A Tale of Two Cities

No, I'm not talking about the classic Dickens story. I'm actually thinking of a completely different story entirely. Do you remember the old fable about the scorpion and the frog?

A scorpion asks a frog for a ride across a river. The frog hesitates, understandably. But the scorpion offers a reassuring argument: “If I sting you, we will both drown.”

Lulled into a sense of security, the frog agrees.

Halfway across, the scorpion stings him anyway. As they begin to sink, the frog asks why.

“I couldn’t help it,” the scorpion replies. “It’s in my nature.”

The frog had counted on their shared interest in reaching the other side. It seemed like protection enough.

I was having a conversation recently with a fellow community leader about the future of our town. Somewhere along the way, we arrived at a realization I suspect many people in our generation are having.

We are becoming the people we used to assume would handle things.

I suppose I expected a little more notice. A letter, perhaps. Some instructions would have been helpful.

For years, certain names seemed permanently attached to the work of the community. Gerald Hall, Donna Clark, Niels Andersen, John Teusink, among others. They knew the history. They understood how things got done. They carried responsibilities I knew little about and appreciated even less.

Now those responsibilities are finding their way to us. The town keeps moving, and our turn comes along with it.

Our conversation turned toward growth and what it means to secure the heritage we have inherited. That was when he told me about his hometown on the east side of Michigan.

It had been a small town when he left. When he returned, its population had grown by the thousands.

As he described it, multilevel buildings had replaced historic buildings along Main Street. Large condominium developments surrounded the scenic lake. The familiar landscape had changed so thoroughly that he found the place unrecognizable.

Then came the part of his story that stayed with me.

Many people who had grown up there could no longer afford to live there. Some had moved to more affordable communities, priced out of the place they called home.

The town had grown. Their ability to remain part of it had diminished.

He called it a cautionary tale.

I thought of it as the scorpion and the frog.

There is comfort in believing that everyone involved in a town’s growth has a shared interest in its future. Surely, if the town prospers, we all prosper with it.

But those interests don't always line up. An investor may realize a return and move on. The people who live here will make their lives among the consequences. We should understand that difference before accepting an assurance that growth will benefit everyone.

There is something deeply personal about a hometown. We carry a version of it around inside us everywhere we go. An ordinary corner can bring back something that happened thirty years ago with surprising clarity.

Other people pass that same corner carrying memories of their own. Over time, those overlapping attachments give a town much of its meaning.

Growth adds new chapters to that story. Someone opening a business is placing a little faith in Cedar Springs. A family moving here is hoping to build a life. Their children will develop attachments to places we pass every day. Someday, they will have hometown stories of their own.

That is a future worth welcoming.

But welcoming growth does not mean surrendering our judgment about what comes with it.

A few months ago, I stood before our city council during a discussion about a "Red Flannel Town" wall medallion. On the agenda, it was a question about something hanging on a wall. To me, it raised a larger question about the direction of the town.

What are we using as our measure of success?

More investment? More expensive buildings? A different clientele entirely?

Those things may be signs of economic activity. But they don't, by themselves, tell us whether life is getting better for the people who call Cedar Springs home.

That depends on whom the development is meant to serve.

Are we investing in a future the people already here can share in? Or are we building a town they may eventually have to leave, making room for people with greater means?

New residents, visitors, and investors can certainly contribute to Cedar Springs. But welcoming them should not require us to overlook the needs of the people who already make their lives here.

When we talk about attracting people who can afford more, we should also be talking about what happens to those who cannot. Will they share in the opportunities we are creating? Will they still be able to afford a home here? Will the town continue to value their presence and their contributions?

At what point does the cost of growth become too high and who is being asked to pay it?

If our measure of success counts the money coming into town but overlooks the people who have to leave, it is an incomplete measure.

Before that council meeting, I had asked people whether they wanted our Red Flannel identity restored to public spaces. More than 1,200 people responded. Of those respondents, over 99 percent resoundingly said yes.

It was an informal poll, not a scientific survey. But the response was substantial, and the attachment it expressed deserved to be taken seriously.

People care about this identity, and I'm not speaking specifically of the "Red Flannel" identity. It goes well beyond any actual "thing." I'm speaking of the town's identity, regardless of what that is. They want to see it reflected in the town they share.

The identity represents generations of people gathering, volunteering, celebrating their neighbors, and making a life together. It represents, in the most literal sense, those who built the town and became lights by which others could follow. We should be able to welcome investment without treating that inheritance as irrelevant.

Restoring visual symbols of the town's heritage does not, by itself, secure a community’s future. But the way we treat that symbol says something about whether we value the town we have inherited, and the people whose lives gave it meaning.

That is the concern I brought to the council, and it remains my concern now: Are we pursuing economic development at any cost? Does that development serve those already here, or a different class entirely?

There is nothing wrong with beautiful architecture or ambitious plans. But I would hate to see us acquire grand buildings and, along with them, an attitude that the town those buildings replaced was somehow beneath us.

A community should not have to become more expensive to be considered more worthy.

The people of Cedar Springs should be able to see themselves in the future plans for their hometown. They should have a reasonable chance to remain part of it.

Those are fair concerns to have over decisions whose consequences may last for generations.

They also reach into the meaning of heritage.

An old building carries history through its walls. Longtime residents carry it through memory. Both help us understand where we are and how we got here.

Honoring that inheritance comes easily when we are telling stories about the town we love. Securing it asks something of us when a decision is on the table and someone is waiting for an answer.

That is where our generation’s responsibility is becoming real.

It is vital to note: Progress isn't bad. Not when it serves those who have to live with the consequences of that progress. This editorial is in no way to express opposition to progress, but only to say it must be done carefully and considerably.

Decisions made during our turn will become the surroundings someone else grows up accepting as ordinary. Years from now, a child living here today may return and measure those decisions against the town they remember.

I hope they find familiar places still full of life. I hope someone they know calls their name from across the street.

I hope coming home remains something they can afford to do.

What began as a conversation about another town left me thinking about our own. Here in Cedar Springs, we still have choices ahead of us. We can ask difficult questions while there is time for the answers to still be impactful. We can decide what we are willing to entrust to a promise and what needs to be secured before we proceed.

The frog’s mistake was accepting a reassuring argument as a guarantee.

That is worth remembering while we are still on the riverbank.