RtOW: Chapter 7 - The Oregon Story and the Oregon Way - Oregon under Tom McCall
RtOW: Chapter 7 - The Oregon Story and the Oregon Way - Oregon under Tom McCall
In the preceding eras of the Oregon Way the definition of “us” often excluded Oregonians with certain racial, economic, ideological, and/or sexual attributes. Under McCall, "us" became much broader.
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*Editor’s Note*
For the next several Saturdays, I will be posting an excerpt from my book, “Rediscovering the Oregon Way.” This effort started two years ago in the middle of my current role as a graduate school student. I spent weekend mornings doing research, late nights conducting interviews, and spare moments looking for typos.
Read the intro, Read Chapter 1, Read Chapter 2, Read Chapter 3, Read Chapter 4, Read Chapter 5, Read Chapter 6.
The Golden Era of the Oregon Way took place during the political apogee of Tom McCall. No single legislative effort from this era better demonstrates the existence of shared values, enforced norms, strong social institutions, and robust democratic processes than Senate Bill 100. The origin of the bill as well as its short term impact confirms that the 1970s were a unique time in Oregon history as well as a defining moment for the Oregon Way. This moment was encapsulated in Governor McCall’s Oregon Story. By sharing this tale and encouraging Oregonians to make it their own, McCall gave adherents to the Oregon Way a vision to follow. That vision made the Oregon Way all the more distinctive, further distinguishing Oregon’s political culture.
“[Senate Bill 100] required every Oregon city and county to prepare a comprehensive plan in accordance with a set of general state goals. While preserving the principle of local responsibility for land-use decisions, it established and defined a broader public interest at the state level.” This approach to planning was not unprecedented—Vermont and New Jersey had enacted similar legislation—but Oregon’s adoption of SB 100 was different based on its reliance on every facet of the Oregon Way to give a unique “us” a path to develop meaningful action.
The size of “us” behind SB 100 reflected the breadth and depth of the common values that motivated Oregonians to take action. These common values struck at the core of a notion held by most, if not all, Oregonians. “The feeling among Oregonians that ‘Oregon is different,’” in the interpretation of Florida’s father of urban growth, Dr. John DeGrove, “means that ‘Oregon is better.’ That ‘betterness’ is directly related to the State's natural features.”
A combination of environmental decay and economic development threatened that “betterness,” creating a “them” that was not a specific group, class, race, or kind of Oregonian but rather a business-oriented bogeyman conjured up by Governor McCall. This unique conception of “us” and “them” was a large part of what made SB 100 such a meaningful episode in the development of the Oregon Way.
In the preceding eras of the Oregon Way the definition of “us” often excluded Oregonians with certain racial, economic, ideological, and/or sexual attributes. The narrow scope of “us” in these eras limited the extent to which a common value was held across the state; consequently, the Oregon Way was confined to unrepresentative, exclusionary “us.” The size of “us” has ramifications on all legs of the Way.
For the Way to function, a bigger “us” poses specific challenges: a shared value has to be held as deeply individually as it is broadly collectively or else it’s not a value that will mobilize people to action; norms have to accommodate more viewpoints and lifestyles to make that mobilization consequential; social institutions must adopt the shared value to remain relevant; and, democratic processes must update to ensure the values-based “us” translates into a democratic “us” as well. Without these changes, even a large “us” cannot leverage a Way. Imagine if the shared value was something as insignificant as love for licorice (held broadly collectively but on a shallow basis individually). Such a value will not move “us” to take any real action, to sacrifice, to compromise.
The “us” behind SB 100 exceeded the scope of previous conceptions of “us” and identified a sufficiently deeply held shared value. In the words of Professor Edward Sullivan, there was a “happy coincidence of concern over the natural and human environment.” Urban and rural Oregonians each subscribed to this belief in betterness and felt the forces imperiling Oregon’s natural resources and splendor had to be stopped. If you dug deeper into these groups, you would find differences: city residents had an interest in action because they valued accessible outdoor spaces that enhanced their quality of life; rural residents sought to protect the land that served as their livelihood and allowed them to have a higher quality of life.
Given the complexities surrounding this value it may seem odd that the vaguely defined “betterness” was sufficient to produce a detailed, specific law (one containing enumerated, specific goals). After all, everyone may love PB&Js but that love could be strained by choices over the type of jam, the style of spreading the peanut butter, and whether to toast the bread. That Oregonians’ love for their state’s natural quality of life could transcend nitty-gritty policy details and traditional “us”/”them” barriers shows the depth of residents’ regard for “betterness”—you may be willing to compromise on jam selection if you care enough about having a PB&J.
Historian Carl Abbott makes clear that the amorphous environmental values held sufficiently deeply by sufficiently influential people made it possible for SB 100 to pass. The debate around SB 100 generally did not dig to a depth that would show the differences between members of “us.” Instead, the conversation around SB 100 opted to focus on the most widely held value—the need to maintain Oregon’s overall “betterness”—while empowering local communities to define their specific conception of it. The emergence of this value built the broadest “us” Oregon had ever seen.
The “happy coincidence” that made such a widely held value possible also applied to the norms that directed “us” toward specific solutions. Sullivan also documented “a commonly held belief that planning and regulation could avoid future problems.” Such agreement maintained the cohesiveness of “us.” The debate around protecting and extending Oregon’s betterness did not have to dive into touchy topics such as whether the government had any role in defending Oregon against adverse environmental changes and greedy economic developers. A norm was already in place: engage with the government to find a proper solution. The scope of the debate, then, was narrower—not whether the government should intervene but how.
Politicians knew the depth of Oregonians’ reverence for its physical attributes. They also sensed alignment around the norm of using planning and regulation. With these conditions met, politicians felt comfortable taking bold action. DeGrove reinforced this point, “Many State leaders perceive[d] that this special feeling for the State result[ed] in political support for growth management initiatives that would be, and are, considered unlikely, if not impossible, in other States.” DeGrove’s findings highlight that leaders in this era could achieve unlikely policy outcomes because of the political common ground paved by shared values and the policy solutions pointed to by established norms. But identifying concentrate policy from this sea of seemingly overlapping values did not occur by happenstance; it was the product of three specific norms.
Norm #1: Problem solving over partisan grandstanding
Legislators exhibited the first norm. Though party lines existed in the early 1970s, legislators had established a norm of crossing them when they knew that doing so would benefit their constituents and the state on the whole; in other words, they formed a community connected by a commitment to solving problems. If it sounds cheesy and cliché to suggest this era was distinct, two facts help convey that the cliché rings at least somewhat true.
Fact one: the “system” was better designed to advance a norm of collaboration and community. During this political era, former Governor McCall staffer Doris Penwell recounts that legislators actually knew one another. These relationships were possible, in part, because the press wasn't as focused on selling scandals and digging up dirt. The media’s focus on actual news liberated legislators to more openly discuss their priorities and personal lives. This was especially true for the governor. Whereas the media openly and regularly covered the trials and tribulations of Governor Kitzhaber’s son in the early 2010s, Penwell asserts that the media regarded the struggles of Governor McCall’s son as beyond the scope of their reporting bailiwick. With journalists removed from the personal sphere of politicians, Oregon’s officials could more freely socialize with “enemies,” share gossip on “friends,” and establish genuine rapports with one another. Legislators, lobbyists, and the press still partied together at this time. Yes, I mean partied. They regularly attended the local bar following the close of the day’s business and participated in the same recreational sports leagues.
Fact two: when arguments did occur, they did not always break down neatly along party lines. John Burns, a Democrat from Condon, secured the Senate presidency in 1971 with bipartisan backing (notably, it was the Republican support he received that made the difference). Governor Kulongoski, a state legislator at the time of Burns’ election, remembers partisanship surely contributing to some votes cast for or against Burns during an intense, prolonged leadership election. Still, few can imagine Republican votes for any Democratic candidate in modern times. What enabled Burns to win was his relationships with legislators on the other side of the aisle; they knew him and they trusted him. This norm of pragmatic politicking created space for the legislators to act on their mutual concern for the lofty, vague goals ascribed to them by Abbott: “Oregonians in the twentieth century have liked what they have, and they have wanted rather smugly to protect it against unwanted change.” Legislators during this era sensed unwanted change—the suburbanization of Oregon’s rural communities—and worked to prevent it.
That sense brought together what today would be assumed to be a group of politically color-blind legislators—how else would so many officials be convinced to work with Red and Blue colleagues? Collaboration crossed party lines as well as geographical ones. Urban interests (such as those conveyed and carried by Representative Nancie Fadeley of Eugene and Senator Ted Hallock of Portland) may have been the impetus for action, but rural passion pushed the Senate Bill 100 over the threshold. Senator Hector MacPherson, a Linn County dairy farmer, expressed the rural perspective and rallied colleagues from nearby geographies and ideologies to support SB 100.
Equal, constant support from urban and rural communities alike was never fully achieved. Disparate regional support usually indicates an issue but the shifting nature of support served as a testament to the bill’s encapsulation of the Oregon Way. SB 100 fell short of the support of all Oregonians and at various times received praise from urban communities and scorn from rural communities, only to have the regions flip-flop in their stances a few years later. This cycle of SB 100-cynicism and -championing actually contributed to the legislation’s longevity. Former State Senator Arnie Rolan, when looking back on the bill, quipped “strange bedfellows make for stronger policy.” The overlapping, interwoven, and varying support for the bill helped everyone feel like they had a stake in its perpetuation, albeit at different times.
Norm #2: Proactive (and mandated) civic participation
Passage of SB 100 did not ensure community support for the sweeping overhaul of land use planning. After all, it was a complex bill. In response to Senate Bill 10, which passed in 1969, failing to live up to its stated objective of having counties produce land use controls with the intent of preserving agricultural land, Governor McCall campaigned for re-election in 1970 on reforming the bill to have more of an impact. The product of that effort was Senate Bill 100. Its success was linked to its active solicitation of local input.
Improvements to SB 10 in SB 100 included mandating city and county comprehensive plans that adhered to state-defined goals, requiring that those plans be certified as compliant with said goals, designating specific areas for protection by the state, and more clearly defining the state's role in land use planning. The Land Conservation and Development Commission (LCDC) was charged with developing the statewide goals and guidelines in addition to maintaining a land use inventory. Importantly, the Commission could require a city or county to modify its plan to more closely implement state goals. In its first iteration, the bill asserted more state authority to enforce modifications. The legislative gauntlet resulted in this and other burdens on local governments being eased to allow them more autonomy and flexibility in compliance.
Planning may not outwardly appear as a good indicator of the strength of a Way but reading between the provisions of Senate Bill 100 adds evidence to the legislation’s unique representation of the Oregon Way. In terms of processes, the legislation listed facilitating citizen participation as the top goal for LCDC to identify when evaluating a local government’s compliance. This provision marked an evolution in the Way from a reactive, leader-driven solicitation of stakeholder input to a proactive, legally-mandated engagement with the public at the local level. By codifying civic participation, the bill was destined to influence both establishing democratic processes and priming a value of civic participation within Oregonians.
Norm #3: Iterative, inclusive decision making
The spirit of the goals of SB 100, even before they were formally codified, infiltrated the legislative process behind passing the bill. Whether by osmosis or conscious planning, legislators applied that spirit to the drafting process. They practiced the legislation’s eventual goals by insisting on a participatory, iterative style. Iterative decision making as a norm meant that it became harder for Oregonians to feel left behind and powerless as SB 100 was created and, later, amended. Legislators reached out to their constituents, social institutions, and relevant stakeholders to review several iterations of the final goal list:
One estimate held that in addition to the 10,000 Oregonians participating directly in this goal development process, more than 100,000 viewed television programs dealing with the development of the goals and guidelines, confirming the notion that citizens of Oregon seem especially willing to dedicate their time and energy to the consideration of major public matters.
If Oregonians were a captive audience, then state officials were happy to meet their informational needs. The enthusiastic outreach from officials indicated that the serial consultation of constituents wasn’t for show; the participatory norm developed an expectation for meaningful, regular engagement among residents and regulators. DeGrove recounts that the State used all available means to receive robust feedback on the goals. (If you are skeptical of why so much energy went into these goals, it is worth noting that the goals carry the full force of the law and would shape plans with decades-long implications). Newspapers, direct mailers, and public library resource centers carried the goals around the state. Civic participation and consultation did not end there. Local governments had to regularly adjust their own land use plans, a process that required engaging with and listening to the public.
The Role of Social Institutions and Democratic Processes
A conversation between the people and their local government was just one link in a chain of collaborative iterating. Another link connected State and local governments. By allowing for local government to have some flexibility within the confines of the State’s vision, the norm for community-based decision was further entrenched. Finally, the bill linked social institutions to communities as well as to State and local governments. It was no secret that 1000 Friends of Oregon and other nonprofits planned to play a watchdog role over the eventual implementation of the bill; their looming oversight influenced the actual legislation and empowered them to form manifold relationships with stakeholders. Social institutions were intent on making sure the legislation lived up to its potential and learned from its legal predecessors, such as SB 10.
Looking even further behind the bill’s provisions reveals how the 1970s marked a unique time for the Oregon Way and strengthened the links of collaboration. The leading proponent of the bill, Senator Macpherson, had the formal route to passage denied...so he found a different strategy that reflected how adept Oregon society at large had become at rallying behind good policy, regardless of partisan inclination. Macpherson originally tried to earn the support of the Senate leadership to create an official study group of land use laws between legislative sessions. He planned to guide the group through a methodical review of Oregon's growth management strategy. When leadership foiled that plan—breaking one link in the chain, Macpherson persisted by pulling on another connection—social institutions and State government.
He gathered an ad hoc group of business group representatives, environmental advocates, local government leaders, and other legislators. In short, Macpherson likely benefited from being denied a more traditional study of a tricky legislative topic. His diverse group allowed him to tap into the full force of the Oregon Way by grounding the effort in the community and implementing a more inclusive process from the start.
The lead up to the bill’s passage as well as its final provisions embodied the Oregon Way but that did not guarantee its implementation would as well. A positive response to the legislation depended on the strength of the norm of participation—this time by constituents in particular. State officials recognized the norm of inclusive decision making and promptly set about gathering input from Oregonians in every corner of the state. “Even before DLCD had found an office in Salem,” Abbott recounts that the emergent agency, “had two vans on the road fully equipped as ‘rolling public involvement shows’ with projectors, easels, poster board, overheads, and aspirin.” This outreach would have been fruitless were it not for Oregonians’ interest in collaborating with the state.
How Demographics Influenced SB 100
A spectator to the passage and initial implementation of SB 100 may have hypothesized that a participatory spirit was in Oregon’s soil. Newcomers to Oregon, of which there were many in the 1970s, eagerly adopted the norm of participation exhibited by old-time Oregonians. Importantly, new Oregonians came not to change the community’s they newly called home but to experience them as they were. Migrants to Oregon at this time “were [sic] anxious to preserve the rural and small-town Oregon lifestyle.” Michael Hibbard, Professor Emeritus at the University of Oregon, argues that this mindset resulted in some of Oregon’s newest residents engaging more passionately in the state’s political processes. Every new resident, like the resettlers long before them, left something behind to establish roots in Oregon; they wanted to protect the Oregon soil that lured them to uproot in the first place.
Newcomers distributed themselves across the state, rather than just in the urban centers. The early 1970s was a period of nearly unparalleled growth in Oregon’s nonmetropolitan areas; a trend that mirrored a national surprise—the interval between 1970 to 1973 marked the first time in decades that nonmetropolitan population growth exceeded the growth in metro areas. The growth in nonmetropolitan Oregon challenged the area’s farming character but also raised its political clout.This dispersal had political and economic ramifications because it marked a stark reversal from previous decades. David Peterson del Mar points out that in 1940 farmers made up 20 percent of the state’s population, a slice that skinnied down to five percent by 1970. With a decline in population, came a decline in political relevance; so the migrants in the 1970s led to a brief reversal in rural Oregon’s trajectory.
With new energy coming from population growth in rural areas, political power in the state was geographically diffuse. This meant that SB 100 had to weigh several competing priorities and account for the unique nature of hundreds of communities to achieve its broad goals. Accordingly, people from Pilot River to Pendleton to Portland felt that the bill at least in part considered their unique daily environment and incorporated feedback from their representatives. Population growth throughout the state also made different corners of the state more similar. Political power was contained within a relatively narrow ideological band. Just ten points separated the most Democratic county from the least Democratic county during these decades. Legislators responded to these population and ideological trends by trying to pass truly statewide, (relatively) nonpartisan legislation.
Skeptics of the rigor and representativeness of community engagement in this era may point out that participation was likely confined to the wealthy and partisan. Instead research found that participation in planning efforts, such as those hosted by neighborhood associations in Portland, fostered similar levels of participation across racial and socioeconomic lines. SB 100 and other deliberative democratic processes created a process that participants described as “a ‘professional game’ where anyone (citizen, professional, politician) who plays by the rules can have access.”
And, when residents participated, the meetings more frequently produced outcomes that reflected informed community consensus. This finding reasserts the uniqueness of SB 100 and this political era: Oregonians were united by values so deep within their core that they could see passed partisanship and geography; they had to stand unified (or close to it) against a threat to what they cared most about—the livability of their land.
The success of this whole SB 100 effort, in Abbott’s opinion, came from “the state’s character [which] has made it relatively easy to find a satisfying middle ground that seems to assure the greatest good for the greatest number of people.” The reason this deliberative and methodical approach allowed the state’s character to shine through comes from the aforementioned demographic shifts. The 1970s were still a time during which doing the greatest good for the greatest number of people sufficiently tilted policy makers toward truly garnering a statewide understanding of the issue. Eventually, as will be discussed later, doing the greatest good for the greatest number of people could be easily construed as doing whatever was greatest for Portland-area residents.
“Those Who Could Read Went to Oregon”: the Unifying Trait of Being Anti-California
The 1970s were also among the final years in which a unifying message—being the opposite of California—was a rallying cry for a relatively non-Californian population. It was a message voiced as early as the 1840s when resettlers to Oregon took pride in turning north toward a more simple lifestyle rather than heading south to California to try to quickly stake out riches earned through the Gold Rush. The story goes that a fork in the Oregon Trail was a sorting mechanism delineating the greedy and smart pioneers. The former followed the trail marked by a pile of gold-bearing quartz south to California; the latter took the route with the sign that read "to Oregon." True or false, the retelling of this story reinforces Oregonian’s sense of betterness—they (wisely) chose Oregon over anywhere else for a reason whereas California’s resettlers merely chased gold.
Though being anti-any state surely fails every political correctness test, the general skepticism toward “outsiders” from places like California served to dampen discord between Oregon “insiders.” Oregon’s Constitution writers looked to California and consciously drafted provisions to avoid the same degree of commercialization. McCall and others looked to California much later and again used it as the foil to designing an Eden in Oregon; they made it clear that preserving livability in Oregon necessitated intentional efforts to not look like California.
The 1970s, especially the early 1970s, exhibited substantial overlap in Oregon. Power centers crisscrossed the Cascades instead of emanating solely from Portland. Popular sentiments against California (and what it stood for) connected communities in every corner of the state. Pulp production, agricultural goods, and other natural resource exports meant that metro residents and rural residents had a respect for each other’s work as well as an understanding of its importance to Oregon’s quality of life and quantity of economic activity. Each overlap amplified the other and fueled the aspects of the Oregon Way.
Governor McCall’s Effect on “Us”
The previously mentioned threat to livability was embodied by Governor McCall’s most well-known pieces of oratory: Pollution in Paradise and his “Visit but don’t stay” quip. McCall’s documentary gave Oregonians an image to convey that threat—environmental degradation. McCall’s quip gave them an enemy to blame for that threat—commercially-minded outsiders and unchecked commercialism. So if you found yourself among McCall’s broad Oregon family, which meant merely living in the state and being opposed to the destruction of Oregon’s natural resources and environment, then you found yourself among the protagonists in McCall’s Oregon Story.
The scale of demographic shifts in Oregon eventually posed more of a challenge than an asset to the Way. Specific demographic changes made certain shared values harder to retain. While McCall’s message spread, the trickle of Californians into Oregon became a wave. “What's worth noting [about Oregon’s demographics],” according to Kevin Quely and other New York Times researchers, “is the influx of Californians that began in the 1970s and has grown ever since. The proportion of Californians to native Oregonians is now, [2014], roughly equivalent to that of New York transplants living among people born in New Jersey.” The ramifications of these changes took time to fully develop.
The Governor’s message initially gained strength by pointing a finger at Californians and not at any average Oregonian. Californians were an easy target and easily characterized as the business-oriented bogeymen he needed to rally Oregonians behind. Rather than condemn natural resource-based economic activity in rural Oregon for environmental woes, he could lambast commercially-focused Californians. By avoiding an anti-rural Oregon message, his story cut across urban/rural lines. His story also made being an Oregonian feel as special as being born royalty. Oregonians, McCall believed, had been bequeathed a special gift—the beauty and bounty of Oregon—that also served as the ultimate responsibility—preparing to pass along the same gift to the next generation. This gift and duty bound Oregonians together.
As noted, in comparison to previous eras of the Oregon Way, this conception of the community was much broader and less tied to socioeconomic status, race, and ethnicity. “Us” under McCall was relatively broad from the outset but the eventual increase in Californians in Oregon forced “us” to become even more inclusive. And, adjusting “us” did not come easily.
McCall received flack for his “Visit but don’t stay” quip. He ultimately clarified his remarks to emphasize his intent: he did not want to exclude any business or individual from moving into Oregon. However, the Governor stressed to new Oregonians that entry into Oregon ought to be paired with participation in his Oregon Story, respect for the Oregon Way, and adoption of the special responsibility assigned to all Oregonians.
“We are not willing to take any industry at any price. The industry must come here on our terms, play the game by our environmental rules, and be members of the Oregon family.” The notion of the Oregon family stands out in Governor McCall’s remarks. Like a father, he celebrated the addition of new kids, but expected them to share in the family’s daily practices and defer to the family’s norms and values. Also like a father, McCall loved talking about his family members as well as his family’s story. He rarely missed an opportunity to turn what appeared to be a straightforward policy or economic matter into another subplot of his family’s Oregon Story. His repetition of this story and development of the tenets of the Oregon Way meant that his time in office had a massive impact on the strength of Oregon’s political culture. That high degree of strength carried SB 100 over legislative hurdles the size of Mt. Adams. But that strength had to be developed by more than McCall’s anecdotes and punchlines; the use of the Oregon Way is like a muscle—it grows stronger with use and gains utility through exposure to new exercises.
SB 100’s Predecessor: the Bottle Bill
The strength required to send SB 100 over the hurdle posted by legislature was partially developed during a prior episode in Oregon’s history; today, Oregonians refer to it as the story of the Bottle Bill. Like SB 100, the implementation Bottle Bill required every tenet of the Oregon Way to be aligned. A traditional retelling of the story of Oregon’s landmark anti-pollution measure only partially examines how the Way influenced the legislative process. That is because most histories, including the state’s own recounting of House Bill 1036, neglect one crucial aspect of the Bottle Bill’s development—Richard Chambers.
When Oregonians hear about the Bottle Bill, they think of Governor McCall. It is an important word association that has bolstered Oregonian’s reverence for McCall, identification with his Oregon family, and belief in his Oregon Story. As most have heard it, Governor McCall championed the Bottle Bill, which provided Oregonians with an economic incentive (a refund for every returned bottle) to clean up their liquid litter. That few people try to correct this history, let alone question it, evidences the depth of reverence for McCall in the collective memory of Oregonians. A more accurate overview at once preserves McCall’s central role in the process (thus, keeping his stature high) while simultaneously increasing awareness of the tenets of the Oregon Way.
A shared value for keeping Oregon...Oregon drove Richard Chambers and Governor McCall to become the fathers of the Bottle Bill. But only Governor McCall claimed paternity. Richard Chambers, however, was the biological father whereas McCall merely adopted the bill. The birth of the bill speaks to how the Oregon Way can lead the state toward historic outcomes. The maturation of the bill, guided by its fathers, traces a corresponding maturation in the strength of the Way in the late 1960s and into the early 1970s.
Chambers, according to his wife, traversed just about every high and low, trail and path, river and peak known to Oregon. He loved the state’s natural landscape and never tired of exploring it with the energy of a person twenty years his younger. As much as he loved Oregon he hated the piles of bottles that he picked up along his way up and down the Cascades, Coast Range, and beach.
Chambers may have never started his crusade against crap without having a destination in mind. His hikes were motivated by reaching specific points, so it follows that his legislative endeavor would also be influenced by achieving a specific outcome. His knowledge or at least feeling for the Oregon Way meant that he believed that a good idea could navigate the legislature and become law. Through the prism of the Way, Chambers identified a trail to reach a glorious outcome: trash-free hiking.
After completing another hike lined with more evergreen-shaded bottles than evergreen trees, Chambers decided something had to change. The pollution had become more than a nuisance—it was a stain on Oregon’s natural landscape. In response, he studied what other jurisdictions were doing to combat the bottle blight. Vermont had passed a bottle bill (though the bottle lobby eventually succeeded in reversing it). And, of course, the Low Countries, such as Sweden, had enacted various measures to limit bottle-based pollution, as had British Columbia. The hardy hiker realized that Oregon could do the same. But first he needed to learn from someone with knowledge of the legislative wilderness that is Oregon’s state capitol.
A call to Chambers’s friend, Paul Hanneman, proved valuable. Hanneman won election to the Oregon House in 1968 and at the time of Chambers’ call he was still in his freshman term. Once Chambers had Hanneman on the line it only took a little cajoling before the Representative agreed to advance Chambers’ idea as a bill in the upcoming 1969 session. Chambers’ coalition now numbered two. Both Chambers and Hanneman knew that they could not fight for such a significant bill with their numerically inconsequential team of two.
They started reaching out to others fed up with the destruction of Oregon’s outdoors. The pair tapped into a robust network of social institutions. From garden clubs to grange members, environmental organizations to outdoorsmen’s groups, the duo welcomed any social institution that shared their interest in reducing eye-sores along eye-opening vistas and trails. This ragtag regiment did not stipulate participation on an institution’s or individual’s motivation nor on purity of ideology. They broadly defined “us” and welcomed hunters and naturalists, city-slickers and country folks. A census of Chambers’ group evidences that the Oregon Way has a unique ability to bring people together and direct them toward taking action. This episode in McCall’s Oregon epic, therefore, had already crossed off two tenets of the Oregon Way: shared values and social institutions. The remaining two came about when the coalition acted on a norm of participation made possible through open democratic processes.
What Chambers’ group lacked in stature and political clout, they made up for in will power. Chambers never tired of reaching out to legislators. He typed out hundreds of letters over the span of his advocacy to ensure every House and Senate member knew about his idea. Chambers’ letters blanketed unsuspecting Capitol offices like a sneaker wave clearing out a beach. Initially an unknown quantity, Chambers became part of the Salem conversation. He did so without experience, without coaching, and without external resources. Coalition members followed his lead. They argued forcefully against the out-of-town bottle-backing lobbyists that represented manufacturers. Though Chambers was occasionally withdrawn from his own coalition (preferring to advocate alone), the group remained focused and emulated Chambers’ tenacity to get involved in the Capitol. Despite their best efforts, the coalition jointly formed the equivalent of a high school team in comparison to the Golden State Warriors-esque lobbyists that had the good fortune of possessing both resources and experience.
The lobbyists employed their substantial endowment effectively (and unethically). The promises made and threats delivered by the “Can Cartel” likely swayed then-Speaker of the House Robert F. Smith to slide the bill into what was dubbed the Speaker’s Committee. Normally, this placement would have marked the bill’s death but the tenets of the Oregon Way conspired to bring it out. Representative Carrol Howe, a Republican member of the committee and fishing pal of Representative Hanneman, unexpectedly flipped like a fish on the Speaker and voted to move the bill forward. Her support proved this was a time in which principles could still win out over partisan loyalties and promises of financial backing from lobbyists. Though the bill escaped the Speaker’s grasp and made it to the House floor, it stalled there. Chambers would have to find another way forward.
That way went through the Governor’s office. Governor McCall, a tepid supporter of the first iteration of the bill, decided to champion the second version. According to Brent Walth, the shift in the scale of the Governor’s support spawned from his belief that it could pass this time around. Depending on who you ask, Governor McCall intentionally held back fervent support for the 1969 version with the intent of lulling the bottling lobby into a relaxed state before the 1971 session or he undercut Chambers in a disingenuous way to claim the idea as his own in the ‘71 session. Regardless of McCall’s intent, his strategy worked—something even Representative Hanneman later admitted. In the interim between sessions, the thankful bottling lobby (having escaped Chambers’ clutch) followed through on an arrangement with McCall to form the Stop Oregon Litter and Vandalism (then, SOLV). The earliest version of SOLV (now, SOLVE) fell well short of where it stands in the modern minds of environmentalists. The first iteration pushed out public awareness campaigns with the force of a mini horse; it follows that Oregonian’s behavior did not change. Behind the scenes, McCall took advantage of the bottlers’ lack of concern.
The next session in 1971 brought an end to the inadequate response to bottle-based pollution. Political pressure from external stakeholders combined with the political power of Governor McCall made the difference. By the start of session, the joint (though non-coordinated) efforts of Chambers and McCall created an aura of inevitability around the Bottle Bill. Chambers continued to prime legislators with letters and calls. McCall used speeches to signal his deep support for the bill. Legislators correctly read the tea leaves and started the session ready to take action. Their collective will to pass the revived legislation grew as the bottling lobby strayed further and further from the Oregon Way. When lobbyists offered legislators bribes, they sealed their fate and McCall’s victory. Legislators, such as Betty Roberts, shared news of clandestine conversations with lobbyists that involved offers of bribes for “no” votes. Roberts’ revelations exploded through the capitol like a shaken soda; the ensuing explosion of disgust for the bottling lobby sent the bill clear through both chambers as few legislators wanted to be associated with lobbyists with such disregard for Oregon’s norms and values.
Richard Chambers’ legacy provides modern Oregonians with a useful test for assessing the strength of the Oregon Way: can one individual, in a short amount of time, use the legislative process to affect long-lasting change? Chambers relied on his values, community norms, open democratic processes, and independent, strong social institutions to turn a complaint into a country-leading bill. As McCall predicted, Oregon became the leading domino that sparked a cascade of legislation around the nation. Judged against this test, the likelihood of a similar approach succeeding today seems low.
For one, Oregonians commonly lack Chambers’ demonstrated familiarity with the tenets of the Way. The pervasiveness of the Oregon Way in the 1970s meant that Chambers and his immediate allies were aware of how to act on their policy idea. Consider that Chambers knew his state representative. Not many folks do so today. Consider that legislators read Chambers’ personalized (and eccentric) pieces of mail; they truly valued his input. Today, legislative inboxes are filled with form letters crafted not out of true passion but rather out of a clear laziness to actually work on an issue. Consider that back then partisan sparring partners united in a fight against non-Oregonian lobbyists and that legislators crossed party lines for a friend in need and a cause that advanced shared values. Today, the Capitol halls are crowded with lobbyists with only loose ties to Oregon who seek to advance niche, corporate interests. And, today, the Capitol’s legislative chambers are increasingly home to party purists that rarely have the equivalent of a fishing buddy on the opposite side of the aisle.
The legislative story of the Bottle Bill and its adoption of bipartisan amendments since then attest to the strength of Oregon’s norms, specifically incrementalism and moderation. Governor McCall had the intellectual humility to see that a great idea is sometimes best argued for as a good idea that can reach its greatness down the road. His willingness to compromise, deliberate, and wait changed the nature of the litter debate. Yes, Chambers’ immense sense of place got the wheels going and heads turning, but McCall drove the vehicle for Chambers’ aspirations to its storied place in Oregon history.
With the bottle victory behind him, McCall crystalized his reputation for environmental leadership. His penchant for playing the long-term game, exhibited in the 1969 and 1971 sessions, allowed him to preserve more relational bridges than had he blown up dams to try to hastily move the legislation. This approach meant McCall was primed for success in the SB 100 efforts.
The Legacy of McCall’s Story
McCall crafted an Oregon Story. It had victims, villains, and, of course, heroes. Like all stories, it neglected certain subplots and undervalued certain voices. In trying to compose a statewide story, McCall occasionally left out marginalized and oppressed communities such as workers that lost their jobs as a result of his unabashed environmental agenda. McCall’s story also masked his own shortfalls, which are thoroughly documented by historians such as del Mar. People in the del Mar camp point out several major concerns with the Oregon Story: McCall’s Oregon-centric jargon jarred job-seekers from other states; his handling of the economy deserves harsh criticism from those that suffered in the economic lows of the 1980s; and, his attacks on the business community and elites often lacked nuance and, as a result, isolated certain Oregonians.
These critiques have merit. But McCall’s legacy and his Oregon Story did more to unite disparate Oregon communities than to tear them down. When telling his story, McCall broadened Oregon’s homogeneity beyond race and ethnicity. His definition of “us” was grounded in respect for Oregon. This expansive “us” inspired a wide range of Oregonians to see the state as more than a poorly drawn square. His story turned arbitrary lines into firm borders surrounding a place worth protecting. A broad desire to protect the state helped the Oregon Way evolve into an established pathway to achieve necessary action.
Some Oregonians still felt like “them” under McCall. This sense of otherness, though, only grew in the absence of McCall’s clear vision for the state. As that vision faded, the four legs underpinning the Oregon Way started to wobble and the muscle began to weaken.
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