Thursday, August 13, 2009

End of Journey

We took turns pushing and pulling the deer cart. Some times it took two of us.


My sweet Becky lay on it, half sitting up on the V-shaped device. Her breath came in rasping gasps. Her injuries had left her with possible fractured ribs, and the wounds in her arms and on her head seeped blood through the strips of white shirt that served as bandages.

As we climbed higher up the weed-grown path through the mountains, we had to stop and rest more frequently. My hunting buddy, Bob, and his family had piled their emergency rations and other gear on a deer cart, also. The older kids carried back packs.


We used to argue the relative merits of his brand over mine, but right now we were glad to have them both. The cart was balanced and so was the load; there was little or no weight on the handle. It was still hard to haul so I was grateful that my boys were old enough and strong enough to take turns pulling the cart along the narrow path. Our two-wheeled cart would not go easily through some of the narrow places and it sometimes took two or three of us.


My oldest boy, Jacob, was pulling the cart and I asked him to stop. I walked forward to check on my wife. "Rebecca, how are you doing? Can I get you some water?" She nodded weakly and gave me a wan smile. I looked at her as I lifted the Boy Scout canteen to her lips.


She was so pale. Oh, God she was so pale. I kissed her blood-stained face gently and whispered, "I love you." I turned away quickly with tears in my eyes. She mustn't see me all worried. Gotta try to cheer her up.

-*-*-*-

We buried her under a gnarled old pine tree overlooking the mountain valley of our destination.

So near, it broke my heart. Almost to safety, maybe even to medical help.

We sang "Abide With Me," her favorite hymn. We lowered her blanket -wrapped body into the grave we had dug. I could hardly talk, so my friend Bob said a prayer over her. I regained my composure enough to dedicate the grave.

After filling it in, we marked her grave with the biggest boulders we could roll to the site and Jacob chipped her name into the biggest one with a chisel we had planned to use for very different jobs. We would return later to place a better marker.

Monday, July 27, 2009

Snow Walk

It's cold. So cold.
Even this light breeze cuts through my parka and chills me as I struggle through the snow.

My backpack weighs a ton, but I could not leave it. It contains what is left of our food.

I hold my baby close as he rides quietly in the canvas carrier strapped in front of me. I am so very tired and cold. But I must keep going.

If only I can get to the cabin. Shelter from the cold. Make a fire. Maybe some food stocked there. Safety from the mobs & violence that ravage the city.

"Oh, God!" I cry. "Why did they kill my dear Richard? He tried so hard to protect me and the baby. Now David will never know his father. Oh, how I wish Richard was here!"

The tears coursing down my face freeze into icicles hanging from my chin. I lose feeling in my face, even with the heavy scarf thrown across it. I hardly feel my feet. The heavy fur-lined boots no longer warm them.

I peek under my coat at David. Good. He still sleeps. A feeling of love warms me briefly, and then cold anxiety for his safety chills me.

Is that the turn-off to the cabin ahead? As I draw closer, I realize that it isn't. I am in despair. I drop to my knees, weak cries rocking my shivering body.

"O, God!" I cry. "Please help me. If nothing else, please save my baby!"
I try to rise. Why can't I get up? I kneel in the snow. So beautiful. So cold.

I delirious song runs through my mind:
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
never more to fret nor weep. . ."

Rough, strong hands lift me up. Baby David starts to cry. "Good grief!" a male voice exclaims. She has a baby, too!"

A woman's voice urges "Quick! Get them into the sleigh. Put the down comforter over them! We can ride cold!"

The owner of the rough hands bundles me and baby David into the sleigh and then presses a mug of something warm to my lips. Hot cocoa! Oh, heavenly taste! I didn't realize how thirsty I was. I sip it. And then I gulp it. I relax into warm darkness and sleep.

A clanging bell awakes me. I am in a tent, and through the open flap I can see a large lady in a long coat with an apron over it banging on a big pot. "Come and get it or I'll give it to the dogs!" she calls loudly.

I quickly check for David. Where is he? He is not nestled next to me in his baby carrier! I hear a soft cooing. I rise up on my right elbow. There is a young girl rocking him in a homemade cradle and feeding him little sips of milk from a bottle.
"Oh, please. That's enough. I've got to feed him or I'll burst," I say to the girl. "Thank you so much for watching over him. How long have I been asleep?"

She smiles and says "Since yesterday. My Mom and Dad brought you in. It was their turn on patrol yesterday. They're the only man and wife patrol. We had to rub your hands and feet and bundle you up real good. I think you got a little frost bit. But your baby's just fine. What's his name?"

"David," I reply. "What's yours? "Sally," she says. "Have you. . .?" I start to say. "Yes. I've changed him several times and put a little ointment on him. He has a bit of diaper rash."
"Oh, thank you so much," I say. "Give him to me now, please. I've got to nurse him."
"Good thing you do; we're short on milk."

I cuddle baby David and he nurses contentedly. "Who's 'we', " I ask.
"All of us here," she said. "Our camp. There are about 25 families here. We were warned to get out of the cities. Most people thought we were crazy. We took a lot of flak. Some tried to stop us. It's been hard leaving all the neat things we had. But none of us died and we're all safe."

The large lady who had been banging on the pot comes into the tent, looks at me closely and says, "You look a lot better than yesterday. Ready for some dinner?"

My stomach aches with hunger and I reply "Yes, Ma'am. If you don't mind. But I must finish feeding my baby first."
"You go right ahead. He looks like a healthy one. Beautiful, too. Come on out when you're through. We'll save some food for you, and everyone would like to see your little one."

As she leaves, I turn to Sally and say, "What's her name?" Sally smiled and said, "Oh, that's Judy Castle. But everyone calls her Ma Kettle. Don't know why. Something from a long time ago, I guess."

With David sleeping contentedly, I carefully put him into the baby carrier on front of me and step out of the tent. I notice a large tent a few yards away with a thin plume of smoke issuing from a make-shift smokestack. I hear the sounds of voices and laughter coming from the tent.

Judy, the large lady I had already met, peeks out of the tent door and says. "Come on in. We left some for you."
I enter the tent with trepidation and feel a hundred curious eyes upon me. But there are a lot of friendly smiles, also. Two women in long dresses make room for me on the long bench in front of one of the tables and beckon me to come sit with them.

Introductions are made at the table where I sit and then an old man with a white beard arises from an adjoining table. All look to him and he says "Folks, we have a visitor with us tonight and it seems proper to introduce her. I encourage all of us to welcome her and her baby." He turns and looks directly at me and says," Young lady, please introduce yourself and your little one."

For some reason, I feel no nervousness here among these kindly people. I stand and say "My name is Amy Watson and this is my son, David. I lost my husband Richard in the city." I fought back the tears as I continued. "He died fighting off a gang until the baby and I could get away. We are grateful for your help; we would have died in the snow. I hope I can be of some help to you for your kindness."

I finish my dinner and many come by and introduce themselves. I have never gotten so many hugs and words of greeting and encouragement as I now receive. I am warmed to the very center of my soul.

Friday, July 10, 2009

A Mother for Anna

In another city, natural affection is dying and children suffer:

The sun was just peeking over the eastern horizon as they drove slowly through the near-deserted streets. They hoped to reach safety far from L.A. They avoided the freeways; they were too dangerous.

Marla saw a little girl sitting in the doorway of an abandoned store shivering in the morning cold. She was holding a baby wrapped in a dirty blanket.

"Dan, pull over," she said. Those kids look like they're in trouble."
"Is that wise?" he said. "We've seen looting already and no police around. We need to get out of here." "Please," his wife said.

He sighed. He knew that Marla wouldn't have that sense of urgency in her voice without a reason. Hunch? He didn't know. But he knew Marla had a sixth sense about things. He slowed down and stopped at the curb.

Marla got out of the car, bent over the girl and asked her "What's your name, baby?"
"Anna," said the little girl. "But everybody calls me Annie, except Kurt next door. He calls me dirty names. And this is Lannie," she said, nodding at the little boy in her arms.
"Have you come to get us? Momma said someone would come by to get us if she and Tom didn't come back. That's her boyfriend," she said in a rush. The words tumbled out of her mouth as she continued to shiver.

"They left us here and said they would be right back. That was hours ago. They haven't come back." She hesitated and then said, "They're never coming back." She started to cry.

Marla shuddered. She knew with dread certainty that the girl was right. She had heard of this sort of thing. With the hard times and increasing lawlessness, more and more children were being abandoned by parents who were broke, on the street, strung out on drugs, or just irritated with having to take care of a child.

Lannie woke up and started to cry. "Do you have anything to eat?" Anna asked. "He's hungry, I can tell. That's his hungry cry. I'm hungry, too. Connie is his Mom. She brought him over to us to baby-sit when she went to get cigarettes. That was last week. She didn't come back."

Anna continued to talk very fast as if she was afraid she wouldn't get it all out if she didn't. "I think Lannie was getting' on Tom's nerves with his crying. He kept yelling at him to shut up. He doesn't like me either. Said I was a pest. I heard him arguing with Momma about us. Said there wasn't enough to go around and he was sick of going without because of us. Got no cigarettes, got no beer, got no food because of us, he said.

"How old are you?" Marla asked. "I'm six and Lannie is 18 months old, I think," replied Anna. "Come with me," said Marla. "We've got some granola bars and water in the van. Here, let me pick up the baby. He's not really a baby any more, is he?"
"No, but he just started to walk a little while ago. I don't know if he's very well. He's skinny and cries a lot.

As Marla picked up Lannie, she was hit with a strong smell, worse than dirty diaper.
When she unwrapped him from the blanket, she noticed that he was not only in dire need of a diaper change, but both his little belly and backside were covered with festering sores.

"Oh, God!" she silently prayed, "what can I do to help this little one? Help me to know what to do!"
She carried Lannie to the curb next to the car and asked Dan to bring her some bottles of water, a roll of toilet paper, a towel, and a couple of granola bars.

Dan popped the trunk release and jumped out of the car. He dug around in the trunk until he found what was needed. He brought what Marla asked for, took one look at Lannie's sores and returned to the car for their first aid kit.

Anna watched all this intensely while eating the granola bar Marla gave her.
When Dan returned, Marla was finishing washing up the baby and then wrapped him in the towel. He was shivering, sobbing, and trying to eat the granola bar all at once.

She took a tube of anti-biotic ointment out of the first aid kit and started applying it to Lannie's sores. When she tried putting dressings over the sores, he jerked away and cried out, no matter how careful she was. By the time she finished he had cried himself to sleep, and she herself was crying.

She turned her tear-stained face to her husband and said "How could anyone neglect a child so badly?" Without comment, Dan helped her to her feet and put his arms around her tightly.

Anna held Lannie in her arms, looked down at him and then up at Dan and Marla. "You really love each other, don't you?" she said. The wonder and surprise in her voice brought tears to Dan's eyes and he hugged Marla even tighter.

"Yes, Annie, we do. Now if you want to come with us, we had better get in the car and leave." Annie brightened and said "Oh, yes. And I'm sure Lannie would, too.

Do you have anymore of those crunchy bars? They're really good."

Thursday, July 9, 2009

Hungry and Scared

A few months earlier and a thousand miles away two young losers scrounge through a broken country:

"Man, I'm hungry!" said Dirk. I nodded in agreement. I had been dreaming about a Big Mac and fries for the last week. Peanut butter and late summer black berries just weren't enough.

We continued walking through our old neighborhood, looking for a house, any house, that didn't look like it had already been broken into.

My folks took off when the economy collapsed and they both lost their jobs. Never said a word to me. Just took off.

Dirk got out of detention last week and when we met up we decided we would do better together than by ourselves.

"Hey," I exclaimed excitedly, "there's the Olsen's house! They were sort of nutso about food storage and stuff like that."
"Don't bother," said Dirk. "Haven't you heard? About a month ago, they just up and left. Didn't say nothing to nobody; just left."


"Where did they go?" I asked. "Who knows? They had talked about going to a place of refuge, but that sounded crazy, like Chicken Little, "The sky is falling!" You know. That kind of stuff. Things were tough, but not bad enough to go live in the mountains or something. Just sounded crazy to me."

"Yeah, their kids were kinda stuck up, too. I dated Tammy Olsen, once," I said. "Once was enough; I tried to cop a feel and she really freaked out. Dressed funny, too. No hip hugger jeans or tank tops. Too bad, really. Good lookin' chick otherwise."

"Tommy Olsen was the odd man out," said Dirk. "Not cool. I offered him a drag offa my joint, real good stuff, and you woulda thought I'd offered him poison! A real drag, that one."

As we approached the Olsen's, we noticed that the door was hanging open on one hinge. We entered cautiously, noticing that furniture had been ripped open, tossed around, and graffiti spray-painted on the walls. We finally found their storeroom. The marks of where they had stored their food and supplies were still evident on the floor and walls. Nothing left but bare shelves.

We noticed that they hadn't taken their TV, Video games, stereo or anything like that. Weird. Maybe they were going to live in the mountains after all.

"What now?" I asked Dirk. "I dunno," he said. "Maybe we should go to Albertson's or one of the other grocery stores," I said.
"We tried that once already, man. Remember? Not a thing left," Dirk said. "No food, anyway."

"How do you think roast dog would taste," I asked jokingly. "An old Granny over on the next block used to have a nice, plump wiener dog. Might be real nice roasted over a slow fire, slathered with barbecue sauce."

"Don't tempt me, man. Right now I could eat a horse! And quit talkin' about food, will ya! My stomach's hurting as it is!

"Oh, oh!" I said. "Look at what's comin' 'round the corner over on the next block!"
"Damn!" Dirk said. "That's gotta be the biggest gang I've ever seen. Maybe, 20 or 25 mean looking dudes. And they're carrying guns. Best we make ourselves scarce!"
"That explains all the smoke up ahead. They're burning stuff as they go," I guessed.

We tried to duck behind the split level house to our left, but someone in that gang musta had good eyes, 'cause he yelled and pointed at us and the whole rag-tag lot started running toward us.

"Oh, crap! Here they come!" said Dirk. We ran through the back yard and scrambled over the wooden fence into the next lot, heading for the street. Breathing hard, we turned left and started running.

"Ka-ching!" A bullet ricocheted off the sidewalk close to us. Some of that gang was coming down this street, too. Fear gave our feet wings and we dodged behind a row of dumpsters behind some apartments and then hurtled over a chain link fence into a yard with backhoes, road graders, and other equipment. We ran behind a galvanized iron shed and collapsed, gasping for air. We looked at each other. Dirk was wild-eyed with fear.

"We ought be safe here for awhile," I said in a hoarse whisper. "I don't hear nobody in the yard out front."

"I wish I had a gun," Dirk said, "even worse than I wish I had a hamburger!"
"Hell, as long as your wishing why not wish for an Army tank and a machine gun!" I replied.

We started laughing hysterically. We tried to muffle the sound, but it only made us laugh harder. "Man, you shoulda tried out for the track team," Dirk said in a breathless whisper. . . The 440 for sure!"

A Long Winter

Several years later, George is married and he and his wife are having an unpleasant winter:

It was winter, the worst winter we had ever seen. One blizzard after another hit us.

The blizzards would rage for a few days, then we'd have a reprieve for a couple of days, then another blizzard raged around us.

Snow was piled everywhere, smothering, blanketing, breaking roofs. The wind blew hard and cold; very cold. It blew down trees, fences, and sheds

Our phone didn't work, there was no electricity, and we just suffered from the cold.

We didn't know for sure why there was no electricity. Maybe the fierce winds blew down the power lines or something. Maybe the repair crews had trouble making repairs because of the blizzards. Without a phone or TV we couldn't find out.

Most of the houses in our neighborhood were intact but standing empty. They weren't empty because of damage from an earthquake or anything like that. They had been foreclosed on and the people evicted.

Many houses were repossessed because of the terrible economy. There were a few families in the neighborhood still living in their homes. For the most part, the neighborhood was empty of inhabitants.

It was March and yet the blizzards kept coming. What happened to Spring?

We were so very cold. We had some kind of a wood stove and tried to get the thing to put out as much heat as possible. We really didn't know how to work it. We purchased it two years ago but never learned to use it.

All of a sudden, part of the roof collapsed from the weight of the snow. I could look out the hole and see the sky. The wind and the snow were blowing into our house making it impossible to keep warm.

I looked at my husband and cried, "George, what do we do now? How are we supposed to stay warm?"

He said, "We'll just have to move into one of the empty houses until we can figure out a way to fix our roof." And we did.

The house next door had a pitched roof, much steeper than ours. It hadn't collapsed. The snow just slid right off into drifts that now covered the windows.

While George dug a tunnel to the back door of the empty house, I bundled up little Matt. He protested that he could "do it himself'" and finished zipping up his parka and lacing his boots.

George returned, exhausted. He collapsed into an easy chair, breathing heavily. "Need to rest a few minutes," he said. "Then I'll finish. Glad it's that light powder snow."

I put my arm around his shoulder and kissed his cheek. "I love you, George. We'll be O.K."

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Walla Walla Whoopee

Just call me Walker. I'm a story teller. What follows is about George when he was young and foolish. I'll tell you more about him later. . . and about some other folks as well. But let's go ahead.

Walla-Walla Whoopee

I pushed Pete's Pontiac along the two-lane blacktop that rose and fell over the Palouse, the big Mercedes close behind and gaining. Our lives wouldn't be worth a cup of cold coffee if our pursuers caught up with us. Connie would get no mercy, and from the look on her face, she knew it.

The souped-up engine pushed the Pontiac over 120mph, the speedometer needle hard against the peg.

As I sailed over a rise in the road, I saw a herd of cattle crossing the road down in front of me. "Oh, s&*%!" I screamed, but then I saw a little space between two cows.
I aimed for it, and went screaming through the gap with my heart in my mouth and cow hair brushing the side of the car. As I roared up the next rise in the road, I glanced back to see the killers' car smack right into the middle of the herd, pieces of cows and car parts flying everywhere.

I started to laugh hysterically, singing "Moo cow, moo cow, whatcha gonna do now!"

I realized the danger was over and slowed down. It was none too soon. Steam and blue smoke came from under the hood. "Ahh! My brother's going to kill me!" I lamented. I had wheedled and coaxed my brother Pete until he loaned me his pride and joy, the coolest car in the county.

Connie sat beside me white-faced, her fingers leaving permanent dents in the dashboard, I'm sure. "I never want to ride in this car again, George" she said in a shaky voice. "Drop me off at the bus station when we get to Walla-Walla. I just want to go home and I don't want to ride with you to get there."

"Aw, Connie, baby! It wasn't my fault! I was just taking us to our favorite spot. How was I to know we'd arrive just in time to witness a murder? And this Pontiac can outrun just about anything!"
But Connie looked pretty determined as well as scared and just shook her head. "We escaped them, honey," I reassured her. "They're back there all mixed up with dead cows and just as dead."

I nursed the big Pontiac the next few miles into Walla-Walla, with Connie silent as stone.
Our romantic interlude had turned into a near-death experience. I don't think she wanted to be around anybody or anything that reminded her of this terrifying experienc.

Friday, May 15, 2009

A Short History of the Gold Cartel
May 4, 2009 2:32PM
This week Bill Murphy and Chris Powell, co-founders of the Gold Anti-Trust Action Committee (www.gata.org), will be in London, England. Their trip is part of GATA’s ongoing effort to raise awareness of the gold cartel and its surreptitious intervention in the gold market.
Bill and Chris will meet with the British media to explain GATA’s findings. They will also attend an important fund raising event being held in support of GATA’s work. Their trip is another important step by GATA aimed at creating a free market in gold, one that is unfettered by government intervention.
Governments want a low gold price to make national currencies look good. Gold is recognizable the world over as the ‘canary in the coal mine’ when it comes to money. A rising gold price blurts the unpleasant truth that a national currency is being poorly managed and that its purchasing power is being inflated.
This reality is made clear by former Federal Reserve chairman Paul Volcker. Commenting in his memoirs about the soaring gold price in the years immediately following the end of the gold standard in 1971, he notes: "Joint intervention in gold sales to prevent a steep rise in the price of gold, however, was not undertaken. That was a mistake." It was a mistake because a rising gold price undermines the thin reed upon which all fiat currency rests – confidence. But it was a mistake only from the perspective of a central banker, which is of course at odds with anyone who believes in free markets.
The US government has learned from experience and taken Volcker’s advice. Given the US dollar’s role as the world’s reserve currency, the US government has the most to lose if the market chooses gold over fiat currency and erodes the government’s stranglehold on the monopolistic privilege that it has awarded to itself of creating ‘money’.
So the US government intervenes in the gold market to make the dollar look worthy of being the world’s reserve currency when of course it is not equal to the demands of that esteemed role. The US government does this by trying to keep the gold price low, but this aim is an impossible task. In the end, gold always wins, i.e., its price inevitably climbs higher as fiat currency is debased, which is a reality understood and recognized by government policymakers. So recognizing the futility of capping the gold price, they instead compromise by letting the gold price rise somewhat, say, 15% per annum. In fact, against the dollar, gold is actually up 16.3% p.a. on average for the last eight years. In battlefield terms, the US government is conducting a managed retreat for fiat currency in an attempt to control gold’s advance.
Though it has let the gold price rise, gold has risen by less than it would in a free market because the purchasing power of the dollar continues to be inflated and also because gold remains so undervalued notwithstanding its annual appreciation this decade. These gains started from gold’s historic low valuation in 1999. Gold may not be as good a value as it was in 1999, but it nevertheless remains extremely undervalued.
For example, until the end of the 19th century, approximately 40% of the world’s money supply consisted of gold, and the remaining 60% was national currency. As governments began to usurp the money issuing privilege and intentionally diminish gold’s role, fiat currency’s role expanded by the mid-20th century to approximately 90%. The inflationary policies of the 1960s, particularly in the US, further eroded gold’s role to 2% by the time the last remnants of the gold standard were abandoned in 1971. Gold’s importance rebounded in the 1970s, which caused Volcker to lament the so-called mistakes of policymakers. Its percentage rose to nearly 10% by 1980. But gold’s percent of the world money supply thereafter declined, reaching about 1% in 1999. Today it still remains below 2%.
From this analysis it is reasonable to conclude that gold should comprise at least 10% of the world’s money supply. Because it is nowhere near that level, gold is undervalued.
So given the ongoing dollar debasement being pursued by US policymakers, keeping gold from exploding upward to a true free-market price is the first thing they gain from their interventions in the gold market. The other thing they gain is time. The time they gain enables them to keep their fiat scheme afloat so they can benefit from it, delaying until some future administration the scheme's inevitable collapse.
So how does the US government manage the gold price? They recruit Goldman Sachs, JP Morgan Chase and Deutsche Bank to do it, by executing trades to pursue the US government’s aims. These banks are the gold cartel. I don't believe that there are any other members of the cartel, with the possible exception of Citibank as a junior member. The cartel acts with the implicit backing of the US government to absorb all losses that may be taken by the cartel members as they manage the gold price and further, to provide whatever physical metal is required to execute the cartel's trading strategy. How did the gold cartel come about?
There was an abrupt change in government policy circa 1990. It was introduced by then Federal Reserve chairman Alan Greenspan in order to bail out the banks back then, which like now were insolvent. Taxpayers were already on the hook for hundreds of billions to bail out the collapsed ‘savings & loan’ industry, so adding to this tax burden was untenable. He therefore came up with an alternative.
Greenspan saw the free market as a golden goose with essentially unlimited deep pockets, and more to the point, that these pockets could be picked by the US government using its tremendous weight, namely, its financial resources for timed interventions in the free market combined with its propaganda power by using the media. In short, it was easier to bail out the insolvent banks back then by gouging ill-gained profits from the free markets instead of raising taxes.
Banks generated these profits by the Federal Reserve’s steepening of the yield curve, which kept long-term interest rates relatively high while lowering short-term rates. To earn this wide spread, banks leveraged themselves to borrow short-term and use the proceeds to buy long-term paper. This mismatch of assets and liabilities became known as the carry-trade.
The Japanese yen was a particular favorite to borrow. The Japanese stock market had crashed in 1990, and the Bank of Japan was pursuing a zero interest rate policy to try reviving the Japanese economy. A US bank could borrow Japanese yen for 0.2% and buy US T-notes yielding more than 8%, pocketing the spread, which did wonders for bank profits and rebuilding their capital base.
Gold also became a favorite vehicle to borrow because of its low interest rate. This gold came from central bank coffers, but they refused to disclose how much gold they were lending, making the gold market opaque and ripe for intervention by central bankers making decisions behind closed doors. The amount lent by central banks has been reliably estimated in various analyses published by GATA to be 12,000 to 15,000 tonnes, nearly one-half of central banks total holdings and 4-to-6 times annual new mine production of 2500 tonnes. The banks clearly jumped feet first into the gold carry-trade.
The carry-trade was a gift to the banks from the Federal Reserve, and all was well provided the yen and gold did not rise against the dollar because this mismatch of dollar assets and yen or gold liabilities was not hedged. Alas, both gold and the yen began to strengthen, which if allowed to rise high enough would force marked-to-market losses on those carry-trade positions in the banks. It was a major problem because the losses of the banks could be considerable, given the magnitude of the carry-trade.
So the gold cartel was created to manage the gold price, and all went well at first, given the help it received from the Bank of England in 1999 to sell one-half of its gold holdings. Gold was driven to historic lows, as noted above, but this low gold price created its own problem. Gold became so unbelievably cheap that value hunters around the world recognized the exceptional opportunity it offered, and demand for physical gold began to climb. As demand rose, another more intractable and unforeseen problem arose for the gold cartel.
The gold borrowed from the central banks had been melted down and turned into coins, small bars and monetary jewelry that were acquired by countless individuals around the world. This gold was now in ‘strong hands’, and these gold owners would only part with it at a much higher price. Therefore, where would the gold come from to repay the central banks?
While yen is a fiat currency and can be created out of thin air by the Bank of Japan, gold in contrast is a tangible asset. How could the banks repay all the gold they borrowed without causing the gold price to soar, further worsening the marked-to-market losses on their remaining positions?
In short, the banks were in a predicament. The Federal Reserve’s policies were debasing the dollar, and the ‘canary in the coalmine’ was warning of the loss of purchasing power. So Greenspan's policy of using interventions in the market to bail-out banks morphed yet again.
The gold borrowed from central banks would not be repaid because obtaining the physical gold to repay these loans would cause the gold price to soar. So beginning this decade, the gold cartel would conduct the government’s managed retreat, allowing the gold price to move generally higher in the hope that, basically, people wouldn’t notice. Given its ‘canary in a coal mine’ function, a rising gold price creates demand for gold, and a rapidly rising gold price would worsen the marked-to-market losses of the gold cartel.
So the objective is to allow the gold price to rise around 15% p.a., while at the same time enable the cartel members to intervene in the gold market with implicit government backing in order to earn profits to offset the growing losses on its gold liabilities. Its trading strategy to accomplish this task is clear. The gold cartel reverse engineers the black-box trend-following trading models.
Just look at the losses taken by some of the major commodity trading managers on their gold trading over the last decade. It is hundreds of millions of dollars of client money lost, and gained for the gold cartel to help offset their losses from the gold carry-trade. All to make the dollar look good by keeping the gold price lower than it should be and would be if it were allowed to trade in a market unfettered by government intervention.
There are only two outcomes as I see it. Either the gold cartel will fail in the end, or the US government will have destroyed what remains of the free market in America. I hope it is the former, but the continuing flow of events from Washington, D.C. and the actions of policymakers suggest it could be the latter.
*****
James Turk is the Founder & Chairman of GoldMoney.com <http://goldmoney.com/>. He is the co-author of The Coming Collapse of the Dollar, which has been updated for a newly released paperback version, now entitled The Collapse of the Dollar <www.dollarcollapse.com>.
Copyright © 2009 by James Turk. All rights reserved.