PUTNEY — Where were you when Chernobyl blew? I was planting peas. Some of you reading this were not yet born on April 26, 1986. But you carry the deadly atoms of that disaster in you. Your body remembers, deep in its cells. And the Earth remembers.
It wasn't an April like this one. The cold lingered that spring. I was late getting the peas in. The sky was grey, and a cold drizzle was falling. Vital spring rains. Not so welcome, that day. The first wave of fallout from the Chernobyl reactor, burning uncontrollably half a world away, arrived over Vermont. The rains were washing the radiation out of the sky. Onto me. Into the earth.
It took an act of faith to continue planting in ground now subtly poisoned with radiation. Also, there was no choice. I pushed the peas a half inch deeper than the package recommended. And I prayed for the land and the people of Chernobyl, of Ukraine, of Europe all more acutely irradiated than myself.
Another spring has arrived, 22 years after that disaster. I'm thinking about planting peas again. And I'm wondering: What if a similar disaster happened closer to home? My imagination takes me to the business section of The New York Times:
major radiation release spells doom for 'vermont made' label
Montpelier, VT-The recent release of radiation from the Vermont Yankee Nuclear Power Plant has state officials scrambling to reassure national consumers that the Vermont Made label won't glow in the dark.
Immediately after the accident nearly all tourism and orders for Vermont-made products ceased, sending the state economy into a tailspin. The governor said, "We're consulting with European officials. They have all that experience from Chernobyl. Within the next month or so, we expect to be able to guarantee that any Vermont product still for sale is radiation free."
That assurance may be hard to sell in the face of the daily realities being widely reported: the Interstate 91 corridor remains closed indefinitely; farmers are shipping contaminated milk to nuclear waste dumps; cheesemaking has ceased; sugaring, fishing, hunting and farmers' markets have been banned; pasture and feed crops have been ordered plowed under; organic certification has been revoked; and evacuations continue as far as 50 miles from the plant as new hot spots are identified.
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We tend to focus on scenarios of complete disaster, the famous meltdown. We forget that something far less dramatic could bring an end to all the good things we cherish here.
Vermont Yankee is a flawed machine. It may be good at generating electricity, but essentially, fundamentally, the Mark I containment system is unable to do its primary task: contain radiation. To compensate for this flaw, a vent had to be installed. If used, this vent would release untold amounts of radiation directly into our environment, causing serious contamination of the tri-state region.
A radiological disaster is not like a flood. Recovery does not begin when the waters recede. The very earth - the foundation upon which we strive to build the good life - becomes poisoned and life-threatening. To this day, and for decades yet to come, no peas will be planted at Chernobyl.
The expiration of Vermont Yankee's original license presents Vermonters - along with all the other people who live around the plant - with a unique opportunity to re-evaluate our use of nuclear power. Before the next Chernobyl anniversary, we will choose our fate with a vote in the Vermont legislature.
This is not the time to shelter our minds and hearts in denial, but to open ourselves to a clear-eyed look at the dangers we risk. Why? Because this is a moment unlike any previous moment: If we know what we want for our future, we can subject Vermont Yankee to the will of the people.
Do we know what we want? Will we really leave ourselves, our children, our livelihoods, and our beloved land open to the possibility of radiological disaster for another 20 years? Or will we, at last, embrace the life-compatible options of efficiency and renewable energy, and let the deadly atoms at Vermont Yankee grow cold for good?