Wind Farm:Four Variations Jeff Gundy (bio) It is time for all the heroes to go homeif they have any … -William Stafford, "Allegiances" A big wind farm runs across the farm I grew up on and for miles to the west and north, a hundred or so towers combing the wind day and night, their giant arms turning, red lights blinking in unison through the nights. Some communities have fought to keep them out, claiming they kill birds, confuse human thought patterns with their churning, even disturb weather patterns, or might, or could, but here they are. They seem strange and wonderful to me, but I'm only around for a couple of days once or twice a year when we make it out to see my parents. The beauty of windmills is awkward and pragmatic, like the great blue heron's—or, better, the great egret, which is snowy white as the windmills. A beauty years in the making, expensive and complicated, an engineered and calculated beauty requiring access roads and giant [End Page 5] cranes, buried cables linking the great spindly machines. They are lonesome even in their clusters, keeping their distance, the way farmers have always been lonesome. The giant blades thrum their two notes day and night, yielding to and using the invisible wind, sifting it for power, sending it off to be used with no knowledge of where, of how. I've never seen an egret or a heron near the farm. A few might wander through the area, dip down to hunt in Scattering Point Creek to the east, but there's very little open water on the wind farm. I've been gone for nearly half a century, yes, but still I'm pretty sure they're rare. On the farm where I grew up, as far back as I can remember, a big raw steel windmill tower stood in place for decades, unused, a little rusty but sound. A buried electric pump pulled water from our well. The windmill on Vernon's place was still working, I think, when I was young—I remember a water tank between the legs. Electric pumps was more reliable, more practical, much less picturesque. When did those towers come down, and who did the work? If I had been a bolder kid I would have climbed them. I don't think I ever did, at least not high. I think now that my dad took the ladder down to keep us kids on the ground. That would have been sensible and tragic, and entirely fitting. Our well was reliable but the water was not good—sometimes full of rust, sometimes rotten-egg heavy with sulfur. My dad spent lots of money on treatment systems, hours trying to adjust and cajole them into working. The new windmills are something else entirely. Some people call them ugly, mostly for reasons having nothing to do with aesthetics. I suspect the resistance to wind farms is more political than people want to admit, but I also must admit I don't really know. If it's ugly we're talking about, though, we need to talk about the whole enterprise of industrial agriculture, the gridded landscape and the skinned prairies turned to monocultures, herbicides, pesticides, chemical fertilizer, all the rest. The roads, like a set of giant bars across a third of a continent, practical in the extreme if you're not a pheasant or big bluestem or a nomadic hunter-gatherer. [End Page 6] I Hear the Drumming There's a new song, Rick said, a protest song, it's pretty good. He was a Latino kid from Chicago who'd come to live at the Children's Home. Some of them were pretty tough, but Rick and his brother Tony just wanted to play music. They could do covers with every note perfect. I was equally in love with the music, could find the chords and keep a tune, but already I could tell that precise imitation would never be my strong suit. This was summer 1970 and I'd just escaped from high school. We'd ridden a bus all night to someplace in the Smokies...