If windmills did go up on that ridge, then Fred would be giving up something…that much was certain. He had been living near that mountain most of his life and for most of his life it was relatively stable in appearance. It changed with the seasons, of course, but this would be something new altogether. Windmills had never sprouted up anywhere before.
Fred was no Don Quixote, who felt windmills were a grave injustice that needed to be toppled. In fact he liked them and the main reason he liked them, he guessed, was that he understood them. Anyone that played with a pinwheel as a kid could understand the basic principles that allowed a windmill to turn the currents of air into currents of electricity. He was also a thrifty man and he had to admit it did seem wasteful not to harvest the wind.
He didn’t think he’d like those blinking lights they were bound to put on top of the windmills. They only worked when they stuck out against the sky and looking at the country-dark sky was one of Fred’s pleasures in life. As he reflected a slight wind picked up and he felt the spring breeze and inhaled the fresh air. He took another sip of beer. He enjoyed the way the air smelled this time of year and he had to admit it gave him a comfortable feeling about windmills, although he wasn’t sure why.
People that were self-reliant could do what they pleased and Fred expected it worked the same way for nations. He guessed he’d vote for the project when the time came, but he’d do it with small reservations.
He walked to the back porch and finished his beer. He bent down and put the bottle in a cardboard box and then went inside.