Clinton St. Quarterly, Vol. 4 No. 4 | Winter 1984 (Seattle) /// Issue 2 of 24 /// Master# 50 of 73

Two Days on the Road with JIM WE A VER Photos and story by David Milholland Congressional politics has largely become a bi-annual exercise in marketing those commodities known as political personalities. Surveys are conducted to ascertain what every man and woman is concerned about, and great sums of money are expended pumping out the most acceptable image through all available mediums. Votes are tallied, the generally predictable results are announced, we breathe a collective sigh of relief, and those few chosen souls leave our midst, cross the continent, and conduct our trillion-dollar affairs of state, largely out of sight and mind. It’s not a process that tends to yield up visionaries, or even leaders, and rarely does a person who goes consistently against the grain stay in office. In November 1974, sporting a new toupee, Jim Weaver won the seat of U.S. Representative from Oregon’s 4th District in his third attempt. His opponent, Republican John Dellen- back, stayed overlong in Washington, D.C., and when he arrived home, two weeks before the election, found himself buried in the tide of a depressed lumber industry, Watergate and Weaver’s new-found tonsorial splendor. As one of 435 members of the House, little should have been expected of Weaver in his first term. Yet by the end of those two years he had spoken out so strongly (and effectively) against what we’ve come to know as WPPSS, focusing on its financial weaknesses, that he’d isolated himself from the entire Northwest congressional delegation, which at that time strongly supported the burgeoning nuclear industry. I didn’t expect him to last for long. For he was bucking the cozy club, led by Sen. Henry “Scoop” Jackson, which The Oregonian celebrated as “the most powerful congressional team of any region in the country. ” For years it had brought us home more than our share of military-industrial plums (Hanford, Boeing, Ft. Lewis, now Trident) and had actually kept our electrical rates far below their real costs. Not content to stir up one lone hornet’s nest, Weaver simultaneously took on issues such as log exports, the creation of new wilderness areas and sustained yield that were anathema to his district’s largest industry, timber. Yet his first electoral victory was followed by three more — hard fought but effective. He was clearly doing something right, despite the labels the establishment press repeatedly lavished on him ... “abrasive" ... “not a team player" ... and that ultimate epitaph, “ineffective.” This October, though I suspected that Weaver was not seriously threatened in a district hard hit by Reaganomics, with record unemployment, mill closures, and no end in sight, I traveled to Eugene to spend two days on the campaign trail with the candidate. I wondered what Weaver would be telling his constituents, and what they’d have to say to him. And I hoped to find out what motivated this man, in the face of such ridicule from the powers that be. His district is a crazy, mixed-up world of rednecks, Deadheads, gyppos and lumber barons, Birchers and peaceniks. In some way, he has to represent, and appeal to them all. Day I I get off the bus as Eugene is start- X ing her day, with office workers and downtown types moving quickly through the light mist. I walk past the new Hult Performing Arts Center, which looks handsome and expensive in this moribund economy. Yet close by, in the public market, quaffing dark java and a whole wheat sweet roll, I sense that this is still a “love city,” where eco-politics have yet to succumb to the “jobs or death” psychology which always threatens to permeate a depressed locale. Two blocks away, in the otherwise morgue-like Federal Building, Weaver’s office is a beehive of activity. Despite a headquarters nearby, this is clearly the epicenter of reelection activity. Staff members seem young, attractive, and in a hurry. I am no sooner in the office than I’m hastened out the door, and minutes later His district is a crazy, mixed-up world of rednecks, Deadheads, gyppos and lumber barons, Birchers and peaceniks. In some way he has to represent, and appeal to them all. campaign aide Greg Skillman and I are dropped at the Weaver place a few miles southeast of Eugene. Weaver, and his young second wife Jane, burst from the house, a low-key, ranch-style place that bespeaks comfort more than wealth, and we bundle into his 1978 Chevette, ourtouring car for the next two days. Hardly spaClinton St. Quarterly 13

RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy NTc4NTAz