Post by david on Feb 25, 2009 0:25:30 GMT -8
Make love, not war.
That was our battle cry in the ‘60s and it’s still good advice today. But a case can be made for a different combination, namely: Make love AND war!
Searching for a tchotchke in response to my writing assignment led me to unearth a 25-year-old campaign button and the invitation to a Halloween party of the same vintage.
It wasn’t an old “Ronald Reagan for President” tag; this one was part of a campaign to save the community recreation program I headed in Walnut.
Proposition 13 had passed in 1978, reducing property tax revenues in California and making it nearly impossible to ever raise them again.
When revenues drop, public institutions have to cut services. In the schools, the first to go is usually art and music; in cities, it’s recreation.
By 1984, we’d been squeezed nearly dry. Increases in fee-based programming helped a lot; those who participated in activities we conducted paid a little extra to cover operation and administrative costs. But our frugality and innovation only led to more and more cuts until, six years after Prop 13 marked the start of the so-called Taxpayer’s Revolution, we were told we’d have to become 100 percent self-supporting or be cut entirely.
Based on our logo, which was a squirrel holding a Walnut (we were the Walnut Valley Recreation Program), the button acknowledged that we were already out on a limb: the nervous squirrel is noting that the branch on which he’s perched – labeled “tax support” – has snapped so he’s casting aside a nut which has shrunken from walnut-sized to acorn-sized. The larger lettering spells out the squirrel’s, and we hope by extension the community’s reaction: “Aw Nuts.”
By fall, the campaign had escalated into a pitched battle, with the City of Walnut and Walnut Schools – who had collaborated to establish our program – sniping at each other and using community recreation as a pawn in their larger chess game.
While warfare raged in the streets, back in the rec office, I was falling in love. Ah, it was the worst of times; it was the best of times.
In retrospect, I can’t help but conclude that the dangers presented by cutbacks and threatened elimination of our program added intensity to the lovemaking. Knowing that we might be killed at any moment – OK, not killed, but unemployed – made the sweetness of our closeness sweeter still. The stakes were high.
Carol, my wife-to-be, and I chose not to complicate things by announcing that we were dating outside of the workplace. This furtiveness also added to the thrill. We were like people who met as part of the resistance movement and found themselves in each others arms as the war raged around the little farmhouse where they huddled, fearing they’d be discovered by enemy occupiers and would never consummate their relationship.
OK, it might not have actually been quite that romantic and fraught with danger at the time; but love magnifies the senses and fantasy is a huge part of romance.
Carol and I were not without our co-conspirators. Naturally the rest of the rec staff had as much to lose as we did, career-wise; and we had several friends who worked over at city hall.
Because of the rift between the city and school district, our allies across town had to be covert. We did risk being discovered by going out to lunch from time to time, but we worried that we’d be seen together and exposed as co-conspirators.
Before Halloween, one of our city-buddies decided to give up the ghost and take employment elsewhere. We determined to mark the occasion with a party at her house.
While planning the festivities, it occurred to us that Kris was not the first to leave the city payroll. Some had resigned and others were fired, but our tally revealed that nearly a dozen staffers had left the fairly small ranks of workers at city hall in less than four years.
And it turned out that nearly all of them were at least a little bitter about their time in Walnut and didn’t mind saying so.
Several were already on the guest list for Kris’ party so we added most of the rest and named the gala event: “A gathering of the Grateful Dead.”
The invitations were inscribed: “Sometimes, in order to live we, first must die.”
It was a great evening; headstones were placed in the front yard; the house was darkened and made to resemble a funeral parlor; eulogies were delivered by candlelight for each of the dearly departed; and a wonderful time was had by all.
Six months later, Carol and I were married and soon after that she found a new job. Less than two years later, I left the rec program and not long after that it was eliminated. For as long as I kept track, city hall continued to feature a revolving door and folks seemed happier to be exiting than entering.
Though the stakes appeared high at the time – people’s jobs were on the line – in retrospect, it was a lot of fun and nobody really, actually, literally died.
So, with that “no fatalities allowed” condition in place, I repeat my thesis that if you really want to have a good time, make love and war.
That was our battle cry in the ‘60s and it’s still good advice today. But a case can be made for a different combination, namely: Make love AND war!
Searching for a tchotchke in response to my writing assignment led me to unearth a 25-year-old campaign button and the invitation to a Halloween party of the same vintage.
It wasn’t an old “Ronald Reagan for President” tag; this one was part of a campaign to save the community recreation program I headed in Walnut.
Proposition 13 had passed in 1978, reducing property tax revenues in California and making it nearly impossible to ever raise them again.
When revenues drop, public institutions have to cut services. In the schools, the first to go is usually art and music; in cities, it’s recreation.
By 1984, we’d been squeezed nearly dry. Increases in fee-based programming helped a lot; those who participated in activities we conducted paid a little extra to cover operation and administrative costs. But our frugality and innovation only led to more and more cuts until, six years after Prop 13 marked the start of the so-called Taxpayer’s Revolution, we were told we’d have to become 100 percent self-supporting or be cut entirely.
Based on our logo, which was a squirrel holding a Walnut (we were the Walnut Valley Recreation Program), the button acknowledged that we were already out on a limb: the nervous squirrel is noting that the branch on which he’s perched – labeled “tax support” – has snapped so he’s casting aside a nut which has shrunken from walnut-sized to acorn-sized. The larger lettering spells out the squirrel’s, and we hope by extension the community’s reaction: “Aw Nuts.”
By fall, the campaign had escalated into a pitched battle, with the City of Walnut and Walnut Schools – who had collaborated to establish our program – sniping at each other and using community recreation as a pawn in their larger chess game.
While warfare raged in the streets, back in the rec office, I was falling in love. Ah, it was the worst of times; it was the best of times.
In retrospect, I can’t help but conclude that the dangers presented by cutbacks and threatened elimination of our program added intensity to the lovemaking. Knowing that we might be killed at any moment – OK, not killed, but unemployed – made the sweetness of our closeness sweeter still. The stakes were high.
Carol, my wife-to-be, and I chose not to complicate things by announcing that we were dating outside of the workplace. This furtiveness also added to the thrill. We were like people who met as part of the resistance movement and found themselves in each others arms as the war raged around the little farmhouse where they huddled, fearing they’d be discovered by enemy occupiers and would never consummate their relationship.
OK, it might not have actually been quite that romantic and fraught with danger at the time; but love magnifies the senses and fantasy is a huge part of romance.
Carol and I were not without our co-conspirators. Naturally the rest of the rec staff had as much to lose as we did, career-wise; and we had several friends who worked over at city hall.
Because of the rift between the city and school district, our allies across town had to be covert. We did risk being discovered by going out to lunch from time to time, but we worried that we’d be seen together and exposed as co-conspirators.
Before Halloween, one of our city-buddies decided to give up the ghost and take employment elsewhere. We determined to mark the occasion with a party at her house.
While planning the festivities, it occurred to us that Kris was not the first to leave the city payroll. Some had resigned and others were fired, but our tally revealed that nearly a dozen staffers had left the fairly small ranks of workers at city hall in less than four years.
And it turned out that nearly all of them were at least a little bitter about their time in Walnut and didn’t mind saying so.
Several were already on the guest list for Kris’ party so we added most of the rest and named the gala event: “A gathering of the Grateful Dead.”
The invitations were inscribed: “Sometimes, in order to live we, first must die.”
It was a great evening; headstones were placed in the front yard; the house was darkened and made to resemble a funeral parlor; eulogies were delivered by candlelight for each of the dearly departed; and a wonderful time was had by all.
Six months later, Carol and I were married and soon after that she found a new job. Less than two years later, I left the rec program and not long after that it was eliminated. For as long as I kept track, city hall continued to feature a revolving door and folks seemed happier to be exiting than entering.
Though the stakes appeared high at the time – people’s jobs were on the line – in retrospect, it was a lot of fun and nobody really, actually, literally died.
So, with that “no fatalities allowed” condition in place, I repeat my thesis that if you really want to have a good time, make love and war.