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Show ea ZEPHYR/OCTOBER-NOVEMBER 13 vEARs Aco IN THE ZEPHYR... orev ees Vea 2005 “highway. There amid a fleet of oversized trucks, dozers, loaders and a yard full of oil field maintenance equipment, we sat down in a small office adjacent to the main lube bay, and talked. While he pounded down a Diet Mountain Dew, we discussed the issues of the day and I found him to be remarkably candid about his perspectives, but also genuine and sincere about his convictions. The "interview" lasted 45 minutes, but we talked for another hour. When I finally got in the Volvo and headed home, I got the feeling we were both feeling a little confused. OK, I thought to myself...I’m the environmentalist here, Knutson is the quintessential miner/developer. And yet we just’spent two hours discussing the future of this community and I agreed with him more than I disagreed, What is wrong with me? And back at the shop, I had a hunch that: David was scratching that shiny dome of his and wondering the same thing. What David and I had in common, I finally figured, was a shared desire to keep Moab from changing so dramatically and radically that we no longer recognized our own home town. David grew up in Moab and I had lived here for most of my “adult life” (whatever that is). The tourist boom was clearly turning life upside down as early as ‘89 and Change was inevitable. But it didn’t have to be an upheaval, I figured. If we could maintain the integrity of the community and preserve its small town values, then maybe, just maybe, we could assimilate the newcomers. We could evolve as a community, preserving the best of the past, and welcoming new ideas as well. It occurred to me that David Knutson was the man who could make that happen. _. That seems like a foolish assumption now, I’m sorry to say. But at the time, it felt right. David reached out to the other side of the aisle; he was interested in what "the other side w4s saying.” More than that, he wanted to understand why we felt the way we did. I was encouraged by his open-mindedness, his generous spirit, and his candor. During the 1990 campaign for commissioner, I found that, personally, | admired and respected both Bierschied and Knutson. Mostly because Knutson supported the Book Cliffs Road, I voted for Bierschied. On election night, I stopped at the courthouse to watch the numbers go up on the board; Knutson was winning with almost 60% of the vote. While my candidate had lost, I extended a handshake and congratulations to the winner. "But David," I warned, "Don’t let this turn out like Nixon’s second term." "Don’t worry,” he grinned, "It won't.” I will always wonder what happened to David Knutson in the months and years that followed. He had an opportunity to play a major role in the future of this county. He had the unique ability to touch both sides at the same time, and to be trusted by both sides at the same time as well. It was a gift that he squandered. David Knutson is still a young man and anyone who tries to write his political obituary isa _ fool. But should he ever consider public life again, | hope he remembers his true potential as a healer, not a divider. tnd ve — = N THIS ISSUE: The Book Cilfs Road- a history YI fram the Road District In wlth: opt Ken Davey's “Facts & Opinions” Gilmore, Campbell & Jones ‘Where's Groene? SS MyMail THE GREAT ELECTION OF 1992 13 years ago, Grand County voters went to the polls in record numbers to vote on a referendum to change our form of government from a 3- person commission to a 7-person council. Voter turneut exceeded 70%. The drama and tension leading to the vote was record-breaking as well. When the votes were tallied, Grand County made history. Here's the way | reported it in 1992... 4 After Clinton went over the top, I drove down to the temporary courthouse behind old City Market to check out the local results. After the Presidential race, nothing weighed on my mind more heavily than the referendum for the optional form of government. Over the months I had tried to get a feel for how the community was going to vote on this one, but I didn’t have a clue. There was no consensus at all. Opinions shifted from one day to the next, and by Election Day, it was anybody’s guess. When I found County Clerk Fran Townsend and her staff, they were already processing the ballots, but she warned it was going to take a while. The write-in vote for county attorney _ candidate Sandra Starley was going to slow the process down, and she advised us to relax. : 94 Mest ist North © Moab, Utah 84532 (1 block west of Main Street) WE HOPE YOU'LL VOTE "FoR" THE OPTIONAL FORM OF GOVERNMENT BUT, ABOVE ALL, VOTE! (if you don’t vote, don’ t complain) ‘THE END OF AN ERA Many of us were lost and bewildered when Carl & Debbie Rappe finally sold the ' Main Street Broiler. We grieved for weeks. Some of us still do. The building became "Rumors" for a while, run by another Moab legend, Mike Marooney. Later it morphed into the Star Diner. The property was ultimately sold to Burger _ King by Mare Horwitz in the late 90s. The building was demolished. Relax? At a time like this? I made the best of it, sitting in the District Judge’s padded chair in the makeshift courtroom and trying to sneak into the hallway for a closer look at the ballot processing, But Fran scolded me severely for crossing over some boundary she had established to keep the Press out of her hair. Wounded, I returned to the Judge’s chair and waited with as much patience as I could muster. I was struck by the absence of anyone from the community who supported the current form of government. In the last general election, the courthouse was packed with Republicans, all staring impatiently at the blackboard for the district results to be posted. Where were the Knutsons? Where was Manuel Torres? And where on Earth was Jimmie Walker? | could not even imagine an election night without Jimmie there to press the flesh, shamelessly gloat (in victory), or rail against the environmental extremists (in defeat). The room was instead dominated by people who had played an active role as proponents of the change in government. en the numbers finally made their way to the huge wall chart, it became apparent that the citizens of Grand County had come a long way since 1990. In just two years, the community had rejected the results of an election that had given David Knutson and Manuel Torres a landslide victory. I waited until almost midnight for somebody...anybody, from "the other side" to drop by. I didn’t want to gloat, I honestly just wanted to talk. The margin of victory surprised me and it would have been interesting to discuss the implications of the vote with someone who had _hoped - to “maintain the status quo. Of course, the next day I learned that xtremists" were responsible for the outcome, according to that wise old sage, fay Walker. It was almost like deja vu...where had I heard all this before? Well, if we're quoting Jimmy, you hear this crap every other day. You get used to it. You almost look forward toit, for its entertainment value, if nothing else. His rhetoric provides a continuity in the fabric. of this community’s life that would otherwise not exist. (Look elsewhere in this issue for a complete selection of Jimmy's most memorable quotes..."The wit and wisdom of Jimmy Walker.") But I still longed for a reasonable voice from the opposition, and surprisingly, I kept wishing T could sit down for a long talk with David Knutson. It's been more than a year since David and Manuel quit participating in Zephyr interviews, and it has been obvious to me that other members of the Knutson Clan wish I would go "back East" and crawl under the rock I came from and where (in their eyes) I.am most suited to live out the rest of my years. But try as I might to forget, I still remember my first encounter with David in the spring of 1989, and the subsequent two years in which he grew as a public leader and as a friend. : T went out to interview David for the first time at the Knut & Sons shop on the south - If I and more than a few other Moab locals have looked lost and forlorn lately, there are, actually many reasons. We are, to use a word I heard lately but had nearly forgotten...flummoxed. We are the terminally confused. My cohorts and I watch, with ever growing perplexity, the changing face of Moab, the irrascible county commissioners, and the doggedly determined "Bookcliffs Guys.” We argue among ourselves about my man, Bill Clinton and wonder how the Cubs could even consider letting Andre’ Dawson go. Flummoxed? Damn right we're flummoxed. (Although I recently asked Kyle Baily if he had been flummoxed lately and he said, “No...I haven’t had an enema in years.") In any case, while we may have been confused, we knew where to go to commisserate. We always wound up and subsequently unwound at Carl and Debbie Rappe’s Main Street Broiler. The Broiler was more than a place to eat; it was where the family gathered. Going to the Broiler has always been an adventure. I never knew when I stopped by in the morning, whether Id find their 3 year old boy Seth swinging mercilessly at golf balls with an oversized putter, from his favorite tee near the espresso machine. I have an annoying habit..OK I have many annoying habits, But in the morning, I like to drink my coffee from a cup with a white interior. I like to be able to see the color of my coffee. Debbie used to shake her head and say, "Why do we attract the weird?" as she fished out one of only two white-interiored cups on the premises. Later, I learned to humor her and find the cup myself and, eventually, even gained kitchen privileges so that I could wash it myself on those occasions when both of my cups were dirty. The Rappes were notorious for keeping some of the most irregular hours in the history of restauranteering in America. We used to keep track of the number of consecutive days they stayed open, and at one time, I considered starting a lottery to turn a little profit from their erratic hours. We never knew just what the reason for their inconsistency was. They had a little sign that said "CLOSED DUE TO EQUIPMENT FAILURE” and Pastor Don would nod understandingly and say in his Texas drawl, “I guess that means Carl’s brain has shut down once again." We'd grumble and complain and swear we'd never eat there again. And then the Rappes would hang up the "OPEN" sign and we'd all come back and pick up where we had left off. We all wondered why we did always come back. Were we masochists? Were we controlled by some homing instinct like the swallows to Capistrano or the buzzards to Hinkley (Ohio)? Was it their espresso machine? Was it the fact that Debbie, mother of four, is still a robo-babe? a 6 PAGE26 |