(Continued from page 2)
A M ou se In T h e H ouse
Victoria Stoppiello
»
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Mike's Bike Shop
Rentals • Repairs • Sales
24 years downtown, on Spruce Street
436-1266
(Out o f state inquiries, HOO-492-l?t>6)
DUANt JCHNSOM
K tA L t liT M T
O ur headline this month was suggested by the
lovely Liz Lynch who is the mother of, among other
things, our web site. It got us to thinking, about
education, and all the stuff with young people, these
days. W hile in Portland for a gig we read a copy of
the W illamette Week, which had a piece written by
Seniors from Lincoln High School. Your beloved
editor’s son graduated from Lincoln High School, last
year. It was the best piece of journalism we have read
in the above mentioned weekly in decades. The
reason being, there was no filter between the speaker
and the listener, the writer wrote what the young
people said, and then presented it to us, the reader, and
explained why it was important for us to know this.
W e need to know things so we can be prepared to deal
with them. And if we are prepared chances are better
that things will go favorably. If w e’re not we have to
do the same old dance again, until we figure it out.
W hen it comes to being prepared, knowing history is
possibly the best tool we have. We recently finished
the latest offering from David Horowitz; no, the other
one. O ur Mr. Horowitz’s Inside the Klavern (The
Secret History of the Klu KIux Kian in the l920’s),
edited by the above gentleman, is basically an edit of
the m inutes of the La Grande, OR, Chapter #14 o f the
KKK from 1922 to 1924 when they withered or
wandered away to other pursuits, but when you read
those minutes you hear the voices without filters. The
book, published by Southern Illinois University press,
will not appeal to many others than Oregonian
historians and perhaps those who want to figure out
stuff that’s going on now, both distinct minorities.
Being both, we read it and were fascinated with both
the compassion and cruelty o f the KKK in those days.
T here’was not a lot o f Kian physical violence
mentioned, but the social destruction was obvious, and
sadly unintended. They believe burning a cross on a
hill overlooking La Grande was a celebration. These
folks truly believed they were doing what was best for
them and theirs. It is a sad tale.
David does an elegant job of bringing this history
into context, in his Conclusion, and we found
ourselves drawing parallels between the Jazz age
Tw enties that spawned this Klavern and the Free Love
Sixties that gave birth to the Moral Majority in the
Seventies. It’s almost the same dance, The Now &
Then, as we call it. Leafing back through the pages we
found references to Teacher Testing (the school
system echoes large in this book), Family Values, War
on Drugs; it’s all there. This was, in Oregon, the birth
place of the M ilitias, Operation Rescue (though it
makes strange bedfellows, the Kian and the Catholics),
along with the Skinheads and the Posse Com atas’, and
the Contract with/on America. Sad, but true.
The House of Representatives’ recent attempt at
nailing the Ten Commandments on the school house
door, for instance, somehow reminds us of that
burning cross on the hillside.
Big W heels turn and turn, little wheels spin round
and round. W anna dance?
It’s a free country.
IflL B U F E
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FROM THE LOWER LEFT CORNER
L /k c M / k e 'f b ik e
one saying something to the effect that “If no one
else is going to do anything about it. I’ll do it
myself.” There were no messages from either the
Cannon Beach police or the Oregon State Patrol. True
to his word, Steve apparently drove down on the
beach, loaded the dangerous stuff in his car and
delivered it to the Cannon Beach police station. Well,
that’s when things got ugly. He was told he couldn’t
leave it there, he was causing a potential public health
emergency. He was shouted at and told to wait in his
car with the toxic stuff. Now, any one who’s met
Steve knows he has a problem with authority figures,
and doesn’t take kindly to being yelled at, so he took
the bucket out of his car and went home, where the
next day he was served with a summons. His crime
was driving on the beach, carrying a $250 fine At the
subsequent hearing he pleaded No Contest, and paid
his fine. End of story? Well, we aren’t sure. We still
don’t know several things. Why did it take so long for
a dangerous, yes, life threatening situation to be
resolved, and then only by a citizen breaking the law?
What finally happened to the deadly bucket? Why
were we told Steve hadn’t called when the police
report shows that he had? Why hasn’t the State Patrol
ever called us back? Why didn’t the Cannon Beach
Police leave a message if, as it says in the police report,
they called me back? Why isn’t there some
information on the beach entrance signs about who to
call and how to react when someone finds dangerous
material on the beach? There seems to be a problem
here, we aren’t sure if it is anyone’s fault, but it is a
potential life and death problem. And we are actually
glad that Steve, as foolish and dangerous and illegal as
his actions were, did something about it. He shouldn’t
have been put in that position, and he shouldn’t have
to have a criminal record and a financial burden to
deal with because he was concerned about the wildlife
or children who might have come in contact that
dangerous stu ff There will be a McLeod Fine Fund
jar at Jupiter’s or you can send a few bucks to the
Edge and we will pass it on. Or if anyone is interested
in getting some kind of volunteers organized to work
with the proper authorities on this problem, that might
be helpful.
This ju st in; Steve’s fine was reduced to $50 after
some second thoughts by the Judge. But, $50 is still
$50.
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Natural Foods-Organlc Julces-Organlc Coffee-Deli
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Across fr o m tire Tost Office.
Box 822, Yachats, Oregon, 97498 (541-5470-4065)
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Wc finally got the mouse. For the last
week or so, there has been evidence of a mouse
in our kitchen. At first I thought her tiny scat
were just my husband's Itxtse tea leaves run
amuck on the counter, but al ter a few days, I
realized the shape and color were similar, but to
tell the truth, the tea leaves were more irregular
in their size and appearance.
Being prev entitxi onented, we checked
for entrances and stuffed steel wool around the
pipes under the sink. Still, she was gelling in.
The mouse wasn't interested in much, only the
crumbs neglected near the toaster. She never
broke into a loaf of bread, never chew ed through
a plastic bag to nibble on a muffin. But she did
walk, nightly, across the area we use to make
sandw ichcs, cups of tea, and the occasional batch
of scones. So this behav ior w as unacceptable,
and we set traps.
The mouse wasn't fooled by the fake
cheese on our old-fashioned traps. Obv iously the
plastic slice of cheese is more for our eyes than
for a mouse's sensibilities, so wc added peanut
butter, a pungent and all natural enticement—one
that mirrors the mouse's food in the w ild—seeds,
nuts and berries, including raspberries.
I have had personal experience with the
love for raspbemes by mice. Years ago we lived
on acreage in the Nehalem Valley. The house
was large and the yard a little overwhelming: an
orchard, rows of blueberry bushes, and a
neglected, tangled patch of ever bearing
raspberries. One late summer evening, 1 went
down into the field to pick raspberries, a task
made complex by the lack of rows and the high
grass that had inv aded the garden. A soft summer
breeze sighed in the conifers, a golden light
illuminated every blade of grass, and the soulful
song of the white-crowned sparrow punctuated
my occasional thought. As I picked in this quiet,
meditative mood, other activity nearby began to
intrude on my consciousness. Something, many
somethings were skittering and leaping around
me, through the grass, under the raspberry vines.
When I stood still for a minute, I caught
glimpses of the creatures: small mice, twenty,
thirty, who knows how many, were climbing
nodding grass stalks until the seed heads bent to
the ground. Overripe raspberries were devoured on
the soil w here they had fallen. The bread and the
wine, the seeds and fruits, were being consumed
at a joyful, delirious pace. So inv olved in their
party, the mice didn't hesitate for a moment for
my presence. One boldly, and probably
unconsciously, ran over my foot. Everywhere
that I could hear around me, there was the delicate
snap of tiny grass stems, the rustle of dead
leav es, the busyness of mice at an end of summer
feast. A sense of joy in the abundance, of the
simple happiness of plenty to cat in the company
of friends and family, came over me. This was
the field mouse equivalent of the birds' post-
breeding migration, when adult birds and their
newly fledged offspring disperse over a wide area
to consume as much ftxxl as possible to get ready
for the rigors of fall and winter.
The mouse in our house, however, was
in a springtime condition. I Itxtkcd at the little
btxly dead in the trap—plump with bright dark
eyes and pink nose, a glossy healthy-looking
coat, probably from eating bird seed scattered
beneath our feeders. Whiskers as wide as the
btxly, and a finely f urred tail just as long. Here
was a f ine female. She didn't get to this maturity
living from our kitchen, literally living off
crumbs. No, she was an outdtxtr mouse who was
pushed to find additional ftxxl by some change:
less bird seed or an impending pregnancy.
If I could have fed this mouse outside
and let her live, I surely would have. Why end
her small bright life? Well, I don't want
anytxxly's feel on my kitchen counters and that
includes mouse feet. I removed the btxly and
wiped down the counter with bleach one more
time, but I couldn't shake the image of this tiny
creature who just wanted a bit ol the excess from
our lives. There's a saying that mice are a sign of
wealth, and it's obvious that their success is
linked with ours. I guess that's true, but it's still
a sad day when I feel I must kill something just
because it wants a place at our table.
Victoria Stoppiello is a writer living in Ilwaco,
at the lower left corner o f Washington slate.
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