B ehind
fy u w t
the T imes
I’m talking to a fnend the other day and he mentions
a tribe o f savages he read about who have, for all intents and
purposes, a single social taboo For them, the only sin is to be
selfish This reminded me o f the anthropologist who, after
carefully considering the evidence, suggested that the social
cohesion that grows from family and clan, binding people
together with ties o f mutual affection and common intent,
tends to break down when the population gets bigger than five
thousand This made us both wonder if large scale civilization
is an activity humans are capable o f managing, or, perhaps
more to the point, if the civilization w e’ve come up with
qualifies as a truly human activity
We’ll never get anywhere sugar coating things For
anyone who’s not filthy rich or taking more Prozac than they
should, these aren’t the best o f times The world is, in plain
terms, going to hell in a hand basket The world has, honest
historians will admit, always been going to hell in one sort of
basket or another Many o f them suspect that, during peak
episodes o f unpleasantness, wheelbarrows and oxcarts must
have been used, hopefully more efficiently than SUVs
If we look matters squarely in the eye, our history as
a species has been, with few interruptions, an embarrassing
pageant o f nastiness, cunning and greed punctuated by plague,
famine and the occasional savage war Those few shining
moments when decency and compassion poked their heads up
seem, in retrospect, like cruel teasing, only adding to the pain
and sadness Not a pretty picture, but there it is Behind the
flashing lights and tambourines, the cavalcade o f civilization
mostly boils down to someone beating someone else up and
taking their stuff We hoped things would get better if we
elected attorneys to lead us So far, even this hasn’t panned
out
Which isn’t to say there hasn’t been progress No
one doubts w e’ve come a long way, it’s just that the more
thoughtful among us are questioning the way w e’ve come
Poised on the slippery edge o f a new millennium, we wonder
if, as primitives would ask themselves, our path has any heart
To the simple mind, if a path has no heart, it’s not a good path
and no one in their right mind would follow it The notion o f
heart leads to the real question what does it mean to be
human? Or, in anthropological terms, what is the behavioral
counterpart to the opposable thumb?
As luck would have it, the answer may not be as
complex as it seems Echoing on a broader scale the taboo
against selfishness, every major world faith (belief systems
humans derive from and project onto the reality they
experience) offers one common piece o f all purpose advice
do unto others as you would have them do unto you
Regardless o f the circumstance, do only this and the winds o f
the universe will be at your back That’s it Even for a
lawyer, this is not rocket philosophy What some o f us call
the golden rule is also the path pointed out by the principle o f
karma which differs from fate by disavowing the notion o f
‘victim’ The rule has endured because it’s good advice, it’s
good advice because it always works and it always works
because it’s the way the universe works What we sow, we
reap Garbage out, garbage in What else would a reasonable
person expect? Selfishness breeds want, love breeds love
What we do every moment shapes the world we experience,
determines our future and defines us as humans In savage
terms, doing unto others is a path with heart.
If recent events are any indication, this is not the
spirit that drives compassionate conservatism With the
anointing He Who Wasn’t Elected as president, this country
(and with it, by default, the path o f human civilization) took a
nasty turn. The turn has little to do with political parties or,
sadly, even with politics. It has to do with human values and
their place, if any, in the business plan o f global corporate
capitalism: the newest version o f a very old world order The
sitting president, his squatting prime minister and the czars of
whatnot are, in all fairness, a pitiless cabal o f greedy toads the
likes o f which the world has never seen Their only belief is
in power, their only loyalty is to profit History would forgive
us for marching on the castle with torches and pitchforks
There is, o f course, a bright side: the ruling class has
at last abandoned all pretense The gloves are off, almost
everything isn’t enough and they’re coming for the rest This
is much, much more than more o f the same It’s the end game,
the feeding frenzy They sense weakness and smell blood. No
longer just the power behind the throne, the folks who once
had to shell out good money to buy the government now are
the government. The emperor, and the empire, have never
been more naked, more ugly or more real There’s an old
story, Persian I think, about a young seeker o f wisdom and
truth His search takes him finally to the edge o f the world
where he finds a monstrous, slavering beast devouring
everything in sight When he asks the beast why he’s doing
this, the beast replies “Because one day it will all be gone ”
To the simple mind, this is not a path with heart and,
all over the planet, peasant philosophers are beginning to
wonder if a civilization based on greed, whose only taboo is
compassion, can properly be called human
ANTHONY STOFTIELLO
= Architect
Earth friendly architecture
Consultant • Educator
Passive solar design
Conscientious material use
Licensed in Oregon and Washington
310 Lake S t • POB 72, Ilwaco. WA 936 2 4 (360) 6 4 2 -4 2 5 6
Anybody has a right to evade taxes
if he can get away with it. No citizen
has a moral obligation to assist in
maintaining the government.
J. Pierpont Morgan
c?
O
am
A
A
y Z
5
Fax: 717-0389 O
Gearhart, OR 97138 O
738-7563
It takes more than a pretty beach
Matt Winters editorialized recently about Cannon
Beach being named one o f the nation’s top ten beaches.
He said Cannon Beach made good choices and pointed
out that "other nearby locales are at least equally well-
endowed, yet miss the mark in terms o f recognition or
the hard-to-define ability to delight. Pacific County’s
Cape Disappointment and North Head, for example, and
much o f the Columbia estuary shoreline are at least as
pretty as Cannon Beach but haven’t yet caught on as
money magnets "
Matt didn't mention other factors in Cannon Beach’s
success: Back in the 70’s beauty and cheap rents
attracted artists, who fixed up the place, and the town
long ago engaged in activities that many people in our
area feel are anathema— and antithetical to their idea o f
making a buck. In fact. Cannon Beach has made choices
that mitigate against making a fast buck in favor o f
slowly expanding wealth.
When Oregon’s land-mark land use planning law
went into effect back in 1975, instead o f balking or
trying to opt out, Cannon Beach government saw the
required comprehensive plan (adopted in 1979) as an
opportunity to create not only a vision for their
community but real tools to manifest that vision. Cannon
Beach also commits the crime, in some free enterprise
advocates eyes, o f heavily regulating commercial
development and residential private property. In Cannon
Beach, when you build a commercial building or multi­
family housing, you have to go through a design review
process. The intent is to focus on the quality o f the
pedestrian experience instead o f vehicles. Not everyone
likes the aesthetic that results (some call it Washington
Square under bam wood), but the process results in an
aesthetic consistent enough to be recognizable and
memorable.
Cannon Beach also has regulations that some o f my
neighbors would find down right deplorable. The first one
that comes to mind is tree protection. You can’t cut down
a tree over six inches in diameter at "breast height" unless
you have a permit. The criteria for permits include
disease, hazard, blocking sun from a solar device, or
being in the building envelope for new construction.
Furthermore, i f it’s a "vacant" lot, you can’t cut anything
until you have a building permit—none o f this clear-
cutting a residential lot, sticking a new "for sale" sign on
it, and leaving it for the scotch broom to take over. The
idea is to get people to think about trees as a community
asset, and to attempt to save trees.
Another regulation has to do with view protection.
Cannon Beach uses "oceanfront averaging," meaning
you can place your new building only the average
setback o f your neighbors 100 feet north and south o f
you. This prevents a new monster house, built closer to
the water, from blocking the view from older homes set
further back. Residential building height is limited to 24
feet all over town, except when you have a roof pitch
5/12 or greater, where the maximum is 28 feet, but still
an average o f 24 feet from the existing grade.
The beach itself is fought over but the public always
wins— at least so far. Oregon’s beach laws prevent
developers from denying beach access, and platted
streets, whether paved or not, must remain open for
pedestrian access to the water. This means everyone in
town has easy access to the beach.
Another Oregon law prohibits hardening o f the dunes
and bluffs along the oceanfront. Yes, you’ll see a few
old gunite-coated areas, but even rip-rap is heavily
discouraged if not outright banned. Oregon law
recognizes that rip-rap and concrete may save one, but
create more erosion for the folks next door. In this
case, government regulation protects property values.
Cannon Beach has gone beyond state government’s
concern about the environment. The city has one o f the
first wetland tertiary treatment sewage facilities on the
West Coast— making its sewage treatment site, only
blocks from the commercial core, a destination for bird­
watchers and other wildlife lovers. Citizens also
developed a model recycling facility to reduce the
amount o f solid waste, realizing no more landfills would
be sited in Clatsop County. Concerned about plans for
off-shore oil drilling, Cannon Beach citizens decided to
take action to reduce their community’s need for fossil
fuels and implemented a free shuttle service that ferries
people, visitors and residents alike, from one end to the
other o f the two-mile long town. This reduced parking
problems too.
Cannon Beach may have a gorgeous beach, but the
community has turned Haystack Rock into more than a
mere photo op. It’s become a symbol o f a town with a
strong identity tied to beauty and environmental
sensitivity— while making a lot o f money at the same
time. We could do the same here, and next time, I’ll give
you a few ideas about Ilwaco.
A HISTORY
B y K a ren B arn a
1 guess my earliest recollection o f a childhood
interrupted is from age five. I lived in Detroit, right on the
edge o f the city proper. It was the early ‘70s, not too long
after the race riots. T he world was at an economic
crossroads. My father (and the rest o f his generation) could
no longer assume that he would do as well as his father
merely by working hard. Those who tried to get by without a
college education or, at least, a skilled trade, were getting left
behind. N o longer could a man support his family single-
handedly. More and more mothers were forced to abandon
the nest in order to make ends meet. And hot on the trail o f
this modern phenomenon came the Oil Crisis and the
resultant layoffs in the automobile industry. My father, a
young executive at Ford M otor Company, was among tens o f
thousands to lose his job. For awhile, he got by. H e managed
a gas station until he was shot at during a robbery, which
started a downward spiral o f blue collar positions.
My mother was a bookkeeper and did taxes and so
forth to earn extra money. She had creative talents that
served the family as well. She was Martha Stewart before
Martha was, decorating Christmas trees at lawn and garden
stores for cash. Some o f my fondest memories are o f
accompanying her to a shop in Hazel Park, across from the
racetrack. She would work and my brother and I had free
rein to roam the place. W e’d play hide and seek among the
iles o f peat moss bags. Climb on the roof. Steal flower
ulbs from the bins. T o this day, my mother has a bed o f
tulips that ow e their existence to a particular set o f sticky
fingers. If things got really tedious, I was permitted to cross
the street and visit the horse racing track. Mother did an
attorney’s books by day, and he owned a couple o f
Thoroughbreds. I hati direct entree to the bams. W hat a
wonder it was to cross the highway and, within five minutes,
find myself enveloped by the richness o f horse life. Sweet
hay. Pungent manure. Gentle, nickering mares and fidgety
stallions. They were sights and sounds and smells that are
with me to this day.
At that point we were doing OK. My older brother
was thirteen. My younger was four. My parents were young
i a three bedroom
and loved each other fiercely. W e lived in
house, com plete with fence and dog. Hell, there was even a
swimming pool in the back yard. W e were the urban Joneses!
Except for one tiny detail. W e were white.
Race relations were bad all over the country, but the
situation was really polarized in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s.
Influenced, I believe, by the dipping economy and continuing
disenfranchisement o f uneducated and unemployed blacks.
Little by little, our neighborhood gave way to white flight. As
the inner city crumbled economically, those who couldafford
to move to tne fringes did so without delay. My friend
Matthew and his family were one o f the first to go. They
were one house up ana across the street, and I fractured my
spine falling out o f a tree in their backyard (but completely
recovered). T he Kowalczyks divorced and thus my best
friend, M ichelle, went next. They were three houses up on
the same side o f the street, and my other great childhood
accident occurred in their backyard.
T he Kowalczyks had a fabulous swing set - it must
have been fifteen feet high with thick iron chains and heavy
wooden seats. It bestowed an old-fashioned head rush. W e
would swing from dawn until dusk, dipping back so our hair
brushed the dirt and butterflies leaped in our bellies. One
day, in an attem pt to escape the heavyset, cheek-pinching
relatives converging on our home to celebrate my
grandparent’s anniversary, I wandered over to M ichelle’s. She
wasn’t home, so I tried swinging by myself. N o t too much
fun, if I recall correctly. It was much more exciting to jump
o ff the swing. I’m sure there was a distance recortf I’m
equally sure 1 was o f a mind to break it. The trick was to let
go o f the chains at the swing’s apex and let momentum and
gravity carry you to newfound glory. My flight was long and
gracenil and ended abruptly at the mid-point o f the
Kowalczyks’ mighty Oak tree. T he anniversary party was
quickly traded for the emergency room and I spent the
summer up to my shoulder in plaster. I was a legend.
T he biggest loss o f the block, however, was when
Grandma and Grandpa Trammush abandoned Archdale
Street for the greener pastures o f suburban life. They weren’t
my grandparents. They weren’t anybody’s grandparents at
that point. But we loved them as if they were. I don’t
remember what Grandpa did for a living - som ething to do
with the auto industry. I’m certain. But Grandma, she was
another story. Their basement was filled with confections o f
all shapes and sizes. Her take from her bakery-on-the-side
must nave easily equaled Grandpa’s union auto pay! W edding
cakes, rice paper decorations, sugar eggs with Easter scenes
inside and beads o f frosting at the opening and along the
seams. But the very best part o f the whole operation was the
cake scrapings. Every time she made a tiered cake, no matter
the occasion, the tops had to be leveled o ff so that they
would evenly stack. Grandma would show up on our
doorstep with cake pans full o f scrapings. Rich chocolate.
Buttery yellowcake. Fluffy angel food. I would have laid
across all three lanes o f the Southfield Freeway for her and
her cake scrapings, if only I stretched that far.
Things seemed to change irrevocably when Grandma
and Grandpa Trammush left. I didn’t know why. I was five
years old. I was not aware o f racism or race tensions or race
anything, and I certainly didn’t dislike black people. Our
next-door neighbors were lovely people. They smiled and
C
Victoria Stoppiello is a free-lance writer from Ilwaco, at the lower
left comer o f Washington state
IN AN UNJUST W ORLD...JUSTICE.
Personal Injury Lawyer
GREGORY KAFOIRY
bsh er
A dditions
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G eneral C ontracting
Q u a lity C onstruction
R emodel
L evel - S tabilize
Cell: 44.0-0278
P.O, Box 2577
G o /i/te b
Victoria Stoppiello
B y M ichael B urgess
S
. ¿ o a & 'i
I grits and black-eyea peas and
took countless other culinary adventures whenever I visited.
I thought nothing o f it. But there was som ething going on...
Something so tangible it could suck the air from your lungs at
a moment’s notice. I had no idea what. If my parents
discussed race relations or voiced disparaging remarks against
blacks, they did so out o f my earshot. I was only aware o f
people walking around like cats on hot coals.
I started kindergarten about the same tim e my mom
went to work full time, and Mrs. W oolned was our
babysitter. Mr. W oolned was a police officer, which made
the family a particular source o f neighborhood derision. For
awhile I was subject to beatings by a group o f children on the
way home from school. Looking oack. I’m not sure whether
they were related to my parent’s choice in caregivers or based
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