Last week, our class presented our praxis project posters at the Festival of Scholars, a day of conference-style panels, poster sessions, performances, and other displays of student work. For my ENVS 350 poster, titled “Do Fallen Trees Build Character? Postlapsarian Knowledge in a Post-Logging Town,” the most common question I received from poster-viewers was “What is postlapsarian?” Although I do include the Oxford English Dictionary definition of postlapsarian (“occurring after or consequent on the fall of mankind” OED Online), on my poster, I found that simply explaining the definition of this giant word did not do much to further my audience’s understanding of my title.
Postlapsarian refers to the time period after the fall in man in Genesis, after Eve eats the apple, thus sinning and causing her and Adam to be expelled from the garden. This is “The Fall,” also referred to as the expulsion. This biblical allusion is the bread and butter of English majors at Lewis & Clark since each of us is required to read John Milton’s Paradise Lost in our survey course of British literature. Postlapsarian metaphors ring with nostalgia and utopianism and describe the story of loss embedded in the concept of original sin. The basic principle is this:
[table]
Prelapsarian, Original Sin, Postlapsarian
Adam and Eve live happily and blissfully in the garden., Eve eats the forbidden fruit and commits the original sin., God expels Adam and Eve from the garden and mankind is forever marred by original sin.
[/table]
There are plenty of environmental values and arguments about the prelapsarian vs postlapsarian relationship of humankind to nature, but my intent of using this particular big and inaccessible word is rather to describe a narrative trope that has been around for millennia. As Doreen Massey explores in “Landscape as a Provocation,” the Fall is as apt metaphor to describe certain viewpoints of the human relationship to nature. Specifically, these viewpoints consider nature and mankind to be separate and nature to be pure whereas mankind is not pure. Thus, as mankind interacts and intervenes with nature, the world at large experiences a net loss of purity (measured in biodiversity, spirituality, or many other ways humans try to count the intangibles of non-human nature). Purity is another big word with tremendous value judgements implicit in its usage and often indicates a favorable state of being.
Where notions of nature’s purity come into play most obviously in Douglas County is in the environmentalist’s narrative of habitat loss due to over-harvest of timber via clear cuts. Old-growth, with its mystical rhetoric and spotted owl inhabitants was (and remains) a exemplar of the pure-non-human-nature camp. To rescue the forest from the loggers’ chainsaws, as the environmentalists claim to have partially accomplished, is to preserve the purity of the remaining old growth forests. This is the situation that Massey poses: humans logging old-growth = inherent loss.
However, for those who remember the 1960s and 1970s of Douglas County, the saving of the old growth is not a bet gain. As we learned from Boice and Robertson, the mid-century housing boom filled the Douglas County coffers to the brim and, instead of cutting funding for prisons, the old county commissioners had to sit around and decide what to do with a surplus. People were well off. The county was able to provide more than just basic services to its inhabitants. The county courthouse was built. Douglas County prospered. However, as slagflation of the 1980s affected the timber markets and the spotted owl was listed as an endangered species in 1990, Douglas County and its timber economic base suffered a severe loss of revenue. For those who remember the time before 1990 as a heyday of prosperity, the spotted owl listing becomes the “original sin” of the county, the moment that forever has tainted their once-utopic timber economy. Of course, this is a narrative metaphor that I am placing onto the history, but it resonates.
So far we have two opposing versions of The Fall: the environmental destruction of capitalist logging endeavors and the environmental laws that decimated the county economy. The spotted owl listing falls directly at the meeting place of these two trajectories, as the first step in reclaiming lost purity or as the moment of lapse itself.
However, among these narratives of progression and collapse, there is (at least) another interpretation. The young entrepreneurs who are brewing beer and eating pizza at vineyards with their young children don’t necessarily consider Douglas County to be a product of either of these stories. My impression of their version is this: Sure, there was a downturn in the economy after the spotted owl was listed. Sure, things were hard, but history like that builds character. Look at what Douglas County has to offer: wild and scenic places to recreate; rich soil and clean water for excellent agriculture, viticulture, and brewing; prices far more affordable than urbane Portland; and a whole lot of potential for growth. Here, there is a narrative of progress contingent upon a collapse. To these folks, the collapse was not as devastating as some would argue. However, as evident by low prices and empty downtown spaces, the collapse (read: lapse) is embedded in the landscape. This paves the way for a rebirth, as illustrated by the content of the Oregon Valley Verve. The magazine opens with a dedication to a newborn baby and ends with a the claim:
We are waking up to the dawn of a new era, embarking on a new era of our county.”
There is certainly a growing stronghold of hope in Douglas County. Perhaps this millennial generation of young entrepreneurs can indeed alter the culture and economy of Roseburg through agricultural and culinary touristic experiences and the promise of inexpensive good living.
These are conflicting ideas. These are conflicting narratives. There seems to be no easy answer and no viable solution, except perhaps to drink the local beer and breathe the fresh air, like Verve commands. There are great debates in environmental studies about the purpose or supremacy of optimism versus pessimism. Personally, I was quite attracted to the optimistic voices in Douglas County and convinced that Roseburg wouldn’t be a half-bad place to live. Of course, my generational identity falls much more in line with the young entrepreneurs than the retired county commissioners.
To answer my question, fallen trees might indeed build character, but what they really fuel are narratives about fallen trees (hence The Fall) which either end in a trajectory of progress, collapse, or progress contingent on collapse (and likely many many more versions). All of this knowledge constructs, or rather, provokes the place that is Douglas County. There is an understanding of the history, the science, and the society of Douglas County, but the narrative that is told differs by the perspective of the storytellers. This abbreviated and small-scale study illuminates how knowledge and information is employed through politics, commodity, and experience to reinforce specific narratives. In this specific place, the application of a literary trope holds a unique lens to the people and place of Douglas County and reveals key differences in the narratives told by various groups and individuals.