When in the Course of human events, it became necessary for the people of Dunwoody to dissolve the political bands which had connected them with DeKalb County, they held these truths to be self-evident: That the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitled them to a millage rate of no more than 3.04.
At least, that is, until such time as they, themselves, through their own votes — and not through the machinations of the politicians on the City Council — might choose to amend the millage cap.
“Sacred” was a word invoked more than once last week as angry Dunwoodians assailed five of their fellows, convened to review the city’s charter, for proposing to mess with the millage cap established five years ago in that charter.
From Sandy Springs to Milton to Brookhaven, the principle of bringing government closer to home has been a galvanizing force in these parts for decades. We can’t trust those bums at the opposite end of the county, who just want to take our money, the founders of one new city after another agreed. But up here, we’re neighbors — family, even.
It was all about “not having to go to Decatur to plead my case; I could plead it to my neighbor,” in the words of charter review commission member Mallard Holliday.
Only it turns out that a government isn’t exactly like a family. It’s more like a government. And people you elect to office, even if they’re your neighbors, may begin to look like politicians.
They may fall prey to the allure of shiny gewgaws like roundabouts, multi-use trails or fancified parkways, three issues that have recently riven the townspeople. Or, they might take it into their heads that perhaps someday the city may want to have its own fire department instead of continuing to contract with DeKalb.
And to pay for that, you’d have to crash right through that sacred 3.04 millage barrier. Which would be no problem, as long as the citizens voted to do it.
But elections cost money, and they take time (this is the politicians thinking, now). So maybe it would be better to amend the charter to say that, just for the purposes of fire protection, the council could decide to exceed the cap — as long as the increase was no more than folks were already paying the county.
And that’s how five perfectly harmless looking, middle-aged people, considering that very idea, found themselves excoriated Wednesday night as arrogant liars and minions of all that is unholy.
In the face of withering opposition, they did what the redcoats should probably have done: They beat a hasty retreat, laying down proclamations of pure intent and volleys of legal-ese as covering fire.
Which, instead of mollifying the citizen watchdogs, largely had the effect tossing a hungry beast red meat.
“How many times do you hear that from every level government?” a woman in the front row demanded loudly after commission Chairman L. Max Lehmann explained earnestly that the “spirit” of the fire services proposal was to hold the line on taxes.
When Lehmann asked her, nicely, to pipe down, she stalked out, tossing back over her shoulder, “and if any of you believe that, I’ve got a bridge …”
The other thing about government, though, is that, when you get down to the nuts and bolts, it’s pretty boring. So as the discussion ground on, with more and more talk of Special Service Districts and HOSTs (Homestead Option Sales Taxes) and rolling five-year averages, the crowd began to thin.
One man, clutching a thick white binder, departed muttering, “’Twas brilling and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe …” (immortal lines from Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky”).
Eventually, commissioners came up with what they deemed a more “transparent” and more palatable solution: letting the City Council, should it ever choose to, create a separate fire department tax (only they used the word “bucket” in place of tax), with its own cap.
And, they explained ad nauseam, that cap would be no greater than people were then paying DeKalb for fire services. And, they stressed at even greater length, homeowners would see the new levy offset by a credit equal to the one DeKalb gives them (the aforementioned HOST). Calculated, that is, as the average … or rather the rolling average …
By that time, more than two hours into the evening meeting, boredom had done its work: Only a few hardy souls were still in their seats.
Turning to a fresh issue, commissioners began to discuss the wisdom of amending the charter to require periodic public reviews (as written, it provided for only the current 5-year tune-up.)
“This has been so much fun, let’s do it again in 10 years,” commissioner Robert Wittenstein proposed with a rueful laugh.
Toward the back of the room, Cheryl Dreux seemed to be having trouble hearing the discussion. But she was still vigilant, and she had no doubt what they were up to: robbing the people of the right to be heard.
“This is the only opportunity citizens have to influence the process,” she hissed. “And they want to take it away from us. A republic is when you vote. We don’t have a republic.”
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