Post #1721: Gas versus electric lawn mowing, part 1: The conundrum

 

Preface:  I was an early adopter of electric lawn mowing.  Early, in this case, being somewhere around 1995, well before battery-powered electric mowers existed.  But after a couple of burnt-out mowers and many trashed extension cords, I gave up and bought an efficient gas walk-behind mower. 

That was circa 2015, and I have not looked back.  Until now.  This is the first of a series of posts looking at gas versus electric lawn mowing.

Part 1:  The conundrum

I keep reading ever-more-outlandish statements about just how much pollution gas lawn mowers generate.  Depending on which source you read, you will come across this generic format:

  • One hour of mowing your lawn using some gas-powered lawn device
  • produces as much something-something-something
  • as 200 or 300 or 350 miles of driving something.

Weirdly enough, it’s always one hour.  Everything else varies from source to source.  In addition, I am not the only person to have noticed that these car-versus-mower statements are all over the map.  This has gotten to the point where the EPA apparently doesn’t support statements like this any more (reference).

I’m sure there’s some truth in there, somewhere, but that has the look of a standard advocacy statement.  Typically, if you take one of those apart, you’ll find that somebody has purposefully created a worst-possible-case-vs-best-possible-case contrast.  Statements like that are crafted to convince rather than to inform.  And that’s done with forethought,  in pursuit of some presumed policy or economic goal.

Worse, as variants of that get tossed around, further and further from the actual research, they start to take on urban legend aspects.

Let’s play “spot the loony”.  Consider this statement, from an otherwise reputable source, Family Handyman magazine:

One hour of running a gas mower emits as much carbon dioxide as driving a car 300 miles, ...

That’s obviously a mistake.  Carbon dioxide (C02) emissions are directly proportional to the amount of gasoline burned.  Each gallon of gas generates about 20 pounds of C02 (Source:  EPA).  The average new (2021) U.S. passenger vehicle, including electric and plug-in cars, gets less than 25 MPG or equivalent (Source:  EPA).  Taken literally, the statement above says that a lawn mower burns (300/25 =) 12 gallons of gas per hour?

Must be one hell of a lawn mower.  Big agricultural combines (as above) can easily have that level of fuel consumption.  But not your typical 21-inch 3.5 HP Briggs and Stratton lawn mower.

My wife confidently informs me that we burn two gallons of gasoline per year, cutting our grass.  She’s confident because a) she mows the lawn, and b) she hates putting the gas can in her car.  So she’s sure she does that once per season.   This, on a half-acre suburban plot, less the footprint of house, driveway, and landscaping.

By contrast, for cars, in the U.S., we burn an average of about 650 gallons of gasoline per licensed driver per year (Source).  For me and my wife, if we were average, we’d be burning 1300 gallons of gasoline per year, in our car. (We aren’t — we drive a Prius Prime and arguably use about 40 gallons of gas per year in that.)

Plus two more gallons, for the lawn mower.

So there’s the conundrum.  Where does this gas-lawn-mower-as-environmental-horror-story come from, given how little fuel the typical suburbanite consumes for lawn mowing, compared to driving?

For sure, the carbon footprint of our gas lawn mower is rounding error in the context of total household fossil fuel use.  Not because small gas engines are any great shakes.  Simply because the fuel used to mow the lawn is negligible.

For perspective, using Virginia’s power generation mix (0.65 lbs C02 per KWH), two gallons of gasoline generates as much C02 as 60 kilowatt-hours, or roughly 160 watt-hours per day.   Based on these typical wattages, the gas lawn mower has the same carbon footprint as the following daily use of these home appliances:

In short, for my primary environmental concern — global warming — mowing the lawn just doesn’t matter.  Or, it matters less than many other common activities of daily living, such as washing dishes or watching TV.

But I still would like to know the full story here,  Given the small amount of gasoline consumed, how closely does whatever-it-is that is the underlying research actually apply to my situation?  Should I consider early retirement for my gas lawn mower, in favor of battery-powered?  Should I plan on buying a battery-powered mower if and when my current one dies?

I already know some of the answers.

Briefly:   First, the horror story is about smog (not carbon footprint).  Second, it focuses on major small-engine consumers of gasoline.  The total environmental impact appears to have been estimated based on consumption of 3 billion gallons of gasoline annually, for lawn and garden equipment.  With lawns surrounding roughly 100 million U.S. households, that works out to about 30 gallons of gas, per lawn, per year.  Or about 15 times the rate at which my mower uses gas.

The upshot is that I’m not deeply concerned about this.  But I would like to know more.  The rest of the posts in this series will dig a little deeper into this, including (if possible) finding the original EPA research that has spawned this class of gas-lawn-mower-bad advocacy statements.

More to come.  It’s a nice day.  I’m going to go work in the yard now.

G23-012: Luke 13:6-9, and the chainsaw of time.

Then he told this parable: “A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, ‘See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’ He replied, ‘Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.’ ”

— Luke 13:6–9, New Revised Standard Version, via Wikipedia.

Dödsträdgårdsskötsel

I’m not normally one for literal interpretation of the Bible.  But in this case, I’m going for it.

I have a fig tree that will not bear fruit.  I have now made up my mind to give it the final New Testament treatment, as above. After which, I shall cast it into the fire.  Once the wood has seasoned enough to burn well.

I’m not quite sure what prompted me to take action.  I’ve been putting in new raised beds.  After my Nth shovelful of dirt, I kind of woke up and realized that I had been looking at the same big, ugly fig bush for going on 15 years now.  Patiently waiting that one more year, for fruit that never appeared.  Year after year after year.

But once my eyes were opened, I could not help but notice the fig was just one of many lingering gardening failures that fill my yard.   The in-ground deer-feeding stations that were mistakenly labeled “blueberry bushes” when we bought them.  The 30′ tall fruit trees bought as dwarf varieties.  The landscaping that has to be hacked back twice a year so that the mail carrier can get to the front door.  The azaleas that overtop the windows.  And so on.

Nothing that, by itself, jumped out at me.  Nothing that couldn’t be ignored for yet another year.  Just the result of slow accretion over time.  A bush here, a tree there.  And as long as I could still walk around in the back yard, I let them be.

It finally dawned on me that the outside of my house was just like the inside.  It was full of stuff that I had accumulated over the years.  Stuff that no reasonable person would want, de novo.  Stuff that I kept only because, at some point, I bought it.

The fig tree that would not bear fruit made me see that it was time for some dödsträdgårdsskötselA bit of Swedish death landscaping, to match the döstädning (Swedish death cleaning) I’ve been doing inside (Post #1667).

 


Never a dull moment

That’s when I decided to pull out my chain saw.  Because, hey, what could possibly go wrong when an old, out-of-shape Joe Homeowner with mobility issues decides to chain-saw down a bunch of trees.  In close proximity to buildings and fences.  Trailing a great big power cord.

In all seriousness, my wife forbade me to use my chain saw when she’s not around.  And rightly so.  She’s the designated dialer.  This, under the theory that it might be a challenge to type 9-1-1 with the stump of an arm, before I bleed out.

 

Much like the trees I’m going to cut down, this chainsaw is a leftover from an earlier time.  I bought it when I was much younger.  It’s not clear at this point that I should have kept it.  Arguably, it may now be an age-inappropriate power tool.   But unlike a geezer in a sports car, there’s no equivalent of the DMV to make me prove periodically that I’m still capable of using it.  Thus, the decision to put down that chain saw, once and for all, is supported by the slenderest of reeds, the common sense of the aging user.

But, my life is pretty dull.  My health insurance is paid up.  So what the heck.

To be clear, this is about as wimpy as chain saws got, back in the day.  It’s a Sears Craftsman 18″ plug-in electric chain saw.  That size being about as big as electric chainsaws can get, and still operate on a standard 120V household circuit.

That said, a wimpy chain saw is a like a low-powered shotgun shell.  Use it wrong, and there’s no question it’s going to hurt.  It’s only a question of how badly.

I recalled that the last time I used it, the blade seemed a bit dull. 

Which, by itself, sent me down a little philosophical trail, trying to recall how often I had used that chainsaw.  I definitely recalled cutting up some firewood at my current house.  Which led me to my wife’s grandmother, because I distinctly recall cutting up a bunch of firewood for her, a few years back.  And I was pretty sure I hadn’t sharpened or changed that chain in the intervening years.

Seemed like that might have been a few years ago, that I did that little favor for my wife’s grandmother.  So I checked with my wife. Her grandmother passed away 25 years ago, in 1997.

The upshot is that the chain is the original.  It was on the saw when I bought it about 30 years ago.  It was on it when I cut up that firewood for my wife’s grandmother.  When I cleared trees and brush from my last house.  When I cut up my own firewood.  And it just got duller and duller, so gradually that each time I used it, well, it worked about as well as the last time I used it.  And as long as it still worked, I wasn’t going to mess with it.

Anyway, I splurged for a new chain.  They still make them to fit, and a new one is about $12.

The upshot is that my 30-year-old electric chain saw cuts like it’s brand-new.  Took maybe two minutes to cut down that non-productive fig bush.

I retain all of my appendages.  So far. And I’m looking forward to taking down the rest of my landscaping mistakes when the rain lets up.

So, happy ending all around.


Any larger lesson?

I was going to try for some sort of larger life lesson here, but it’s not worth the effort.  The larger lessons are pretty obvious.  Age creeps up on you.  Getting rid of stuff is just part of life.

I guess the only one that surprised me is that a chainsaw with a new blade is a joy to use.  I spent years struggling with a dull blade on that saw.  And so I missed out on a lot of joy.  All for my unwillingness to spend $12 for a new blade. I now wonder how much of the rest of my life has been like that.  And whether its too late to change those long-ingrained habits of cheapness.

 

G23-011: Allow me to gift you some top soil.

 

I knew my world was going to hell when I had to use “gift” as a verb.  Unironically.   And cease all use of the archaic verb form “give”, or risk sounding like a geezer.

Gift-the-verb apparently comes naturally to twenty-somethings. And I can can grit my teeth and do that in writing.  But it still grates if I have to speak it.

Try these on:

“I gift you this gift, in the spirit of holiday gift-gifting.”

“It’s the gift that keeps on gifting.”

If my inability to utter such abominations doesn’t do enough to mark me as old, I can recall a time when I did not have to read the fine print on a bag of dirt. (The reading glasses I now need to do that are just so much salt, or perhaps dirt, in the wound.)

Which brings me to the subject of today’s rant:  Dirt.  Yes, dirt. Because, these days, you don’t know what your bag o’ dirt contains, unless you read the list of ingredients.

Here’s the issue. I thought that “soil”, as used in the garden, had a well-defined and universally-recognized meaning:  Dirt.  Soil means dirt.  Or, at least, soil contains dirt, along with and other stuff.  But, first and foremost, finely weathered rock.  Inorganic material.

This matters, because dirt is forever.  Or, at least, dirt doesn’t rot. Dirt is the mineral, inorganic component of soil.  Fill a raised bed with dirt, and you’re done.  Next year, the dirt will still be there.  Year after.  And so on.

As I reconfigured my raised beds this year, I realized I needed a bit more dirt.  So I went to Home Depot and bought some bags of topsoil.  Because soil — dirt — is what I need to fill those beds.  And topsoil is nicer than, say, fill dirt.

Turns out, the idea that “top soil” is mostly “dirt” is not even remotely true.  Worse, everybody in the hardware industry now appears to accept that as normal.  Unironically.

Long and the short of it is that I purchased a dozen cubic-foot bags of mulch, at my local Home Depot.  Only, the bags didn’t say mulch.  They said “top soil”.  Like so:

Source:  Home Depot.  Circles in red are mine.  Image at top of page has been altered for humorous effect.

But it’s just mulch.  It’s 100% organic material.  It’s very nice-looking mulch.  But there’s zero dirt there.  Everything in the bag will rot away.  As I found out only after opening a bag, and then reading the fine print on the back.

In my defense, note that they tell me to use this to fill holes in my yard!  Use it to level up raised beds!

So I guess my problem is that I could not conceive of being a big enough moron to fill in a hole in my lawn, with mulch. Organic mulch rots.  It’s not a permanent fix.  Where this manufacturer is located, do they patch potholes in the road with mulch?  Do they fix cracked sidewalks with mulch?  Then the same logic applies to fixing a hole in your lawn.

Long story short, the manufacturer both labeled the bag as soil, and told me to use it for filling holes.  Crazily enough, I assumed it was dirt.  Or, at least, mostly dirt.  Maybe I’d settle for “contained some dirt”.

But nope.  Not a spec of dirt to be found.  It’s well-rotted wood compost.

Worse, all the topsoils in this store, and its nearest competitor (Lowe’s), appear to be the same.  They are just mulch.  Even the “garden soils” and “raised bed soils” appear to be 100% rotted organic matter.  Judging by the website, I can’t actually buy dirt from the garden center of my local Home Depot or Lowe’s.

Maybe I never could.  When I filled these beds originally, I had the dirt trucked in, in bulk.  It’s starting to look like the only way I can buy actual dirt is to have it trucked in again.

When I set about redoing these beds, the last thing I worried about was finding the dirt to fill them.  Turns out, that’s probably going to be the most difficult piece of it.

Post G23-010: No-dig potatoes, using leaf mulch

Today is St. Patrick’s day.

That’s the traditional day for planting potatoes, in this climate.

But my new raised beds aren’t ready yet.  And the old ones are a weedy mess.  Which I didn’t much feel like hoeing out of the way, this rainy St. Patrick’s day morning.

So I planted this year’s potatoes as no-dig (no-till) potatoes.  I placed them on top of an existing weedy garden bed, and buried them under half-a-foot of free leaf mulch.

Edit 7/23/2023:  Near-total failure.  See Post G23-041. Continue reading Post G23-010: No-dig potatoes, using leaf mulch

Post #1720: The Systemic Risk Clause and the FDIC

 

This is here only because it’s hard to look up, and so many people get it wrong.  Here’s the law that enables the FDIC to pay off all deposits in the event of a bank failure.  (Actually, it lets the FDIC do pretty much whatever seems to be required):

From the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation Improvement Act of 1991 (FDICIA):


PUBLIC LAW 102-242—DEC. 19, 1991 105 STAT. 2275

"(G) SYSTEMIC RISK.—
"(i) EMERGENCY DETERMINATION BY SECRETARY OF THE
TREASURY.—Notwithstanding subparagraphs (A) and
(E), if, upon the written recommendation of the Board
of Directors (upon a vote of not less than two-thirds of
the members of the Board of Directors) and the Board
of Governors of the Federal Reserve System (upon a
vote of not less than two-thirds of the members of such
Board), the Secretary of the Treasury (in consultation
with the President) determines that—
"(I) the Corporation's compliance with subpara-
graphs (A) and (E) with respect to an insured
depository institution would have serious adverse
effects on economic conditions or financial stabil-
ity; and
"(II) any action or assistance under this subpara-
graph would avoid or mitigate such adverse effects,
« the Corporation may take other action or provide
assistance under this section as necessary to avoid or
mitigate such effects.

Source: Google link to Govinfo.

In short, it takes a two-thirds majority of both the FDIC governing board and the Federal Reserve Board in order to invoke the FDIC’s systemic risk clause.  Also, agreement from the Secretary of the Treasury and the President of the U.S.

So, it’s kind of a big deal.

Based on what I’ve read, prior to this, it was common for the FDIC to make a case-by-case determination of whether or not to cover all deposits, regardless of the stated limits on coverage.  The Congress got tired of that and decided to codify the regulatory procedures, in this 1991 legislation.

After that codification in 1991, the systemic risk clause has been invoked rarely over the following decades.  Most notably, it was invoked for several large banks during the 2008 banking crisis.

So it’s notable in that it’s being used here.  That should be, at most, a once-a-decade event.

You do have to wonder when or whether the other shoe is going to drop.  Or whether we’ve had our once, for this decade.

Post #1719: A brief note on the 1980s Savings and Loan Crisis, or why sometimes It’s (not) a Wonderful Life.

 

FSLIC.  Raise your hand if you are old enough to recall what that stands for.

Briefly, FDIC : Bank :: FSLIC : Savings and Loan

You have to interpret the second  “:” as “was to”, not “is to”.  The Congress formally declared the Federal Savings and Loan Insurance Corporation (FSLIC) dead in 1989, after a decade-long illness.  It was beyond bankrupt at the time.  Its functions were subsumed into the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (FDIC).

I mention this bit of economic history because of the recent failure of the Silicon Valley Bank.  That seems to have been driven by the same factor that drove the majority of S&Ls into bankruptcy in the 1980s.

Briefly, they borrowed short and lent long.  Short, as in short-term.   The money they took in — borrowed from their depositors — could be withdrawn at any time.  Long, as in long-term.  They apparently bought a lot of U.S. Treasury bonds. Which, although liquid enough at any given time, are still long-term loans to the U.S. Treasury.  (And a fundamentally odd thing for a bank to invest in, when you get right down to it.  It’s as if they couldn’t be bothered to find something with a better rate of return.)

In any case, as with any fixed-return asset, the price of those bonds drops as interest rates rise.  Owning a lot of fixed-return long-term securities, in an era of rising rates, is a recipe for bank failure.  (Or, as in the case of the 1980s, S&L failure.)  As I shall explain below.

And, after more than a decade of more-or-less zero inflation and below-zero real interest rates, I have to wonder how many more banks are now lurking out there, in our current environment of rising interest rates, waiting to fail from that same root cause.

If you just want to see a professional write-up of the S&L crisis — minus the dirt — this piece by the Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis is about as good as it gets.


Skipping the details, how does the FDIC operate?

U.S. banking regulation has a lot of generally-unrecognized quirks.  Many of these derive from the fact that States were in the business of chartering banks long before the Federal government got in on that.  States never relinquished that right.  As a consequence, what appears to consumers today as a more-or-less monolithic industry is actually a mix of a institutions following different rules and regulations.

The practical consequence of this is that almost anything you say about bank regulation and deposit insurance will have some exception, somewhere.  In Virginia, it appears that all state-chartered banks are in fact FDIC insured, meaning that they are subject to Federal regulation.   But you can find states that allow some commercial banks to have no deposit insurance (e.g., CT), to (typically) states that operate bank insurance funds secondary to the FDIC, insuring deposit amounts in excess of the $250,000 FDIC limit (e.g, MA).  You can also find entire categories of bank-like institutions that only exist under state charters (read the CT reference above to get the gist of that).

The FDIC insures most bank deposits in the U.S., so it’s worth a paragraph or two to explain the finances of that.  (The FDIC reference page is here, the corresponding Credit Union reference page is here.).

The FDIC gives every bank a risk rating (termed CAMELS), based on factors such as capital adequacy and the riskiness of their underlying assets.  This risk rating seems to be a pretty good predictor of which classes of banks are at higher risk of failure.

Source:  Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation, Staff Studies. Report No. 2020-01. A History of Risk-Based Premiums at the FDIC, January 2020.

The FDIC charges banks a quarterly insurance premium based on the amount of insured deposits and the riskiness of the bank. As you can see, a large and risky bank might easily pay 10 times the insurance premium of a small bank with low apparent default risk.

Source:  https://www.fdic.gov/deposit/insurance/assessments/proposed.html

In normal times, best I can tell, on average, covered institutions pay insurance premiums equal to about 0.12 cents per dollar of deposits.   Effectively, that’s what you pay, in order to have your deposits insured.  The bank just makes that transaction on your behalf.  But the FDIC can add a temporary surcharge if the amount in the insurance fund gets too low.

The target value for the deposit insurance fund is 2% of the value of all of the covered assets (Source:  FDIC).  Which doesn’t sound like a lot, but the FDIC is a “full faith and credit” entity, meaning that the Federal government has to step in and make good on those insured deposits even if the insurance fund itself has been depleted.

(Oddly enough, while banks and S&Ls are insured by the FDIC, Federally-chartered credit unions are not.  They are insured by a different “full faith and credit” entity, the National Credit Union Share Insurance Fund, and are supervised by the National Credit Union Administration.)

That “designated reserve ratio” was 1.25% of assets before the near-death of our banking system in 2008-2009.  I went over this years ago, in Post #341.  Since the demise of the FSLIC in the 1980s, we’ve only had one episode where, arguably, the FDIC’s Deposit Insurance Fund was subject to significant strain.

The graph below, courtesy of the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (FDIC), show the surge in bank failures that occurred in 2008 and 2009.  In 2008, despite significant intervention by the Federal Reserve to try to stabilize the financial system, banks with assets amounting to more than a third of a trillion dollars failed.

Accordingly, the balance in the FDIC’s Deposit Insurance Fund ran negative during that wave of bank failures.  Near as I can recall, this got absolutely no press coverage at the time.  Plausibly, the FDIC kept fairly quiet about it, and at the same time the FDIC avoided a cash-flow issue by requiring banks to make their next three years insurance premium payments, up front, to keep the money flowing.  (That, from detailed reporting in the Journal of Accountancy.)

Source:  FDIC

Unsurprisingly, after that, they upped the target from 1.25% to 2% of covered assets.

In short, the FDIC’s Deposit Insurance Fund was stress-tested in that episode, came up a bit short, and, accordingly, has been required to run a bit more conservatively ever since.  Acknowledging that if things really go south, the full faith and credit of the U.S. government stands behind them.

Unlike the S&Ls, discussed below, the proximate cause for those bank failures was the collapse of the sub-prime mortgage bubble, leading to a sharp downward adjustment in US housing prices, of a sort that had not been seen in the US for generations.  The blue line below (from the Saint Louis Federal Reserve) shows an index of U.S. housing prices.  The hump, peaking around 2006, is “the housing bubble”.  The  red line, for reference, is the US Consumer Price Index.  The graph runs from 1975 at the left, the 2019 at the right.  The gray bars are recessions.

Basically, a lot of banks made what in retrospect were a lot of really bad loans, based on ludicrously inflated real estate prices.  Based, in turn, on what in hindsight was clearly a speculative bubble in real estate, driven by exceptionally easy credit, even for high-risk properties.

Finally, the billion-dollar question:  How much does the FDIC lose when it shuts down a bank?  Obviously, that varies, but after staring at a few tables in various sources, a good guess is about 8% of the assets of the bank.  So if the Silicon Valley Bank is typical, and has $200B – $250B in assets, the Deposit Insurance Fund can expect to take a hit of about $20B.  Far below the current balance of around $120B in that fund.


The 1980s S&L crisis and the death of the FSLIC.

Source:  An Examination of the Banking Crises of the 1980s and Early 1990s,

The first thing to grasp is that S&Ls are not the same as banks.  Back in the day, they were a distinct class of depository institutions with their own separate regulators and insurance fund.  For purposes of this discussion, these were institutions that, by law, offered savings accounts to small depositors and used that money primarily to fund home mortgages. In their heyday, half the home mortgages in the U.S. were funded by S&Ls.

Note that I said “savings accounts” above.  Not checking accounts.  The radical notion of allowing S&Ls to offer checking accounts (NOW accounts) did not occur until 1980, with the Congress’s first attempt to quash the S&L crisis.

The interesting historical difference between a savings account and a checking account is that you couldn’t demand to withdraw your money held in a savings account.  These days, all vestiges of restrictions in withdrawal from savings accounts have disappeared (reference).  But there was a time when S&Ls could say, sure, you can have your money — sometime.

In fact, I have both a checking and a savings account at my local credit union.  If you bother to read the fine print in the account agreement, I find the following disclosure:

" The Credit Union reserves the right to delay the availability of funds deposited to accounts that are not transaction accounts for periods longer than those disclosed in this policy."

Translation:  If they are having a problem, they have the right to prevent me from withdrawing money from my savings account.  Even now.  Even in 2023.  These days, with both savings and checking paying close to zero interest, this hardly matters.  I might as well keep the entire balance in checking.  But this is a holdover from the days of bank runs and interest-bearing savings accounts.  You got paid interest for your deposit, but the quid pro quo is that in the event of a bank run, you were stuck.  For other specialized types of saving accounts — Holiday Club, Christmas Club — the restrictions are more explicit, and typically involve penalties for excessive or early withdrawals.

And that’s by design.  With clauses such as that, the bank needs to keep fewer “reserves”, that is, less cash-on-hand and other liquid assets, to satisfy regulatory requirements.  This lets it put a higher fraction of deposits to work earning interest, and so (in theory) should lead to better economic performance.

In short, prior to 1970, say, S&Ls were a backwater of American banking.  They could only offer savings-type accounts, and they were highly restricted in the types of assets they could invest in.  The maximum interest they could pay on deposits was set by law.  By and large, they were community lending institutions that issued mortgages, and little else.

Then along came the economic turmoil of the 1970s and 1980s.  Let me summarize the situation — borrowed short and lent long — in one graph.

The key to understanding why the S&Ls were trapped by rising interest rates is to understand that as interest rates go up, the value of fixed-income securities goes down.  Among which are fixed-rate mortgages. When the prime rate is 4%, a mortgage paying 6% is an attractive investment.  When the prime rate hits 21.5%, not so much.  If you want to sell a 6% mortgage in that environment, you’re going to have to sell it at a deep, deep discount.

And so, as rates rose, two things happened.  The value of S&L’s existing mortgage fell, so that if they had to sell them, they’d take a loss.  And, separately, they began to lose deposits, and (once rates were deregulated) then had to pay higher interest to keep those deposits. Higher than what they were earning on their portfolios of mortgages.

They were trapped.  If they liquidated their mortgages to pay off depositors, they took a loss.  If they raised interest rates enough to keep their depositors, they took a loss.  There was no way out.

Congress then spent the better part of a decade trying to do anything other than liquidate the bankrupt S&Ls.  They loosened restrictions on S&Ls.  They loosened them some more.  They basically urged S&LS to take ever-more-risky bets in the hope that they would somehow earn themselves out of the hole they were in.

In short, the Congress turned what had been a backwater of American banking was turned into America’s biggest casino.  All in the hopes that the S&Ls could earn enough to make up from the losses incurred by borrowing short and lending long in an era of rising interest rates.

From the original chart, it looks like a lot of S&Ls lasted until the end of the 1980s, but that’s an illusion.  Regulators turned a blind eye to the fact that many of those S&Ls were technical bankrupt, because they didn’t have enough money in the FSLIC to liquidate them.  At the time, the term was “zombie” S&Ls. Technically, dead, yet still functioning.  Meanwhile, the industry kept falling deeper and deeper into the hole.

After a few well-publicized scandals, the Congress finally threw in the towel circa 1989.  About a third of S&Ls were declared insolvent and were liquidated.  The FSLIC was bailed out by abolishing it and transferring the liabilities to the FDIC.  I assume the taxpayers in general made up for those cumulative losses, but I haven’t bothered to look up the details of that final FSLIC transaction.

I’m sure there was plenty of malfeasance along the way.  And some pre-existing regulations got in the way.  But the basic story — the reason a third of the industry went bankrupt — is far more mundane.  A combination of

  • Lending long (e.g., 30-year fixed mortgages).
  • Borrowing short (e.g., checking deposits, savings deposits, CDs).
  • Rising interest rates.

That’s just bad news, no matter who the actors are.  Maybe they have adequate capital and current earnings to keep going.  Maybe not.


And now?  Of toilet paper and bank runs, or bank runs were the original flash mobs.

Much like the 1970s/1980s, we’re now in an era of rising interest rates, following a prolonged period of low interest rates and low inflation.

Public information about of the failure of the Silicon Valley Bank sounded like the S&L crisis all over again.  Sure, if you look hard enough, you can find some combination of malfeasance and incompetence.  But from what I’ve read, the main problem is that they tied up much of their capital in long-term Treasuries.  Borrowed short, lent long.  Which, in the era of stable and low interest rates that existed from 2008 to circa 2022, was just fine.  But in an era of rising rates, was a form of economic suicide.

As long as their depositor base remained stable, that wasn’t necessarily a problem.  As long as they could earn enough to stay in business, they didn’t have to realize the losses on those long-term bonds.

But as soon as somebody suggested that withdrawing your money might be prudent, it was game over.  That rapid withdrawal of funds forces them to sell off assets to pay back their depositors.  And if the bulk of your assets are now far under water — well, you’re bankrupt in short order.

Are there more of these in the pipeline?  Now way for the public to know.  But I wouldn’t be surprised. And, I wouldn’t be worried either.  If you look at the numbers, banks fail all the time.

The problem here isn’t with the regulators.  Having learned some hard lessons from the foot-dragging of the S&L crisis, our regulatory authorities don’t screw around when a bank is in deep trouble.  They come down like a ton of bricks.  That’s not because they’ll somehow salvage more value out of the bank if they do that.

The problem is that — let’s face it — people are idiots.  Bank regulators act decisively to quash any general run on the banks.  The same mentality that gave us months of toilet paper shortages during the pandemic will give us bank runs. 

Now, deposit insurance should have put an end to that.  But in the era of constant internet disinformation, you know there’s somebody out there, right now, trying to start a bank run just to see if they can do it.  Maybe a foreign government.  Maybe just a home-grown jerk.  It doesn’t really matter.  Not to mention that you don’t even have to get up out of your chair to move your money out of a bank.

My take on it is that for the Feds to come out and say, hey, you’re covered, no matter what the size of the deposit?  I don’t necessarily think that was good policy.  I don’t think it was bad policy.  I think it was probably the only policy that would work, in this circumstance.

Because now deposit insurance isn’t just facing traditional human stupidity.  It’s facing stupidity, as amplified by social media and the internet.  Bank runs were the flash mobs of their day.  My guess is that bank regulators have to work faster and harder now, to stop those, than they have for the past half-century.  So far, they seem up to the task.  Let’s hope it stays that way.

 

Post #1718: Final COVID update, approaching normal.

 

The U.S. is now down to about 8 newly reported COVID-19 cases per 100K population per day, based on the latest figures as reported by the New York Times.  That’s down from about 10, two weeks ago, continuing the long, slow decline that began right around Christmas 2022.

That’s still not quite down to the lows that occurred in the summer of 2021.  But we seem to be getting there.  Fairfax County (where I live) currently reports about 4 cases per 100K, compared to fewer than 2 in June 2021 (Post #1163).  Along with that, you’d probably have to figure in less complete reporting now, due to the widespread availability of over-the-counter COVID tests.

The US CDC reports a corresponding continuing decline in COVID-related hospitalizations and COVID as cause-of-death.  Again, taking Virginia as an example, we seem to have between one and three COVID-19 deaths per day (reference).  That’s in a population of about of about 8.7 million.

For me, I think that the U.S. 2022 mortality rate is the last major statistic I’d like to see.  Unfortunately, we won’t see the official U.S. deaths data for 2022 for another month and a half yet.  Arguably the biggest surprise of the pandemic is that the U.S. COVID-19 mortality rate didn’t fall in 2021, but was kept high first by the deadliness of the Delta variant, then by the huge number of cases in the initial ramp-up of the Omicron wave.

Source:  underlying data from the Government of Michigan.

Omicron actually peaked at the end of January 2022, so we can expect the 2022 mortality rate to remain somewhat above the historical average.  The interesting question will be, by how much?  And did the U.S. mortality rate finally return to the long-term average by the end of 2022?  Based on the preliminary data through September 30, 2022, the answer is no.  Mortality rates appear to be coming down, compared to 2020.  But even at that point, the crude mortality rate of 9.2/1000 remained well above the prior long-term average of around 8.2/1000.

Source:  CDC, annotations in red are mine.

As of Q2 2022, COVID-19 accounted for an average of about 3000 deaths per week.  Doing the math, those COVID deaths, by themselves, if they were all “additional” deaths (people who would not have died at that time, absent COVID) would have raised the U.S. mortality rate by five percent, or (on the chart above) by about 0.5.  Thus, the COVID deaths themselves account for only about half the excess mortality that appears to remain, relative to historical trend, as of Q3 2022.

I don’t think this will be worth revisiting once the full-year 2022 mortality data are released.   Thanks in part to the peak of the Omicron wave occurring in 2022, it’s a given that the 2022 mortality rate will exceed the prior historical average of about 8.2/1000.  And it will be another six months before we have any information at all on 2023.

Accordingly, until something changes materially, this will be my last post on COVID-19.

Finally, here’s my “COVID-19 odds” table, updated for the low rates of incidence that we are seeing at present.  Even with that few cases in circulation, if you regularly attend any sort of large group meeting, the odds are that you’re going to be sharing a room with an actively infectious person at some point over the course of a year.

If you come across someone who is still masking up in public, be kind.  They’re not crazy.  Risk of infection is low, but it’s not zero.  They just have a different level of risk aversion from the average.

Post G23-009: New garden beds. Working harder, not smarter.

 

At the start of the pandemic, I recycled some political yard signs and bamboo into a set of raised garden beds (Post G05).   After three years of intensive use, a) those are now in disrepair, and b) I know a whole lot more about gardening.

My plan is to replace those beds with something better.  With St. Patrick’s day just one week away — the traditional day for planting potatoes — I can’t procrastinate much longer.   Time to finish pondering and start shoveling.

This post documents the final design.  The next post will show the construction.

Continue reading Post G23-009: New garden beds. Working harder, not smarter.

Post #1717: An unremarked silence

 

I just want to interrupt your day for 60 seconds to point out something that you’re not seeing in the news.

Recently, a prominent elderly politician fell down in a hotel room and suffered a concussion.   That’s the second serious fall he’s taken in the past couple of years.  He broke his shoulder in that prior fall.

Currently, we observe the media/social media doing which of the following:

  1. Claiming that this politician is senile.
  2. Clamoring for this politician’s resignation, due to poor health.
  3. Creating and circulating deepfaked videos that exaggerate the issue,to mock the politician.
  4. Assert that the politician has permanent traumatic brain injury.
  5. Reporting on the fall and concussion.

Hint:  The politician is a Republican.

Answer:  5.

Sometimes, what doesn’t get reported tells more of a story than what does.

Post G23-008: Simple geometry of sun and shade, or, keep your gnomon pointing north.

 

This post is about making sure my new garden beds don’t end up in the shadow of my back porch, during the summer.  Based on the length of the shadows today, in late winter.  And, ultimately, based simply on the height of the porch roof.

To cut to the chase:  If you use Excel, and the NOAA sun-angle calculator, you can accurately predict the length of a shadow, for any date and time, anywhere on earth, via this formula:

Shadow length = obstruction height * cotangent (solar elevation angle in degrees * π / 180)

The π / 180 is there because Excel wants to see angles expressed in radians.  If you’re using a calculator that accepts angles in degrees, omit that.

 

Continue reading Post G23-008: Simple geometry of sun and shade, or, keep your gnomon pointing north.