Reading the papers these days, you’d be forgiven for thinking that the nation’s moral barometer is in decline. So let me share some happier news. It’s about a well-financed, widely popular, and deeply patriotic community tradition that is suddenly abandoned — happily and without a squawk — when it comes face to face with a small fuzzy bird.
For decades, the coastal village of Camden, Maine, has invested in lavish displays of Fourth of July fireworks. The town’s natural harbor makes a particularly fine setting for pyrotechnics; by sunset on the 4th, you’re hard pressed to find a place to squeeze another boat in among the floats and moorings. On shore, people park their pickups backward on the town landing and sit on the tailgates, or bring blankets and lawn chairs to the grassy park that slopes down to the seawall. When it’s dark enough, the first sizzler takes off from the barge anchored alongside Curtis Island at the harbor’s mouth and the crowd shouts and honks with expectation.
And so it was to have been again this year — until the eaglet appeared. It was hatched in a nest atop a white pine in the center of Curtis Island. A pair of bald eagles — one of only 300 pairs of this threatened species estimated to be nesting in Maine — had taken up residence there last year, but abandoned the nest without producing progeny. But in February residents on the nearby mainland noted the return of the eagles — and, before long, spotted the chick peeking out over the rim of the nest.
With that, state biologists took up the case. Eagles, it seems, place enormous value on their privacy. They make all manner of ruckus when people approach too close to their tree. Maine’s Endangered Species Act, in fact, imposes serious penalties for invading the “essential habitat” of a quarter-mile radius around an eagle’s nest. So the town, which owns the uninhabited island, agreed to close this popular picnic destination to visitors.
But if eagles take umbrage at a few quiet picnickers on the ground, what would they make of a thundering half-hour festival of lurid color and acrid smoke well above treetop level — and well within their “essential habitat”? Would they make for North Haven or Mount Desert, leaving their abandoned youngster to become one of the 80 percent of eaglets that don’t survive to maturity?
Huddling quickly, the Downtown Business Group and the Fireworks Committee hatched their own alternative. This year, fireworks will be replaced by an evening street dance on the town landing, leaving Curtis Island in its own veil of darkness and peace.
What’s this got to do with the moral barometer? If you’re going to plot the rise and fall of an ethical sense, you need to think historically. Around Camden, one thing is clear: This wouldn’t have happened 25 years ago. Something has changed that makes it possible for a bird most people won’t ever see to overturn a community tradition they’ve enjoyed for years. That something, you may say, is law, not ethics. But this law reflects a national consensus that species in peril ought to be saved and that such a moral duty must trump the settled habits of individuals and communities. That certainly suggests that, over time, ethics is rising.
There’s a certain moral victory, too, in the triumph over cynicism. Just look at the odds. Camden has a sophisticated business community well schooled in producing reasons for shoppers to come to town. Fireworks on the Fourth? What could be a better draw than its winning combination of patriotism and picnic, spending and spectacle? Try shutting down that parade and cynics would predict that local commercial interests would fly madly in circles, flapping angrily and chirping loudly, and finally have their way. What actually happened? There was quick, hearty agreement that eagles come first and that the community would have to adapt.
Finally, don’t overlook the symbolism. At odds were two core symbols of Americana: the bald eagle and the rockets’ red glare. There’s a craggy independence to the former, a sharp-eyed creature of the frontier that blends soaring grace and self-reliant defensiveness. And there’s a celebratory militarism to the latter, reminding us of battles fought and lives surrendered in the purchase of freedom and democracy.
It may be that, fresh from war in Iraq, we’ve had enough of the latter for now. Emotionally, this may be the year of the eaglet rather than the skyrocket. But I like to think there’s a longer rhythm here. If, for the sake of nature and conservation, an entire community gives up on artifice and restructures its amusement, all’s not wrong with the moral barometer.
(c)2003 Institute for Global Ethics