Green Germany vs. The Green Isles: a Culture Clash

When we made the move to Ireland, organic farming, self-sufficiency and the whole shebang, we had years of green living and environmentally consciousness under our belts. Germany of the 80s had taken great strides in raising the public awareness. The Green Party was well established. As a German, I had been brought up with the motto “Waste not--want not”, that my grandparent’s. i.e., the war generation had drummed it in to us. It was natural to us to switch off any light upon leaving a room, or other unused gadgets, as it was to hang out the wash if the weather looked promising to save on electricity. In order to save on water and avoid surface pollution, German law forbids washing your car in the street. You must go to a car wash instead. The petrol crisis and the warnings of the club of Rome in the mid 70s had contributed to people saving gas whenever possible, downsizing cars, putting catalytic convertors in; cars were made fuel efficient. A debate was raging for years whether diesel or petrol was better for the environment. Another question was foremost on environmentalists’ minds: Does one save petrol by switching off the engine at a railroad crossing while waiting? Or at a red traffic light? In addition, being a bit of an activist –some said busybody - I would get out of my car in such a situation and ask the drivers before and behind me, “Does your engine have problems in starting, or don’t you want to save the environment?” A speed limit was introduced in busy parts of Germany. The sky was no longer the limit as urban myth abroad about the Autobahn still claims.

A levy of 10 Pfenninge on plastic bags had been introduced early on in the 80s when grocery shopping. So people made the switch and got accustomed to taking their own bags or baskets. We used rainwater for watering plants, off switched the tap while brushing our teeth and on again for rinsing. Water saving devices were installed into toilets, one for the small and one for the full flush. We avoided chemical cleaners around the house and substituted them with baking soda and vinegar.The use of aluminum foil and saran wrap as well as paper kitchen towels were reduced to a minimum. Freezers were defrosted regularly in order to reduce electricity. And then, after we had left for Ireland in 1990, recycling was taking to an all new level. Until then, you kept paper and glass separate for recycling anyway, in addition, a bio bin was introduced for scraps from the kitchen, and an extra bin for plastic or what is called “rest trash”. In some cities, households have 4 different trash cans. If you dare to mix the ingredients, maybe even by mistake, the bin men won’t pick it up.

Detergents were used ever so sparingly. Water softeners were the work of the devil since they hypertrophied rivers and lakes which results in unwanted algae growth. There is no need for them if you hang your wash in the breeze, and definitely not if using a dryer.

When building our new house in Germany, it was built according to environmental standards with eco-friendly materials, in particular paints. In the renovating process of the Irish farm, Mac took gallons of Livos paint (eco!) on board in his hand luggage while I navigated 2 toddlers and their nappy bags in a stroller. Patrick, my second born, wasn’t exposed to disposable nappies –no, we had linen diapers and self-knitted panties made out of home spun untreated sheep wool. I didn’t spin though, only knitted …and then kept washing. They made the naturally big baby enormous around the midriff!

At some stage I had taken to making my own soaps and shampoos but it never turned out well enough for satisfactory results.

Being well trained in so many different areas, Ireland came as culture shock. The so called Green Isle was anything but “green”. Hedgerows were littered with plastic bags. My neighbor kept burning their rubbish, even attempted at setting metal cans on fire, exchanged their oil in the yard and let it drip down on the ground. I was the only one in the local store who brought a basket. Everybody else, even for buying just one bag of chips, got a plastic bag to wrap his purchase. In answer to the shop owner’s question why I bothered since there were plastic bags,I told her about the German levy on bags. She frowned and said condescendingly, “That wouldn’t go down well in this country”. It took about 15 more years until Ireland had to face the music, too, as part of EU regulations. They are paying for plastic bags too now.

There was practically no awareness as to what was harmful to the environment, organic and eco products were not available. Clothes were way cheaper than in Germany but often made of poor quality, i.e. synthetics and not degradable. None of towns around Lough Dergh had a single water treatment plant until 1995. All household waste and sewerage plus farm effluents went untreated straight into the lake. So did the waste from numerous boats cruising on the lake, a tourist gem, and the River Shannon.

Encountering this challenge in my newly adopted country made me bite my teeth on an ongoing basis. I was fit to be tied facing this sea of backwardness and having the ambition to change things for the better. I tried for many years. It’s hard work to convert a whole country.

Now here in the USA, I’m facing an even bigger challenge. Not just because of the size of the country, but because the irrefutable knowledge is there and widely available. The inertia that surrounds me seems to be unsurpassed, however. Apologies to states like WA , OR and CA where things are different.

The Ex Farmer's Wife
Twitter:@Hernibs                           

The Problem of a New Book

I want to start on a new book. I have the plot idea and even a title. The problem is that it is historical fiction and requires some research. I don’t mind doing research – especially as some of it may include travel, which is always fun. In this case I’ll have to go to Nebraska and interview some Winnebago Native Americans. I may also want to go to Carlisle, PA to visit the old Indian school there. Maybe even a bit of time looking at old farms in the Pennsylvania countryside. Yes, that might all be lovely.

BUT! I want to write now. The problem is something like hydraulics. I’m sure there are equally good similes to be found in electronics and computers, but I like hydraulics – something I can dip my feet into. The ideas for the new book have become a torrent so forceful that they keep other writing ideas from entering the river that leads from my brain to my fingers and thence to keyboard and computer. I might tell myself that I need a new short story, a poem, or a blog piece; but I end up thinking about Red and White. Sorry, that’s the title.

The preoccupation has gotten so bad that I even have difficulty making time for marketing. With three novels already published, I should be writing about them: bothering people on Facebook and Linkedin and creating clever 140 character blurbs to tweet. Focusing becomes difficult. “No,” I have to remind myself, “Memoirs From the Asylum isn’t about the injustice of trying to destroy a culture.” Those mental hospitals may have taken away freedom, they may have been sanctuaries for those who fear being free, they may have been filled with strange and at times funny events, but they weren’t there to teach youngsters to be servants instead of free roaming hunters.

Delete another false start.

“Darn, I’d better start a new comment to post on Book Junkies. Something about mental health.”  I know this one won’t go any better. I keep thinking about the visits I have made to the various “reservations” here in Arizona. I wonder the forbearers of the men and women I have met among the Apache and the Navajo. What were their cultures like before they were corralled and their children ripped away to be indoctrinated?

I had the pleasure of meeting one woman from a tribe in California. The treaty between her people and the American government had never been formally ratified. The state had sent the tribal members paperwork to complete the long-suspended process. Her grandmother had shredded the documents and fed them to the fire. “Tell your mother to do the same thing,” she had instructed.

“Why?” they girl had asked.

“Because they want to come and take you away from us,” was the grandmother’s response.

I visit my friend Charles in San Carlos and I see the widespread depression in the community. It is as palpable as the tears that are not shed by these bowed but unbroken Apache. We stop by the community’s center for the elderly. Some of these men and women were sent to a government run boarding school. They do not speak of that time.

I do some reading and learn that the very first experiment in taking Native American children from their parents was with the Apache. A group of Apache had been shipped from the Southwest to Florida, and their children had then been sent off for education – would we perhaps not call it re-education? What mental illness did that process create?

“Back to marketing,” I tell myself and try to kick myself in the rear. It is no good. I cannot escape my preoccupation with those Native American children. “One last thought,” I bargain with myself, “and I’ll get back to work.”

The thought is of the middle and high school in the southeast corner of the Navajo Nation. The U.S. government no longer takes the children away from their families. No, now the government helps to build schools. That school is a beautiful building; it looks like a modern public school should. What nobody mentions is that it is built on contaminated ground. Those teens are daily bombarded with radiation from the Uranium tailings dropped in that area by water from a storage lagoon when its dam had broken and the water had surged from New Mexico across Arizona and into the Colorado River. How will that radioactivity affect the just developing gonads of those Navajo boys? How will it affect the future of their tribe?

No wonder I want to write Red and White, the conscience of my race demands that we tell the stories. I think back to the authors I read as a child. Steinbeck, Dos Pasos, Sinclair. Yes, we writers of serious fiction have a place in the conscience of our society. 

Kenneth Weene

Brief bio

Life itches and torments Kenneth Weene like pesky flies. Annoyed, he picks up a pile of paper to slap at the buzzing and often whacks himself on the head. Each whack is another story. At least having half-blinded himself, he has learned to not wave the pencil about. Ken will, however, write on until the last gray cell has retreated and there are no longer these strange ideas demanding his feeble efforts. So many poems, stories, novels; and more to come.

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