David Dobbs, New England environmental author

David Dobbs writes about the environment, community, and science from his home in Vermont. A contributor to Audubon, Sierra, Vermont Life, Popular Science, and other magazines, he is co-author of The Northern Forest and is now writing a book on the New England fishery, to be published next year.

Writing this diary, with its editorial request that I plumb the environmental implications of the various things I do all week, has indeed proven provocative. It's made me appreciate where I live. And today it's made me think of two of my favorite Neil Young lines, from different songs:

We got fuel to burn, we got roads to drive... -- From "Rockin' in the Free World"

I'd like to take a walk; not around the block. -- From some song on Rust Never Sleeps.

Thinking of these because I walked my son to school, as I do most days, and as always it was a pleasure. When we first moved here six and a half years ago, I was immediately impatient for the day when I could walk Taylor the four blocks to Union Elementary School, and though I've now been walking him there regularly for almost three years, the routine has not diminished the pleasure: a half-block down our street to Elm, follow Elm for a short block to Spring, which takes us over the river (where Taylor always stops to spit off the bridge), then a long block down Main before taking a left at the library at the edge of downtown and passing Manghi's bakery (maybe duck inside for a fresh roll) to get to Union. At Union, give Taylor a kiss and a "G'day, smile and work hard," the walk back home to work, maybe stop at Main Street News first to pick up a newspaper and chat with Jan, the proprietor, who always seems to know what's going on around town.

I'm quite aware of how cloying or smug New Englanders can seem when we laud the appropriate scale of our village and small town living. Yet I'm also aware, having grown up in Houston, which I watched "grow" from a medium-sized, civil place to a savage, anonymous sprawl, and having lived since then in every sort of population arrangement -- from isolated houses in the countryside to small college towns in the Midwest to an 11th-floor Manhattan apartment -- that the density and scale of a community greatly influence not only one's sense of self and well-being, but one's behavior. This awareness might be codified in what I'll call Dobbs's rule of development: The best community is one that you can walk across in about an hour.

A town of such size has endless benefits. For starters, most of its people will know most of the places in town as well as a good number of the faces, and thus feel a responsibility to look after both environment and populace. This sense of mutual oversight and responsibility -- of community -- encourages good behavior and discourages bad in children of all ages. It makes much less likely, for instance, the sort of isolation and alienation that helped motivate the killings in Littleton. Sprawling suburbs, on the other hand, almost force such isolation and alienation on lonely kids. It works similarly with adults: Live in a small town, you're a lot less likely to yell at, give the finger to, or for that matter shoot someone who, say, cuts you off in traffic, because later that day you may find yourself buying groceries or wing-nuts from that person, or maybe sitting across from them at a parent-teacher conference. The lack of complete anonymity keeps the conciliatory id in balance with the murderous, elbow-throwing ego.

The small town also possesses an immense environmental advantage: You can meet most of your transportation needs by walking, thus reducing the number of times you commit what is arguably the most single destructive act most of us are likely to ever commit: Starting a car. Think Exxon Valdez; think global warming. To drive is to destroy, even to kill. (Think Gulf War.)

For that reason I'm increasingly appalled (this is a slowly growing complaint of mine) that so many people who feel strong ties to nature and to environmental causes choose to live in the country. I know well the attractions, for I've felt and enjoyed them myself. The quiet, the big garden, the walks or skis out the back door: wonderful.

But really. How do we reconcile a professed love of nature with a way of living that requires we drive so frequently? Yet we do it, millions of us -- I did, for years -- blithely, blindly, shrugging it off, accepting it as part of the way life is. And all (now let me get this straight) so we can live closer to nature? Hmm. Time to play the game: What's wrong with this picture?

I expect I'll get some real crap on this from some of my friends in the country, who may give me a good and possibly deserved upbraiding for my smugness. I'm wondering even now what social or eco-crime of my own they'll remind me of, what slappings-around I'll take in the letters to the editor. I'm thinking, Should have written this earlier in the week, when I had a chance to fire another round later if need be.

But so be it. I'll take my lumps. Anybody gets me really aggravated, I'll calm down by going for a real long drive in the country.