the words of the statute.  Some people think that’s a backward way of looking at law, but I’m not an attorney, so I’ll let that pass.

Judge Murtha took pains to note his ruling is not a comment on the merits or defects of nuclear power and said Entergy still needs a certificate of public good from Vermont’s Public Service Board (PSB).  The PSB, however, can only base its decision on reliability and economic benefits.  The board said yesterday it will not take up Vermont Yankee’s docket until after 24 February, after the date by which the state must decide whether to appeal Judge Murtha’s ruling.

As of 21 March, Entergy will no longer have contracts to sell electricity to Vermont utilities at below-market rates, so there will no longer be direct economic benefit to Vermont for hosting Vermont Yankee.  (Vermont, as part of the New England grid, will indirectly benefit but no more than any of the other five New England states.)

Entergy has for years significantly starved Vermont Yankee’s decommissioning fund.  It has long been a point of contention between Entergy and the legislature (one of those things Judge Murtha discounted).  In 2009, Entergy tried to spin off Vermont Yankee and several other decrepit nuclear plants into a stand-alone asset-free company called Enexus, a bad-faith move if ever there was one (also ignored by Judge Murtha).  Entergy contributes thermal pollution to the Connecticut River and radioactive tritium leaks from the reactor, issue affecting not just Vermont, but New Hampshire, Massachusetts and Connecticut (and overlooked by Judge Murtha).  Finally, Entergy has a record of making incorrect statements – either through malfeasance or misfeasance – under oath to Vermont regulators.  Judge Murtha declined to address these in his ruling.

Everything in the preceding paragraph is fair game for the Public Service Board and more than reason enough to deny Entergy a new certificate of public good.  Entergy, of course, will choose to sue the state again if a certificate is denied.

This is a tough situation for Vermont Attorney General Bill Sorrell.  It’s easy (and cheap) enough for me to predict the PSB will deny Entergy a certificate of public good and advise Mr. Sorrell to save his staff time for the inevitable appeal to the Vermont Supreme Court, but he can’t take such predictions into account when deciding on the federal appeal.

At the end of the day, this is Entergy’s strategy: spend Vermont into submission.  Entergy spent more on the trial before Judge Murtha ($8 million) than Mr. Sorrell has in his annual budget.  Simultaneous appeals in two venues look like a sure budget-buster.

Ethan Allen, our founding father, hated a coward.  So is it true of his civic descendants.  Nail the flag to the mast and full speed ahead.  Live by the record, die by the record.  Vermont will prevail if we persevere.

© Mark Floegel, 2012

That said, Mr. Santorum meets the qualifications to run for president of the United States.  He’s a native-born American over the age of 35.  His candidacy should succeed or fail based on the number of voters who think he’s best fit to serve in the Oval Office and only on that basis.

That, however, is not what happened in Iowa.  This morning, the Des Moines Register broke the news that rather than losing the Iowa caucuses by eight votes to former Massachusetts Governor Mitt Romney, Mr. Santorum actually won them by at least 34 votes.

I have to write “at least” because the Iowa Republican Party claims the votes from eight precincts have been irretrievably lost.  Due to this, the official word on the caucuses is that it was a “tie” between Messrs. Santorum and Romney.  It wasn’t a tie on Caucus night; it was a “win” for Mr. Romney.  How is an eight-vote margin a “win” and a 34-vote (at least) margin a tie?  (Hint: It’s a “tie” when you’re trying to throw the election to Mr. Romney.)

A few days ago, pundits were saying that having won in Iowa and New Hampshire and heading into the South Carolina primary with a double-digit lead in the polls, Mr. Romney would be the first Republican to win the first three contests and had the GOP presidential nomination all but locked up.   How quickly things change.  Now the Iowa “victory” is in sincere doubt and Newt Gingrich is leading the South Carolina polls.  (We’ll see how that stands up after ABC airs an interview with Marianne Gingrich – wife number two – in which she details Mr. Gingrich’s infidelity.)

For anyone who’s confused about where all this is going, let me be clear: the Republican Party has long been the purveyor of crooked politics in this country and it’s gotten to the point where they’ve turned their nasty deeds on each other.

George W. Bush stole the 2000 election with the help of his brother Jeb, Katherine Harris and the Republican-appointed Supreme Court justices.  In 2004, the GOP pulled numerous dirty tricks around the country, particularly Ohio and likely stole a second national election.  I worked on that election in Marion County, Florida and saw plenty of them.

Rick Santorum made Iowa his focus.  He visited every county, moved his family there for several weeks before the caucuses and staked all his hopes on coming out strong and building momentum.  He has, however, no chance of winning a general election and Republican politicos know this, so they apparently have done everything they can to sabotage his campaign and get him out of the race.

Given the way the Iowa Republicans have treated Mr. Santorum, I wouldn’t blame any GOP candidate for passing the state by in 2016.  It’s also worth noting that Republicans – first on a federal level during the recent Bush II administration and then at the state level – have been trying to restrict the voting rights of poor people and people of color, key democratic constituencies, with the unsubstantiated excuse of “preventing voter fraud” (even though they can’t point to any cases of voter fraud).

I’ve said in this space that since 2004, I’ve been pessimistic about the survival of American democracy.  We have now reached a point where the Republicans are willing to purge even candidates who swear fealty to every NRA and Grover Norquist litmus-test pledge, no matter how stupid.  Now they disenfranchise Mr. Santorum’s Iowa supporters with the “eight lost precincts,” a ruse so flimsy it would make Lyndon Johnson blush.

I don’t agree with Republicans, but this kind of Republican infighting does not fill me with glee.  It scares me, because if these people get any more power than they already have, this nation will be a very ugly place.  John Donne was right, no one is an island and the loss of anyone’s civil rights, even (especially!) someone with whom I disagree, diminishes mine.

© Mark Floegel, 2012

In a speech Tuesday, Mr. Romney said, “I like being able to fire people who provide services to me.”  The context, which is important, was health care and his point was that under the current system, one can change insurance companies if one is unsatisfied with the coverage provided.

Even if one excuses the gaffe, I think the former one-term Massachusetts governor was already deep in the weeds.  A multi-millionaire like Mr. Romney can no doubt change insurance companies at will.  Most of us have long since ceased expecting to be happy with our insurance coverage, we take hassles and hostility from our insurer as a given and are happy to hold onto any coverage we can.

I think the honest man deep within Mr. Romney understands the point about insurance and is determined to sabotage the politician who appears before the public.  (This is my superficial understanding of Jungian psychology.)

Tuesday’s gaffe is what is known in the trade as an “unforced error.”  Mr. Romney was not in a debate, he was not responding to a charge leveled by one of his opponents or a question from a reporter.  He cooked up this doozy all on his own – or with help from his honest, shadow self.

I have fired people; I never liked it. Even when the person in question had been provoking me for months, when the moment came to sit him (usually) down and give the bad news, I always felt bad about it.

For all the jobs Mr. Romney destroyed during his corporate raider phase, I imagine he rarely, if ever, dispensed the bad news himself.  Avoiding that duty is another perk of Mr. Romney’s pay grade.

Watching the video, it seems clear that the politician realizes immediately that the inner, honest man has betrayed him, since he immediately goes into hamana-hamana-hamana mode.

Other moments when the honest man came through?  I’d say the December 10 debate, when Mr. Romney offered to bet Texas Governor Rick Perry $10,000 that he’s been consistent about health care.  In that moment, the honest man was pointing out that Mitt Romney (and the other candidates) live in a world of wealth unavailable to the average American.  (It’s worth noting these two bursts of honesty occurred in regard to health care, a topic on which Mr. Romney has dissembled perhaps to a greater degree than any other.)

Another “forced error,” again forced by Gov. Perry, was Mr. Romney’s take on having undocumented workers care for his landscaping. “I’m running for office, for Pete’s sake – I can’t have illegals,” he said.  Once again, the honest man inside demonstrated the difference between Mr. Romney and the rest of us who cut our own grass while pointing out that the surface man, the politician, cares about issues not for their own sake, but whether they will or will not put wind in the sails of his fortune.

Someday, I hope we get to meet the honest man inside Mitt Romney.  I think I’d like him much better than the person we’ve seen on the campaign trail.  As for many of the other Republicans vying for office this year, I’m not sure any such Jungian struggle is going on beneath the surface.  And that’s what really scares me.

© Mark Floegel, 2012

I’ve paid enough attention to the weather in past years to know it changes every day and not in the obvious way: one day cloudy and the next clear.  I mean that by looking at a photo, I might see clues that tell me it was taken in northwestern Vermont in the second month of winter, rather than the first or third.

This is easy enough in the other three seasons of the year, merely by looking at the state of vegetation (although I still have much to learn then, too), but winter is more subtle and thus, more rewarding to the patient observer.  The quality, quantity and location of the snow most immediately present to the eye, but these metrics grow more unreliable each year.  (Alas, this is where climate and my professional life intrude.)

There’s a dusting of snow on the ground now and more in the air, each flake taking its time with the final forty feet of its journey.  There’s no wind to speak of – the bare branches of the trees do not move – but flakes dance on microcurrents of air pushing past the corners of the house.

Here are three things I’ve written in this space before – 1) the old Vermont weather adage holds that “as the days grow longer, the cold grows stronger,” 2) northwestern Vermont is most likely (but not exclusively) to see sub-zero weather between New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day and 3) if we don’t have a week or ten days of sub-zero weather, I don’t feel as if we’ve had a winter, just as if we don’t have a week or ten days of 90-degree-plus weather, I don’t feel as if we’ve had a summer.

As to the first point, the cold has grown stronger this week and Tuesday we flirted with point two, but the drop in temperature halted at one degree.  As for point three, it’s not just me that needs the deep cold of winter and here my professional life intrudes again.  Without the deep cold of winter, any number of harmful, invasive insects survive the winter and attack our forests more savagely than they would had their numbers been decimated by sub-zero days.

Our neighbor Margaret gave us a new bird feeder for Christmas, one that affixes to the window with suction cups.  We’ve had no squirrel-proof place to hang the old feeder since the sugar maple died.  So far, Chickadees have been the only customers, but with the lack of snow, I imagine there are easier pickings out there.

It’s 23 degrees now; perfect temperature for a snowfall and it’s coming down faster, no more dancing.  The thermometer is predicted to creep to the high thirties on Saturday, melting whatever falls today and tomorrow.  Burlington’s in the tropics of Vermont, only 100 feet above sea level.  They’ve been making snow on the mountains every cold night since October.  All that’s required for that is sub-freezing temperatures and a wet summer to recharge groundwater and holding ponds; that has not been a problem lately.

What is a problem for the ski areas, and tourism is the biggest economic driver in Vermont, is that the skiers don’t really show up in droves unless snow falls in Boston and New York City.  I suppose that’s a symptom of a different kind of weather-watching and I doubt it’s good for the economy, as the ski areas tend to make half their season’s income by New Year’s Eve.  If that’s true this year, then 2012 will be dreary indeed.

Now I’ve digressed into both climate and economics, when I should be staring out the window, looking for my muse among the snowflakes.  Like any resolution, the point is not to give up the first time I fail to hit the mark, but to try again and improve my average.

So to the window, then.

© Mark Floegel, 2012

As I watched the video of the last trucks crossing the Kuwait border, all I could see were the black hulls of the Greek ships sailing away, gray smoke still hanging in the ruined walls of Troy.

Not that Iraq is currently in ruins, but the Trojan war has been on my mind for the last decade, since George W. Bush, like Agamemnon before him, began gathering reluctant allies for a headstrong military adventure that brought grief to nearly everyone associated with it.

To appease the gods for sending a military force to make war on a society in a war in which non-combatants on only one side would be at risk, Agamemnon sacrificed his own daughter, Iphigenia.  (His wife would later kill him for having done that.)  Mr. Bush made no such sacrifice, nor did he ask the majority of his countrymen to make any sacrifice on behalf of the soldiers he commanded.

Popular political psychology has it that one of Mr. Bush, fils authentic motivations for the Iraq invasion was revenge on an enemy of his father’s (or perhaps to show himself stronger than his father).  Both roles are reflected in the character of Neoptolemus, Achilles’s son, whom avenges his father’s death before the walls of Troy, by killing King Priam as the city is sacked.  This “revenge” is the punitive act of a bully, putting the sword into an old man who can no longer defend himself.

As Achilles dishonored Hector’s body, dragging it through the dust of the Dardanian Plain, so the residents of Falluja desecrated the bodies of four Blackwater contractors in 2004, so American troops desecrated the bodies of living and dead Iraqis for “trophy photos,” so – bizarrely – did our military of our nation desecrate the bodies of our own troops by disposing of them in landfills.

“Troy falls at last after ten years of futile, indecisive, noble, mean, tricky, bitter, jealous and only occasionally heroic battle,” writes Barbara Tuchman.  As for the Greeks’ Trojan Horse ploy, she said it exemplifies, “policy pursued contrary to self-interest – in the face or urgent warning and a feasible alternative.  Occurring in this earliest chronicle of Western man, it suggests that such pursuit is an old and inherent human habit.”

(So, wait, am I comparing the US to the Greeks or the Trojans?  Both, actually.  It would seek a foolish consistency to only learn from one side and somehow we have maniacally managed to repeat the worst mistakes of each.)

A more recent and equally depressing analog in the history of arms is the nine-plus years the Soviets spent trying to bring a friendly government to Afghanistan.  That invasion/war/occupation began on a Christmas Eve in 1979 and ended with the trucks and tanks rolling over the border for the cameras on a winter day in 1989.  Like us, the Soviets didn’t try to portray their withdrawal as a victory march, but like us; there was a feeling of relief that comes from setting down a heavy load.  For Islamic militants, the Soviet withdrawal was seen as a tiny force, blessed by Allah driving our a superpower.  How will they see the US withdrawal from Iraq?

I don’t know how things went for the Soviet soldiers, but Western literature says those who fought at Troy brought their war home with them in ways eerily familiar.  Odysseus famously wandered for a decade, as did Aeneas of Troy and his followers.  Neoptolemus was killed by Agamemnon’s son Orestes (who also killed his mother Clytemnestra, who killed Agamemnon).  Our troops return to a devastated economy years of post-traumatic stress disorder.

I suppose it’s appropriate the end of this long, foolish war comes at the end of a year, the end of the 9/11 decade.  Here’s to hoping we can all feel as though we are putting a burden down and prepare to take up new and better burdens in the year ahead.

© Mark Floegel, 2011

As I began remembering Christmases, I wondered how many years could I pin to a specific memory, how many could I put in order.  (Another thought: does it really matter?)  I mentioned this to Adrienne and some friends and if nothing else, it’s a great conversation starter.  “That was the Christmas that….”

I have no memory of my first Christmas, although there is a home movie of me, just up on wobbly legs, suddenly sitting down and crushing a model gas station my father painstakingly assembled the previous evening.  (Even then, it seems, I had it in for oil companies.)

Nineteen sixty-six was the year I managed to remove a fingertip in a kindergarten accident.  I remember staring through a window in the surgeon’s office at the image of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer on top of Rochester General Hospital, trying not to cry as the dressing on the wound was changed.  I do not associate Rudolph’s image with pain, which must be some sort of Christmas magic.

Was 1977 the year of the big Christmas Eve snowstorm?  We seemed fated on the 24th to endure a (then) rare snowless Christmas.  I remember a few flakes falling as my brother and I set out in the early evening for the usual round of visits.  By 2 a.m. Christmas morning, we were pushing his Mercury Capri through unplowed streets; I think we finally abandoned it on Seville Drive, a block from home.

I pulled out paper and tried to make an actual list; I checked it more than twice.  In all, I can put a specific memory to 29 of 50 Christmases, although I’m not sure I have each in the correct year.  (Again, does it matter?)  Some memories, especially the early ones, are not of distinct years, but eras with family traditions regularly re-enacted, each iteration changing only slightly and adding to the collective memory.  All those Christmas eve visits, first with my dad’s family, then my mom’s.  In between I would wipe away condensation on the back seat car window to spot the over-decorated house on Browncroft Boulevard (Empire Boulevard?) as we sped by on Route 47 North, faster than Santa’s sleigh.

In those early years, when upset or scared, I was encouraged to “think of something nice, like Christmas” to sooth myself.  It’s a good tactic.  My Christmas thoughts then were generic, furnished with evergreen trees and lights and boxes wrapped in pretty paper that must contain gifts more wonderful than any real present ever was, or could be.

One difference between children and adults is that children live with dreams and adults with memories.  Christmas, like the third Thursday in April, is – by one measure – just another day in your life.  If your life is good, you’ve probably had many good Christmases and Christmas memories.  If not, your Christmases and memories reflect that too.  Most of us, by the half-century mark, have a mix of each.  While I prize some Christmas memories over others, I can’t say I would trade any, because happy or not, they mark periods of my life that made me what I am.

The Christmas sold to us through commerce and media is the Christmas imagined by a scared and upset child hoping to find comfort.  The real Christmas, the one we’ll remember as “That was the year that…” is more complex and ultimately, more sustaining.  The Christmas you get is the Christmas you get.  I hope yours is merry.

© Mark Floegel, 2011

He grew up to be president of the United States, but we know him as Gerald R. Ford, Jr.  Mr. Ford’s mother left his father (who was said to be abusive) 16 days after little Leslie’s birth.  Two years later, she married Gerald Ford, Sr. and though the future president was never formally adopted, he changed his name to reflect the shift in family.

I got to thinking about this when I saw a reference to Newton MacPherson, now known as Newt Gingrich.  Mr. Gingrich’s mother wed at 16 just long enough to get pregnant, left her husband and married Robert Gingrich, who adopted Newt, a few years later.

Mr. Gingrich is trying to usher Barack Obama into unemployment.  Mr. Obama, we all know, grew up a black kid in a white family, his African father leaving shortly after Mr. Obama’s birth.  His name, including the middle name Hussain, stayed the same, but he later wrote of the pain and dislocation caused by the absence of Barack senior.

What is it about men abandoned by their fathers being driven to seek higher office?  (Mr. Ford, it should be noted, was never elected to the presidency or vice presidency, but the drive was clearly there.)  Maybe I’m overstating the case.  Mr. Gingrich has not been elected president (nor is he likely to be), but his drive too, is obvious.  The statistical universe is limited to 44, Messrs. Ford and Obama are but two.

Still, Mr. Obama governs in the political shadow of Bill Clinton, born William Blythe III.  Unlike the other birth fathers, William Blyhte, Jr. died in an automobile accident.  Mr. Clinton’s stepfather – Roger Clinton – was an abusive alcoholic.  That father figure is similar to what we know of Jack Reagan, who battled the bottle, had trouble keeping a job and was sire to Ronald Reagan, whose political shadow looms over Mr. Gingrich (and every other American Republican).

So that’s four of 44 and starting to look statistically significant.  Who else in recent memory?  John Kennedy’s father has been compared, with justice, to some of the more gruesome characters from Greek mythology; Richard Nixon’s father was said to be tyrannical skinflint who drove his sons hard.  That’s six for forty-four.  I have no idea what it was like coming up for Millard Fillmore and Rutherford B. Hayes.

They say people get the government they deserve and that government is a reflection of our nation’s psyche at any given moment.  So what does it say about us that so many of the men who are so driven to be the nation’s father figure have fraught histories with fathers – or father figures – of their own?

Clearly, it’s not about politics, since the ideological range runs from Ronald Reagan to Newt (MacPherson) Gingrich to Gerald (King) Ford to Bill (Blythe) Clinton to Barack Obama.  The gamut also runs from Mr. Reagan, who failed to recognize his own children (long before the Alzheimer’s set in) to doting family men like Messrs. Ford and Obama.

I remember reading that one factor bringing together our founding fathers (no pun intended) was that colonial America offered few outlets for people of exceptional ability.  Academia and commerce were embryonic; the military was a vestige of an empire whose locus was elsewhere.  Even the opportunities offered by colonial government were limited, but the concentration of talent in that one realm likely had as much to do with the birth of the nation as any of Britain’s foolish blunders.

Two hundred and thirty-five years on, we seem to be a nation led by men with something to prove to absent fathers.  A sobering thought as we head into the primaries.

© Mark Floegel, 2011

A post-mortem examination of Mr. Boogard’s brain – he died at 28 from an accidental overdose of alcohol and drugs – showed he suffered from chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE).  The Center for the Study of Traumatic Encephalopathy at Boston University has studied the brains of four deceased hockey players and found each suffered from CTE.  Three of the four, including Mr. Boogard, were goons – that is, they were recruited not for their skill with the puck, but only to beat people up on the ice.

In Wednesday’s Times, NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman and Todd Fedoruk, a retired goon and friend of Mr. Boogard, defended fighting in North America’s professional hockey leagues. (Sanctioned fighting exists only in N. American pro leagues; college, European and Olympic players face ejection and potential multi-game suspensions for fighting.)

Here are their arguments:

1 – “Our fans tell us they like the level of physicality in our game.” – Mr. Bettman.  Clearly, he has a euphemism coach.  Translation: “Many of our fans come to hockey precisely to see two huge guys repeatedly punch each other in the head.  They want blood on the ice.  Teeth are even better.”  (Players remove each other’s helmets when they commence fighting; thus sacrifice their brain cells for the sake of their knuckles.)  Elsewhere, men are arrested for staging “bum fights,” in which homeless men are paid to fight.  The only difference between these and the NHL are skates, salaries and official sanctioning.

2 – “There are certain players who have no respect for the opponent. A fighter enforces that respect amongst players. Without the enforcer, the free reign for dangerous plays on key players is not kept in check — no matter how many rule changes or suspensions you hand out.” – Mr. Fedoruk.  I’ve played every sport popular in North America and I accept rough play (some of it by me) is part of the equation when I take to the field, court or ice.  I’ve been on the giving and receiving end of broken bones, I get it.  But permanent brain damage?  That’s a price too high. And the notion that the players are the best enforcers of “the code”?  That, Mr. Fedoruk, is an unfortunate fiction foisted on players by men that only profit and never take any real risk from the game.

3 – “I think people need to take a deep breath and not overreact. We’re being extremely medically proactive, but there is a gap in the medical science.” – Mr. Bettman.  I agree, four brains is a small sample size, but realize, CTE cannot be diagnosed until the patient is dead and his brain has been removed from its skull.  Given that’s the case, I think it behooves the NHL to take a precautionary approach.  Not only is it the right and moral thing to do, but now that the league’s been warned of a potential issue, the legal liability is boundless.  By the way, the same holds true for professional football, but the National Football League and its players are paying better attention, at least for now.

Sadly, the NHL is taking a “prove harm” approach, which means many more players will have to suffer mental degeneration before the league acts.  Far sadder is the fact that this is the same approach the federal government takes toward air and water pollution and contaminants in the food supply.  At least NHL players are well compensated.  Poor people living in industrial areas are not.

If North American pro hockey cannot control the game or its players, then it needs to be shut down.  I don’t think that’s the answer.  What Messrs. Bettman and Fedoruk fail to understand is that if hockey fails to act, parents will.  Hockey is booming right now in America – or at least the part of it where I live.  As Mr. Branch’s articles made clear, no one gets to the pro leagues without parental support – lots of equipment, lots of early mornings at the rink, miles and miles of driving.  Mr. Boogard’s parents clearly regret what happened to their son and regret what would have happened to him had he lived.  His brain, now in a Boston laboratory, sends a warning we should well heed.

© Mark Floegel, 2011

His column was on the European money crisis and the gist of his argument is this: it makes economic sense for Germany (Europe’s economic powerhouse) to bail out Greece (Europe’s irresponsible brother-in-law).

The Greeks have gotten themselves – and are dragging the Euro and the Eurozone nations – into this mess with too little austerity and too many early retirements.  It’s the hardworking ants of the Baltic versus the sun-drenched grasshoppers of the Mediterranean.  It’s in Germany’s self-interest to save the Greeks, because if Europe returns to a patchwork of currencies, then those low-value drachmas and lire and pesetas will buy fewer German products.

The Germans, however, resist this logic not for economic, but moral reasons.  “If we bail you out, how will you learn your lesson?” the Germans ask, “Why would you not repeat your mistakes?”  It’s like the parent, about to punish the child, saying, “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you,” and in this case it might be true.

Here’s where Joe Nocera wouldn’t go: why doesn’t Germany just shut up and bail out the Greeks?  Thank you, my cousins, for shifting the terms of the debate from economics to morals.  Now that we’re in that territory, let me remind you that not so long ago, Germany invaded and occupied Greece, killing thousands of its citizens and sending tens of thousands more off to death camps.  (The people with whom I share half my ethnicity hate it when I bring these things up, as if I’m the one who breached decorum.)

In 1945, the Allied nations agreed that forcing Germany to pay reparations for its crimes did not make economic or political sense.  The heavy burden of reparation imposed on Germany after World War I helped aid the rise of the Nazis.  That was a good call and helped get a ravaged Europe back on its feet, but somehow, it insidiously evolved into a dysfunctional denial of history, as if it’s impolite to mention the bombs and bullets.  Forgetting serves no good purpose.

So here’s my proposal: Greece gets a one-time bailout from Germany.  Does that mean that slate is clean?  No, that slate can’t be cleaned.  It just means no further bailouts or reparations or whatever you want to call it from Germany to Greece.

Am I uselessly holding onto the past, onto grudges that serve no one?  I don’t think so.  True reconciliation requires remorse, forgiveness and atonement.  I have faith in German remorse and the forgiveness of Europe.  In more than half a century, there have been no opportunities for real atonement.  Now one presents itself; Germany should take advantage of it.

So, should Spain get a bailout, because the Nazis warmed up for WWII by using Spanish Republicans for Lutwaffe target practice?  What about Poland, France, Norway, Denmark, Netherlands and on and on?  If Germany shores up Greece, we hope those nations won’t need German relief.  What about Italy, now also teetering on the brink?  Does Germany owe Italy?  Morally, no, economically perhaps.  This is the danger when one shifts the philosophical grounds of debate.  (Hey Germany, you started it; I’m just taking the moral debate to a logical conclusion.)

Once this moral/economic argument is engaged, things quickly get complicated.  For instance, if Germany should bail out Greece, does that mean the U.S. should pay reparations to African Americans for centuries of slavery?

Yes, I think it does.

© Mark Floegel, 2011