A Certain Environmentalist

He was talking about growth and development and municipal bonds. About building baseball fields and hike-and-bike trails. He was talking about sensible stuff that can be difficult to discuss when you live on top of the Edwards Aquifer Recharge Zone. I had heard him talk before, and he is always calm and polite and civil. Tonite was no exception.

But he was also talking about the environmentalists and how they are standing in the way. As we talked, I began to feel as if I was hiding something by not revealing my prejudices.

I have a confession, I said, leaning towards him and lowering my voice. I'm kind of an environmentalist.

Oh so am I. So am I, he said with a sincere smile on his face. I was a boy scout.

He had a good point. I've never thought of it that way. Maybe Troop 28 is where I got it from. Or maybe not—a certain felled White Pine and a certain Beech Tree and a certain Tamarack in the woods of my youth come to mind. And a certain grove of Hemlocks. And a certain lake with the sunlight dancing on the waves.

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