Once again I had to venture down to the dusty basement, fight off hordes of spider crickets and retrieve my soapbox. So what had me willing to risk my life to stand upon my soapbox and pontificate? (Those spider crickets have really gotten enormous over the last year.) A huge tidal wave in form of an increase in water bills was about to wash over all the residents of our sleepy, zombie-filled town.
Lucky for me, I didn’t have long to wait to vent my frustration with the “powers that be.” There was a city council meeting the very next night. Apparently, the council’s mismanagement of our small town caused such a drastic increase. There could be no other explanation. Being elected to office was more than just wanting to ride on a fire truck during parades. I was gonna let them know I wasn’t happy paying more.
It had been over eight years since I last ventured into the world of politics and spoke at a council meeting. When asked, The Wife said I could go, “Just make sure not to say or do anything that may be embarrassing — like last time.” Tough to keep such a promise, but the plea to behave was sealed with a kiss. How could I refuse?
With soapbox in the trunk, I pulled into the parking lot of the police station a little before 7 p.m. the next night. No, I wasn’t already in trouble. That’s just where the meeting was being held. Sitting in the car, I rehearsed my speech one last time. My argument was well thought out, convincing, and in a single word – perfect.
In this tough job market, asking folks for more money was just wrong; can’t waste be found anywhere in the city government and be cut? What about a smaller increase or shifting the cost to businesses instead of the residents? Why were they so uncaring to those on fixed income?
Walking through the front doors I was given a friendly greeting by two police officers and they asked if I had any weapons. I replied, “No, just my soapbox.” They showed me to the meeting room. I found the perfect seat – three rows over and the third seat back from the front of the room – and waited for my turn to speak. The meeting got underway, and this was the start to my perfect argument running off the rails.
The city manager presented a report explaining the reason for such a high increase in the cost of water. The culprit was a federal mandate to take care of storm water runoff, a mandate that wasn’t funded. Seems the city didn’t have a choice but to pass the cost along. Wasting money hadn’t been the cause of the increases after all. I patiently waited for my turn to speak, already knowing that the city didn’t have any choice but to pass along the cost increases.
Even so, I was still upset and wanted my say. That is, until the mayor asked for comments and the first concerned citizen spoke about his problems. After him, three others spoke. Then the conversation turned to signs, and the mayor asked for public input. That first concerned citizen walked to the podium and spoke again, but this time he was really, really concerned.
The meeting continued this way for almost two hours. During that time the concerned citizen commented and questioned everything before the council. Even to the point of arguing about three little words on page five of subsection two of the sign ordinance.
Through the entire barrage, they addressed and answered all of the citizen’s questions, being more polite and more patient than I ever would be. When the super overly concerned citizen finally sat down, I actually felt sorry for the entire council, especially the mayor. They were anything but uncaring. I’d been completely wrong.
I was about to leave when the mayor called my name to speak. Trying to hide under my soapbox didn’t work. He called my name a second time. As I made my way to the podium, my trusty soapbox was still next to my chair. I wasn’t going to need it after all.
After first thanking them for their service, I stated whatever the members of the council were being paid, it wasn’t enough. Already understanding the cause of the water rate increase being an unfunded federal mandate, I still asked my questions and they were all answered politely and professionally.
Once back home, I fought off the spider crickets, stored the soapbox back in the basement, and realized my rush to judge our local politicians was unfair.
Perhaps I’ve done the same to those folks in Washington. The Wife and I are traveling there next week for her father’s 80th birthday. Just to be safe, I think my carry-on will be my soapbox.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll get a chance to talk to Congress about my high water bill and inform them who actually pays for all those unfunded mandates.
[Rick Ryckeley, who lives in Senoia, served as a firefighter for more than two decades and has been a weekly columnist since 2001. His email is storiesbyrick@gmail.com. His books are available at www.RickRyckeley.com.]
