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Interstate 27 has divided Lubbock for decades. North and east side residents want that to change.

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Friday, July 19, 2024

Subscribe to The Y’all — a weekly dispatch about the people, places and policies defining Texas, produced by Texas Tribune journalists living in communities across the state. LUBBOCK — For more than 30 years, Interstate 27 has connected Lubbock in the South Plains to Amarillo in the northern Panhandle. The concrete structure has stood as a key transportation method for residents, businesses and people driving through the area. And yet, some see it as a lasting reminder of segregation, and a physical barrier that has isolated the east and north sides from the rest of Lubbock. Neighborhoods with majority Black and Hispanic residents are stuffed away, surrounded by industrial zoning and factories releasing emissions into the air. People who call the area home say it’s behind a wall — a signal for people to stop while they can. “Anything behind a wall has a negative connotation to it,” said Robert Baxter, a Lubbock native. “But we’re humans on the other side of that. Not the boogeyman or just criminals. There are kids, elderly people, families, business owners behind that wall.” East Lubbock advocates are working on a seemingly never-ending mission — stitching their neighborhoods back into Lubbock’s fabric. As the city grows, communities behind the interstate have been left behind. While the city adds grocery stores to nearly every corner west of I-27, residents on the east side have one supermarket to get fresh food in the area. A few gas stations and corner markets sparsely placed have less fresh, but convenient, options. While crews actively work on repairing streets in the city, East Lubbock roads remain unpaved in some areas. Businesses have closed and not been replaced, leaving empty, decrepit buildings. There isn’t an emergency room or health clinic in sight for the vulnerable neighborhoods. The interstate has cemented their conditions, and advocates say it’s a problem that’s nearly impossible to dismantle. Lubbock is not the only city facing this issue. The construction of the national highway infrastructure in the U.S. deepened segregation for communities of color nationwide. Karen Wolf at the University of Washington’s Infrastructure Planning and Management program, said the nation’s history of highways is not pretty. “These highways cut through neighborhoods and separated them,” said Wolf, interim academic director for the program. “It was traditionally communities of color or poor neighborhoods, and in some cases, those communities were destroyed.” Segregation was deeply-seeded in big cities and quaint towns alike — cities like Lubbock that are now booming and seeing a ripple effect from mistakes of the past. Fixing the problem, however, can be a costly and complicated process. Earlier this year, President Joe Biden announced $3.3 billion in 41 states to reconnect and rebuild communities that were divided by transportation infrastructure. Nearly $235 million was awarded to six projects in Texas. The Texas Tribune is committed to transparency and integrity, especially as new technologies are on the rise.That's why we want to hear your thoughts about how we use artificial intelligence in our work. Take our Survey The projects awarded funds include efforts in Austin to reconnect East Austin to downtown, a project by the Harris County Toll Road Authority to redesign Westpark Tollway and bridge the Alief community back in, a transportation feasibility study in El Paso, a study focusing on equitable solutions to fix disadvantages caused by Interstate 37 to San Antonio’s east side, a project dedicated to walkability and climate-resiliency for two Houston neighborhoods, and construction on pedestrian caps in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. The issue remains unresolved in Lubbock, nearly a year after a group of residents filed a federal civil rights complaint against the city for its zoning policies. Residents are still in an uphill battle on their mission toward environmental justice and fair zoning laws. Meanwhile, advocates worry that if city leaders don’t do something about it now, East Lubbock will suffer more as the city grows away from it. Industrial zoning isolates community  Baxter, who is Black, said living in Lubbock has always been rough for Black and Hispanic residents. When he was growing up, his friends were told by their parents to not go past I-27. As an adult, he advocates for the north and east sides as they are left behind in favor of shiny, new developments on the other side of town. “Other parts of the city have businesses, nice homes are being built, ones with brick,” Baxter said. “In North and East Lubbock, we have matchbox houses. We want to have brick, too.” More than 100 years ago, the Lubbock City Council approved an ordinance that forced Black residents to the east side of town. The ordinance said Black people could not own property or live in other areas of the city, unless they were servants, and would be fined every day they were in violation. The council then created an industrial zone around them. The ordinance was repealed in 2006, but in reality, little has changed, residents say. With few good paying jobs and amenities on the east side, it's difficult to live. And few can afford to move. A Texas Tribune analysis of U.S. Census data shows roughly 24% of the population in East Lubbock is impoverished, which is higher than the 19% rate for the city overall. “These communities are disconnected from economic drivers, the job market, retail, all the benefits coming to our city,” said Joshua Shankles, president of Lubbock Compact, a local advocacy group. Wolf at the University of Washington said industrial zoning attracts industries that come with big buildings and parking lots, and they cause noise and air pollution, which is a concern for residents in Lubbock. According to the North and East Lubbock Coalition’s complaint, 57% of Lubbock’s Black residents and 38% of its Hispanic residents live within one mile of the industrial zone. By comparison, only 17% of white residents live within the same proximity. The industrial buildings have contributed to public perception of the community on the east side. Earlier this year, the city held a public meeting to discuss a new solid waste transfer station on the southwest side of town. Residents were against the location, citing health impacts and property values — the same concerns people in East Lubbock have described for years. One resident said to put it on the east side because it’s “pretty trashy” and to “leave the nicer areas alone.” “Industrial zoning can isolate a community,” Wolf said. “It creates chasms — you can’t walk through it, buses can’t really go there. It disrupts natural travel patterns for communities.” Wolf said highways are important for faster travel and hauling heavy freight. However, she said the highways were built without recognition to the communities they are in, and sometimes, in spite of them. “The most important piece now is to make sure that any new segments don't bisect communities or isolate more neighborhoods,” Wolf said. Advocates and residents alike have been determined to improve East Lubbock for decades, but it has not been an easy task. City leaders, Shankles said, have failed to recognize there is inequity. “It’s difficult for people to even hear criticism of anything in Lubbock, they think it’s an insult or personal assault,” Shankles said. “It’s more difficult to be receptive to new ideas than to say ‘Let’s just keep doing what we’ve been doing.’” A resistance to change has been seen over decades as residents and activists alike have advocated for better conditions in East Lubbock. Baxter, who sits on the city’s Urban Renewal Agency and Neighborhood Redevelopment Commission, wants to be an example for future generations to be active in the community. But, he still admits it’s hard talking about a pressing issue with no resolution in sight. “You get tired trying to show someone it’s a problem,” Baxter said. “It’s been a problem for decades. People before me talked about it, now I am, and it’s like no one is listening.” False hopes Natalie Miller was excited to move back to Lubbock in 2013. Her hometown was set for a boom in growth and development. Her excitement waned as she made her way to East Lubbock, where she grew up. “Conditions here got worse,” Miller said. “Growing up, you don’t understand the history behind the conditions here. You start to ask those questions as an adult.” Miller joined other residents as they advocated for better conditions, and called for two practices to be added to Lubbock’s development code. The first was amortization, a process that allows the city to rezone property and prevent businesses from practicing operations that are a nuisance or health hazard after zoning laws have changed. Residents want this used to keep industrial practices away from their homes. The other method is down zoning, which allows the city to change the zoning of an area to a less intensive use, such as going from a commercial land to residential. Residents want this because it would stop new industrial businesses from moving in. For advocates, seeking either option has been a long road full of empty promises. At the end of 2022, the North and East Lubbock Coalition, a group of residents, began emailing city leaders about the impact of its zoning laws. The city’s development code would be reviewed soon, and they wanted to get ahead of the discussion. When the city council passed the code without significant changes, the group filed a federal civil rights complaint last summer against the city with the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development. The council later organized a committee to study the use of amortization and down zoning, and the extent and negative effect of abandoned industrial properties on nearby residents. The committee included industry executives who managed companies near the neighborhoods in question. None of the residents who petitioned Lubbock for the changes were part of the committee. “It’s one of those situations where they give us this to say they did something,” Miller said of the committee’s creation. In January, the committee recommended the city analyze Lubbock’s zoning map to fix areas that need to be rezoned. The committee was against adapting an amortization policy in the city’s code, because the process exists in state law. The committee never answered the question about the negative impact on nearby residents. The city council later accepted the findings without the answer. “They’re not willing to address the issues of how we got here,” Miller said. “We need to talk about that in order to get to the core of our concerns and fix this.” Adam Pirtle, a lawyer with Legal Aid of NorthWest Texas representing the coalition, said down zoning is a good first step. However, he said there’s more to do. “They’re not looking at existing facilities that are operating, that are industrial and causing problems for residents,” Pirtle said. “They’re shying away from that.” There’s other ways Lubbock could improve the situation, including changing the notification process. Currently, Pirtle said, when an industrial business applies to rezone a property, people who live within 400 yards get notified. Pirtle said emailing residents would be easier for the public to get this information. Pirtle also pointed to the environmental commission in Dallas. The group advises the city council on environmental matters and has brought residents affected by industrial facilities to Texas Commission on Environmental Quality public hearings. Federal review ongoing  Residents are now back to square one. According to Pirtle, the HUD’s Fair Housing and Equal Opportunity office in Washington, D.C. is reviewing the North and East Lubbock Coalition's complaint. The coalition is hoping the HUD will make the city remedy the zoning policies for both districts. In the meantime, Pirtle said, his clients are willing to meet with the city at any time to work toward a solution. Baxter said changing the zoning in North and East Lubbock, so it’s not surrounded by industrial buildings near I-27, would help them flourish. As is, he said, zoning is a monster that has hindered the community’s ability to bring in new businesses or housing developments. “No one wants to put up a restaurant or a set of brick condos near a toxic release site,” Baxter said. Baxter also said more members of the community need to get involved, including being placed on city boards that review zoning requests. Miller will continue showing up to meetings and pushing for the city to change. What they have right now — a few Dollar General-type stores, unpaved roads, and no pharmacies — leaves Miller frustrated. “It makes me feel as if we are neglected,” Miller said. “Just as we have been over the last 80 to 100 years here.” Wolf said reconnecting communities that were separated by infrastructure is possible — albeit, expensive. City leaders also have to be willing to learn from past mistakes, and work with the people who are directly affected. “It needs to be done with meaningful involvement from the community members from the very beginning,” Wolf said. “You have to work with them, you have to listen to them, and you have to understand what’s important to them.” In an email from a spokesperson, City Manager Jarrett Atkinson said he does not believe I-27 has had an impact on zoning laws. Mayor Mark McBrayer declined to be interviewed by the Tribune for this story. The HUD is expected to have an answer to the complaint this year. Big news: director and screenwriter Richard Linklater; NPR President and CEO Katherine Maher; U.S. Rep. Pete Aguilar, D-California; and Luci Baines Johnson will take the stage at The Texas Tribune Festival, Sept. 5–7 in downtown Austin. Buy tickets today!

After repeated attempts to convince the City Council to make zoning changes, residents asked the federal government to intervene.

Subscribe to The Y’all — a weekly dispatch about the people, places and policies defining Texas, produced by Texas Tribune journalists living in communities across the state.


LUBBOCK — For more than 30 years, Interstate 27 has connected Lubbock in the South Plains to Amarillo in the northern Panhandle. The concrete structure has stood as a key transportation method for residents, businesses and people driving through the area.

And yet, some see it as a lasting reminder of segregation, and a physical barrier that has isolated the east and north sides from the rest of Lubbock. Neighborhoods with majority Black and Hispanic residents are stuffed away, surrounded by industrial zoning and factories releasing emissions into the air. People who call the area home say it’s behind a wall — a signal for people to stop while they can.

“Anything behind a wall has a negative connotation to it,” said Robert Baxter, a Lubbock native. “But we’re humans on the other side of that. Not the boogeyman or just criminals. There are kids, elderly people, families, business owners behind that wall.”

East Lubbock advocates are working on a seemingly never-ending mission — stitching their neighborhoods back into Lubbock’s fabric. As the city grows, communities behind the interstate have been left behind. While the city adds grocery stores to nearly every corner west of I-27, residents on the east side have one supermarket to get fresh food in the area. A few gas stations and corner markets sparsely placed have less fresh, but convenient, options. While crews actively work on repairing streets in the city, East Lubbock roads remain unpaved in some areas. Businesses have closed and not been replaced, leaving empty, decrepit buildings. There isn’t an emergency room or health clinic in sight for the vulnerable neighborhoods.

The interstate has cemented their conditions, and advocates say it’s a problem that’s nearly impossible to dismantle. Lubbock is not the only city facing this issue. The construction of the national highway infrastructure in the U.S. deepened segregation for communities of color nationwide.

Karen Wolf at the University of Washington’s Infrastructure Planning and Management program, said the nation’s history of highways is not pretty.

“These highways cut through neighborhoods and separated them,” said Wolf, interim academic director for the program. “It was traditionally communities of color or poor neighborhoods, and in some cases, those communities were destroyed.”

Segregation was deeply-seeded in big cities and quaint towns alike — cities like Lubbock that are now booming and seeing a ripple effect from mistakes of the past. Fixing the problem, however, can be a costly and complicated process. Earlier this year, President Joe Biden announced $3.3 billion in 41 states to reconnect and rebuild communities that were divided by transportation infrastructure. Nearly $235 million was awarded to six projects in Texas.

The Texas Tribune is committed to transparency and integrity, especially as new technologies are on the rise.

That's why we want to hear your thoughts about how we use artificial intelligence in our work.

Take our Survey

The projects awarded funds include efforts in Austin to reconnect East Austin to downtown, a project by the Harris County Toll Road Authority to redesign Westpark Tollway and bridge the Alief community back in, a transportation feasibility study in El Paso, a study focusing on equitable solutions to fix disadvantages caused by Interstate 37 to San Antonio’s east side, a project dedicated to walkability and climate-resiliency for two Houston neighborhoods, and construction on pedestrian caps in the Dallas-Fort Worth area.

The issue remains unresolved in Lubbock, nearly a year after a group of residents filed a federal civil rights complaint against the city for its zoning policies. Residents are still in an uphill battle on their mission toward environmental justice and fair zoning laws. Meanwhile, advocates worry that if city leaders don’t do something about it now, East Lubbock will suffer more as the city grows away from it.

Industrial zoning isolates community 

Baxter, who is Black, said living in Lubbock has always been rough for Black and Hispanic residents. When he was growing up, his friends were told by their parents to not go past I-27. As an adult, he advocates for the north and east sides as they are left behind in favor of shiny, new developments on the other side of town.

“Other parts of the city have businesses, nice homes are being built, ones with brick,” Baxter said. “In North and East Lubbock, we have matchbox houses. We want to have brick, too.”

More than 100 years ago, the Lubbock City Council approved an ordinance that forced Black residents to the east side of town. The ordinance said Black people could not own property or live in other areas of the city, unless they were servants, and would be fined every day they were in violation. The council then created an industrial zone around them. The ordinance was repealed in 2006, but in reality, little has changed, residents say. With few good paying jobs and amenities on the east side, it's difficult to live. And few can afford to move. A Texas Tribune analysis of U.S. Census data shows roughly 24% of the population in East Lubbock is impoverished, which is higher than the 19% rate for the city overall.

“These communities are disconnected from economic drivers, the job market, retail, all the benefits coming to our city,” said Joshua Shankles, president of Lubbock Compact, a local advocacy group.

Wolf at the University of Washington said industrial zoning attracts industries that come with big buildings and parking lots, and they cause noise and air pollution, which is a concern for residents in Lubbock. According to the North and East Lubbock Coalition’s complaint, 57% of Lubbock’s Black residents and 38% of its Hispanic residents live within one mile of the industrial zone. By comparison, only 17% of white residents live within the same proximity.

The industrial buildings have contributed to public perception of the community on the east side. Earlier this year, the city held a public meeting to discuss a new solid waste transfer station on the southwest side of town. Residents were against the location, citing health impacts and property values — the same concerns people in East Lubbock have described for years. One resident said to put it on the east side because it’s “pretty trashy” and to “leave the nicer areas alone.”

“Industrial zoning can isolate a community,” Wolf said. “It creates chasms — you can’t walk through it, buses can’t really go there. It disrupts natural travel patterns for communities.”

Wolf said highways are important for faster travel and hauling heavy freight. However, she said the highways were built without recognition to the communities they are in, and sometimes, in spite of them.

“The most important piece now is to make sure that any new segments don't bisect communities or isolate more neighborhoods,” Wolf said.

Advocates and residents alike have been determined to improve East Lubbock for decades, but it has not been an easy task. City leaders, Shankles said, have failed to recognize there is inequity.

“It’s difficult for people to even hear criticism of anything in Lubbock, they think it’s an insult or personal assault,” Shankles said. “It’s more difficult to be receptive to new ideas than to say ‘Let’s just keep doing what we’ve been doing.’”

A resistance to change has been seen over decades as residents and activists alike have advocated for better conditions in East Lubbock. Baxter, who sits on the city’s Urban Renewal Agency and Neighborhood Redevelopment Commission, wants to be an example for future generations to be active in the community. But, he still admits it’s hard talking about a pressing issue with no resolution in sight.

“You get tired trying to show someone it’s a problem,” Baxter said. “It’s been a problem for decades. People before me talked about it, now I am, and it’s like no one is listening.”

False hopes

Natalie Miller was excited to move back to Lubbock in 2013. Her hometown was set for a boom in growth and development. Her excitement waned as she made her way to East Lubbock, where she grew up.

“Conditions here got worse,” Miller said. “Growing up, you don’t understand the history behind the conditions here. You start to ask those questions as an adult.”

Miller joined other residents as they advocated for better conditions, and called for two practices to be added to Lubbock’s development code. The first was amortization, a process that allows the city to rezone property and prevent businesses from practicing operations that are a nuisance or health hazard after zoning laws have changed. Residents want this used to keep industrial practices away from their homes.

The other method is down zoning, which allows the city to change the zoning of an area to a less intensive use, such as going from a commercial land to residential. Residents want this because it would stop new industrial businesses from moving in. For advocates, seeking either option has been a long road full of empty promises.

At the end of 2022, the North and East Lubbock Coalition, a group of residents, began emailing city leaders about the impact of its zoning laws. The city’s development code would be reviewed soon, and they wanted to get ahead of the discussion. When the city council passed the code without significant changes, the group filed a federal civil rights complaint last summer against the city with the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development.

The council later organized a committee to study the use of amortization and down zoning, and the extent and negative effect of abandoned industrial properties on nearby residents. The committee included industry executives who managed companies near the neighborhoods in question. None of the residents who petitioned Lubbock for the changes were part of the committee.

“It’s one of those situations where they give us this to say they did something,” Miller said of the committee’s creation.

In January, the committee recommended the city analyze Lubbock’s zoning map to fix areas that need to be rezoned. The committee was against adapting an amortization policy in the city’s code, because the process exists in state law. The committee never answered the question about the negative impact on nearby residents. The city council later accepted the findings without the answer.

“They’re not willing to address the issues of how we got here,” Miller said. “We need to talk about that in order to get to the core of our concerns and fix this.”

Adam Pirtle, a lawyer with Legal Aid of NorthWest Texas representing the coalition, said down zoning is a good first step. However, he said there’s more to do.

“They’re not looking at existing facilities that are operating, that are industrial and causing problems for residents,” Pirtle said. “They’re shying away from that.”

There’s other ways Lubbock could improve the situation, including changing the notification process. Currently, Pirtle said, when an industrial business applies to rezone a property, people who live within 400 yards get notified. Pirtle said emailing residents would be easier for the public to get this information.

Pirtle also pointed to the environmental commission in Dallas. The group advises the city council on environmental matters and has brought residents affected by industrial facilities to Texas Commission on Environmental Quality public hearings.

Federal review ongoing 

Residents are now back to square one. According to Pirtle, the HUD’s Fair Housing and Equal Opportunity office in Washington, D.C. is reviewing the North and East Lubbock Coalition's complaint. The coalition is hoping the HUD will make the city remedy the zoning policies for both districts.

In the meantime, Pirtle said, his clients are willing to meet with the city at any time to work toward a solution.

Baxter said changing the zoning in North and East Lubbock, so it’s not surrounded by industrial buildings near I-27, would help them flourish. As is, he said, zoning is a monster that has hindered the community’s ability to bring in new businesses or housing developments.

“No one wants to put up a restaurant or a set of brick condos near a toxic release site,” Baxter said.

Baxter also said more members of the community need to get involved, including being placed on city boards that review zoning requests.

Miller will continue showing up to meetings and pushing for the city to change. What they have right now — a few Dollar General-type stores, unpaved roads, and no pharmacies — leaves Miller frustrated.

“It makes me feel as if we are neglected,” Miller said. “Just as we have been over the last 80 to 100 years here.”

Wolf said reconnecting communities that were separated by infrastructure is possible — albeit, expensive. City leaders also have to be willing to learn from past mistakes, and work with the people who are directly affected.

“It needs to be done with meaningful involvement from the community members from the very beginning,” Wolf said. “You have to work with them, you have to listen to them, and you have to understand what’s important to them.”

In an email from a spokesperson, City Manager Jarrett Atkinson said he does not believe I-27 has had an impact on zoning laws. Mayor Mark McBrayer declined to be interviewed by the Tribune for this story. The HUD is expected to have an answer to the complaint this year.


Big news: director and screenwriter Richard Linklater; NPR President and CEO Katherine Maher; U.S. Rep. Pete Aguilar, D-California; and Luci Baines Johnson will take the stage at The Texas Tribune Festival, Sept. 5–7 in downtown Austin. Buy tickets today!

Read the full story here.
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From timber wars to cannabis crash: Scotia's battle to survive as California's last company town

The redwood wars are long over. Pacific Lumber is no more, but the company town it built endures in Humboldt County. Can it find a new life as a hidden real estate gem?

SCOTIA — The last time Mary Bullwinkel and her beloved little town were in the national media spotlight was not a happy period. Bullwinkel was the spokesperson for the logging giant Pacific Lumber in the late 1990s, when reporters flooded into this often forgotten corner of Humboldt County to cover the timber wars and visit a young woman who had staged a dramatic environmental protest in an old growth redwood tree.Julia “Butterfly” Hill — whose ethereal, barefoot portraits high in the redwood canopy became a symbol of the Redwood Summer — spent two years living in a thousand-year-old tree, named Luna, to keep it from being felled. Down on the ground, it was Bullwinkel’s duty to speak not for the trees but for the timber workers, many of them living in the Pacific Lumber town of Scotia, whose livelihoods were at stake. It was a role that brought her death threats and negative publicity. Julia “Butterfly” Hill stands in a centuries-old redwood tree nicknamed “Luna” in April 1998. Hill would spend a little more than two years in the tree, protesting logging in the old-growth forest. (Andrew Lichtenstein / Sygma via Getty Images) The timber wars have receded into the mists of history. Old-growth forests were protected. Pacific Lumber went bankrupt. Thousands of timber jobs were lost. But Bullwinkel, now 68, is still in Scotia. And this time, she has a much less fraught mission — although one that is no less difficult: She and another longtime PALCO employee are fighting to save Scotia itself, by selling it off, house by house. After the 2008 bankruptcy of Pacific Lumber, a New York hedge fund took possession of the town, an asset it did not relish in its portfolio. Bullwinkel and her boss, Steve Deike, came on board to attract would-be homebuyers and remake what many say is the last company town in America into a vibrant new community. “It’s very gratifying for me to be here today,” Bullwinkel said recently, as she strolled the town’s streets, which look as though they could have been teleported in from the 1920s. “To keep Scotia alive, basically.” Mary Bullwinkel, residential real estate sales coordinator for Town of Scotia Company, LLC, stands in front of the company’s offices. The LLC owns many of the houses and some of the commercial buildings in Scotia. Some new residents say they are thrilled.“It’s beautiful. I call it my little Mayberry. It’s like going back in town,” said Morgan Dodson, 40, who bought the fourth house sold in town in 2018 and lives there with her husband and two children, ages 9 and 6.But the transformation has proved more complicated — and taken longer — than anyone ever imagined it would. Nearly two decades after PALCO filed for bankrupcty in 2008, just 170 of the 270 houses have been sold, with 7 more on the market. “No one has ever subdivided a company town before,” Bullwinkel said, noting that many other company towns that dotted the country in the 19th century “just disappeared, as far as I know.” The first big hurdle was figuring out how to legally prepare the homes for sale: as a company town, Scotia was not made up of hundreds of individual parcels, with individual gas meters and water mains. It was one big property. More recently, the flagging real estate market has made people skittish.Many in town say the struggle to transform Scotia mirrors a larger struggle in Humboldt County, which has been rocked, first by the faltering of its logging industry and more recently by the collapse of its cannabis economy. “Scotia is a microcosm of so many things,” said Gage Duran, a Colorado-based architect who bought the century-old hospital and is working to redevelop it into apartments. “It’s a microcosm for what’s happening in Humboldt County. It’s a microcosm for the challenges that California is facing.” The Humboldt Sawmill Company Power Plant still operates in of Scotia. The Pacific Lumber Company was founded in 1863 as the Civil War raged. The company, which eventually became the largest employer in Humboldt County, planted itself along the Eel River south of Eureka and set about harvesting the ancient redwood and Douglas fir forests that extended for miles through the ocean mists. By the late 1800s, the company had begun to build homes for its workers near its sawmill. Originally called “Forestville,” company officials changed the town’s name to Scotia in the 1880s. For more than 100 years, life in Scotia was governed by the company that built it. Workers lived in the town’s redwood cottages and paid rent to their employer. They kept their yards in nice shape, or faced the wrath of their employer. Water and power came from their employer. But the company took care of its workers and created a community that was the envy of many. The neat redwood cottages were well maintained. The hospital in town provided personal care. Neighbors walked to the market or the community center or down to the baseball diamond. When the town’s children grew up, company officials provided them with college scholarships. “I desperately wanted to live in Scotia,” recalled Jeannie Fulton, who is now the head of the Humboldt County Farm Bureau. When she and her husband were younger, she said, her husband worked for Pacific Lumber but the couple did not live in the company town.Fulton recalled that the company had “the best Christmas party ever” each year, and officials handed out a beautiful gift to every single child. “Not cheap little gifts. These were Santa Claus worthy,” Fulton said.But things began to change in the 1980s, when Pacific Lumber was acquired in a hostile takeover by Texas-based Maxxam Inc. The acquisition led to the departure of the longtime owners, who had been committed to sustainably harvesting timber. It also left the company loaded with debt. To pay off the debts, the new company began cutting trees at a furious pace, which infuriated environmental activists. A view of the town of Scotia and timber operations, sometime in the late 1800s or early 1900s. (The Pacific Lumber Company collection) 1 2 1. Redwood logs are processed by the Pacific Lumber Company in 1995 in Scotia, CA. This was the largest redwood lumber mill in the world, resulting in clashes with the environmental community for years. (Gilles Mingasson / Getty Images) 2. Redwood logs are trucked to the Pacific Lumber Company in 1995 in Scotia, CA. (Gilles Mingasson / Getty Images) Among them was Hill, who was 23 years old on a fall day in 1997 when she and other activists hiked onto Pacific Lumber land. “I didn’t know much about the forest activist movement or what we were about to do,” Hill later wrote in her book. “I just knew that we were going to sit in this tree and that it had something to do with protecting the forest.” Once she was cradled in Luna’s limbs, Hill did not come down for more than two years. She became a cause celebre. Movie stars such as Woody Harrelson and musicians including Willie Nelson and Joan Baez came to visit her. With Hill still in the tree, Pacific Lumber agreed to sell 7,400 acres, including the ancient Headwaters Grove, to the government to be preserved. A truck driver carries a load of lumber down Main Street in Scotia. The historic company town is working to attract new residents and businesses, but progress has been slow. Then just before Christmas in 1999, Hill and her compatriots reached a final deal with Pacific Lumber. Luna would be protected. The tree still stands today.Pacific Lumber limped along for seven more years before filing for bankruptcy, which was finalized in 2008. Marathon Asset Management, a New York hedge fund, found itself in possession of the town. Deike, who was born in the Scotia hospital and lived in town for years, and Bullwinkel, came on board as employees of a company called The Town of Scotia to begin selling it off. Deike said he thought it might be a three-year job. That was nearly 20 years ago.He started in the mailroom at Pacific Lumber as a young man and rose to become one of its most prominent local executives. Now he sounds like an urban planner when he describes the process of transforming a company town.His speech is peppered with references to “infrastructure improvements” and “subdivision maps” and also to the peculiar challenges created by Pacific Lumber’s building.“They did whatever they wanted,” he said. “Build this house over the sewer line. There was a manhole cover in a garage. Plus, it wasn’t mapped.” Steven Deike, president of Town of Scotia Company LLC, and Mary Bullwinkel, the company’s residential real estate sales coordinator, examine a room being converted into apartments at the Scotia Hospital. The first houses went up for sale in 2017 and more have followed every year since.Dodson and her family came in 2018. Like some of the new owners, Dodson had some history with Scotia. Although she lived in Sacramento growing up, some of her family worked for Pacific Lumber and lived in Scotia and she had happy memories of visiting the town.“The first house I saw was perfect,” she said. “Hardwood floors, and made out of redwood so you don’t have to worry about termites.”She has loved every minute since. “We walk to school. We walk to pay our water bill. We walk to pick up our mail. There’s lots of kids in the neighborhood.”The transformation, however, has proceeded slowly. And lately, economic forces have begun to buffet the effort as well, including the slowing real estate market.Dodson, who also works as a real estate agent, said she thinks some people may be put off by the town’s cheek-by-jowl houses. Also, she added, “we don’t have garages and the water bill is astronomical.”But she added, “once people get inside them, they see the craftsmanship.”Duran, the Colorado architect trying to fix up the old hospital, is among those who have run into unexpected hurdles on the road to redevelopment. A project that was supposed to take a year is now in its third, delayed by everything from a shortage of electrical equipment to a dearth of workers.“I would guess that a portion of the skilled workforce has left Humboldt County,” Duran said, adding that the collapse of the weed market means that “some people have relocated because they were doing construction but also cannabis.”He added that he and his family and friends have been “doing a hard thing to try to fix up this building and give it new life, and my hope is that other people will make their own investments into the community.”A year ago, an unlikely visitor returned: Hill herself. She came back to speak at a fundraiser for Sanctuary Forest, a nonprofit land conservation group that is now the steward of Luna. The event was held at the 100-year-old Scotia Lodge — which once housed visiting timber executives but now offers boutique hotel rooms and craft cocktails. Many of the new residents had never heard of Hill or known of her connection to the area. Tamara Nichols, 67, who discovered Scotia in late 2023 after moving from Paso Robles, said she knew little of the town’s history. But she loves being so close to the old-growth redwoods and the Eel River, which she swims in. She also loves how intentional so many in town are about building community. What’s more, she added: “All those trees, there’s just a feel to them.”

Surfing Activism Takes Hold Across Latin America

Surfers and local communities in Peru, Chile, and Ecuador have stepped up efforts to safeguard their coastlines, pushing for laws that protect key surf spots from development and environmental threats. This movement highlights a shift where wave riders lead conservation, with potential benefits for tourism economies like Costa Rica’s. In Peru, a law passed in […] The post Surfing Activism Takes Hold Across Latin America appeared first on The Tico Times | Costa Rica News | Travel | Real Estate.

Surfers and local communities in Peru, Chile, and Ecuador have stepped up efforts to safeguard their coastlines, pushing for laws that protect key surf spots from development and environmental threats. This movement highlights a shift where wave riders lead conservation, with potential benefits for tourism economies like Costa Rica’s. In Peru, a law passed in 2000 set the stage by banning projects that disrupt ocean floors or water flows at surf breaks. Since then, groups have secured protections for nearly 50 sites. One campaign aims to reach 100 protected waves by 2030, driven by partnerships between surfers and experts who map out these areas. These actions respond to risks from ports, mining, and urban growth that could erase prime surfing zones. Chile followed suit when its Congress passed a bill earlier this year to shield surf breaks, backed by the Rompientes Foundation. The measure requires environmental reviews for any coastal work that might harm waves. Supporters argue it preserves natural features while supporting jobs tied to surfing, which draws visitors from around the world. Ecuador’s push remains in early stages, with activists collecting signatures to propose similar legislation. Coastal residents join surfers in these drives, focusing on sites vulnerable to oil spills and erosion. The goal extends beyond recreation: protected waves help maintain marine habitats and buffer against climate shifts. This trend echoes broader environmental work in the region. Global networks like Save the Waves have designated over 145 surf reserves worldwide, including several in Latin America. These zones enforce monitoring and cleanup to keep beaches viable for both locals and travelers. For Costa Rica, where surfing fuels a major part of the economy, these developments offer lessons. Places like Pavones and Tamarindo face similar pressures from tourism booms and infrastructure. Local groups here already advocate for marine parks, and observing neighbors’ progress could strengthen those calls. Sustainable practices ensure spots remain attractive without degrading the environment. Experts point out economic ties. Studies show protected surf areas boost visitor spending on lodging, gear, and guides. In Peru, for instance, conserved waves support small businesses that rely on consistent conditions. Chile’s new law includes provisions for community input, which could model inclusive planning. Challenges persist. Enforcement varies, and some projects slip through despite rules. In Ecuador, gathering enough support tests grassroots strength. Yet successes build momentum, inspiring Mexico and Panama to draft their own bills. As Latin American nations balance growth and preservation, surfing activism shows how sports can drive policy. For travelers, it means more reliable destinations that prioritize long-term health over short gains. Costa Rica, with its established eco-tourism focus, stands to gain by aligning with this regional wave. The post Surfing Activism Takes Hold Across Latin America appeared first on The Tico Times | Costa Rica News | Travel | Real Estate.

Buddhist Monks Persist in Peace Walk Despite Injuries as Thousands Follow Them on Social Media

A group of Buddhist monks is persevering in their peace walk across much of the U.S. even after two participants were injured when a truck hit their escort vehicle

ATLANTA (AP) — A group of Buddhist monks is persevering in their walking trek across much of the U.S. to promote peace, even after two of its members were injured when a truck hit their escort vehicle.After starting their walk in Fort Worth, Texas, on Oct. 26, the group of about two dozen monks has made it to Georgia as they continue on a path to Washington, D.C., highlighting Buddhism's long tradition of activism for peace.The group planned to walk its latest segment through Georgia on Tuesday from the town of Morrow to Decatur, on the eastern edge of Atlanta. Marking day 66 of the walk, the group invited the public to a Peace Gathering in Decatur Tuesday afternoon.The monks and their loyal dog Aloka are traveling through 10 states en route to Washington, D.C. In coming days, they plan to pass through or very close to Athens, Georgia; the North Carolina cities of Charlotte, Greensboro and Raleigh; and Richmond, Virginia, on their way to the nation’s capital city.The group has amassed a huge audience on social media, with more than 400,000 followers on Facebook. Aloka has its own hashtag, #AlokathePeaceDog.The group's Facebook page is frequently updated with progress reports, inspirational notes and poetry.“We do not walk alone. We walk together with every person whose heart has opened to peace, whose spirit has chosen kindness, whose daily life has become a garden where understanding grows," the group posted recently.The trek has not been without danger. Last month outside Houston, the monks were walking on the side of a highway near Dayton, Texas, when their escort vehicle, which had its hazard lights on, was hit by a truck, Dayton Interim Police Chief Shane Burleigh said.The truck “didn’t notice how slow the vehicle was going, tried to make an evasive maneuver to drive around the vehicle, and didn’t do it in time,” Burleigh said at the time. “It struck the escort vehicle in the rear left, pushed the escort into two of the monks.”One of the monks had “substantial leg injuries” and was flown by helicopter to a hospital in Houston, Burleigh said. The other monk with less serious injuries was taken by ambulance to another hospital in suburban Houston. The monk who sustained the serious leg injuries was expected to have a series of surgeries to heal a broken bone, but his prognosis for recovery was good, a spokeswoman for the group said.Buddhism is a religion and philosophy that evolved from the teachings of Gautama Buddha, a prince turned teacher who is believed to have lived in northern India and attained enlightenment between the 6th and 4th centuries B.C. The religion spread to other parts of Asia after his death and came to the West in the 20th century. The Buddha taught that the path to end suffering and become liberated from the cycle of birth, death and reincarnation, includes the practice of non-violence, mental discipline through meditation and showing compassion for all beings.While Buddhism has branched into a number of sects over the centuries, its rich tradition of peace activism continues. Its social teaching was pioneered by figures like the Dalai Lama and Thich Nhat Hanh, who have applied core principles of compassion and non-violence to political, environmental and social justice as well as peace-building efforts around the world.Associated Press Writers Jeff Martin in Atlanta and Deepa Bharath in Los Angeles contributed.Copyright 2025 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.Photos You Should See – December 2025

Brigitte Bardot: French screen legend and controversial activist dead at 91

The actress who rose to fame in 1956 with "And God Created Woman" later abandoned her film career to become a passionate and often polarizing animal rights advocate.

By THOMAS ADAMSON and ELAINE GANLEY, The Associated PressPARIS (AP) — Brigitte Bardot, the French 1960s sex symbol who became one of the greatest screen sirens of the 20th century and later a militant animal rights activist and far-right supporter, has died. She was 91.Bardot died Sunday at her home in southern France, according to Bruno Jacquelin, of the Brigitte Bardot Foundation for the protection of animals. Speaking to The Associated Press, he gave no cause of death and said that no arrangements had been made for funeral or memorial services. She had been hospitalized last month.Bardot became an international celebrity as a sexualized teen bride in the 1956 movie, “And God Created Woman.” Directed by then husband, Roger Vadim, it triggered a scandal with scenes of the long-legged beauty dancing on tables naked.At the height of a cinema career that spanned more than two dozen films and three marriages, Bardot came to symbolize a nation bursting out of bourgeois respectability. Her tousled, blond hair, voluptuous figure and pouty irreverence made her one of France’s best-known stars, even as she struggled with depression.Such was her widespread appeal that in 1969 her features were chosen to be the model for “Marianne,” the national emblem of France and the official Gallic seal. Bardot’s face appeared on statues, postage stamps and coins.‘’We are mourning a legend,’’ French President Emmanuel Macron said in an X post.Bardot’s second career as an animal rights activist was equally sensational. She traveled to the Arctic to blow the whistle on the slaughter of baby seals. She also condemned the use of animals in laboratory experiments, and she opposed Muslim slaughter rituals.“Man is an insatiable predator,” Bardot told The Associated Press on her 73rd birthday in 2007. “I don’t care about my past glory. That means nothing in the face of an animal that suffers, since it has no power, no words to defend itself.”Her activism earned her compatriots’ respect and, in 1985, she was awarded the Legion of Honor, the nation’s highest recognition.Turn to the far rightLater, however, she fell from public grace as her animal protection diatribes took on a decidedly extremist tone. She frequently decried the influx of immigrants into France, especially Muslims.She was convicted and fined five times in French courts of inciting racial hatred, in incidents inspired by her opposition to the Muslim practice of slaughtering sheep during annual religious holidays.Bardot’s 1992 marriage to fourth husband Bernard d’Ormale, a onetime adviser to far-right National Front leader Jean-Marie Le Pen, contributed to her political shift. She described Le Pen, an outspoken nationalist with multiple racism convictions of his own, as a “lovely, intelligent man.”FILE - French actress Brigitte Bardot poses with a huge sombrero she brought back from Mexico, as she arrives at Orly Airport in Paris, France, on May 27, 1965. (AP Photo/File)APIn 2012, she supported the presidential bid of Marine Le Pen, who now leads her father’s renamed National Rally party. Le Pen paid homage Sunday to an “exceptional woman” who was “incredibly French.”In 2018, at the height of the #MeToo movement, Bardot said in an interview that most actors protesting sexual harassment in the film industry were “hypocritical,” because many played “the teases” with producers to land parts.She said she had never had been a victim of sexual harassment and found it “charming to be told that I was beautiful or that I had a nice little ass.”Privileged but ‘difficult’ upbringingBrigitte Anne-Marie Bardot was born Sept. 28, 1934, to a wealthy industrialist. A shy child, she studied classical ballet and was discovered by a family friend who put her on the cover of Elle magazine at age 14.Bardot once described her childhood as “difficult” and said that her father was a strict disciplinarian who would sometimes punish her with a horse whip.Vadim, a French movie produce who she married in 1952, saw her potential and wrote “And God Created Woman” to showcase her provocative sensuality, an explosive cocktail of childlike innocence and raw sexuality.The film, which portrayed Bardot as a teen who marries to escape an orphanage and then beds her brother-in-law, had a decisive influence on New Wave directors Jean-Luc Godard and François Truffaut, and came to embody the hedonism and sexual freedom of the 1960s.The film was a box-office hit, and it made Bardot a superstar. Her girlish pout, tiny waist and generous bust were often more appreciated than her talent.“It’s an embarrassment to have acted so badly,” Bardot said of her early films. “I suffered a lot in the beginning. I was really treated like someone less than nothing.”Bardot’s unabashed, off-screen love affair with co-star Jean-Louis Trintignant eradicated the boundaries between her public and private life and turned her into a hot prize for paparazzi.Bardot never adjusted to the limelight. She blamed the constant media attention for the suicide attempt that followed 10 months after the birth of her only child, Nicolas. Photographers had broken into her house two weeks before she gave birth to snap a picture of her pregnant.Nicolas’ father was Jacques Charrier, a French actor who she married in 1959 but who never felt comfortable in his role as Monsieur Bardot. Bardot soon gave up her son to his father, and later said she had been chronically depressed and unready for the duties of being a mother.“I was looking for roots then,” she said in an interview. “I had none to offer.”FILE - French Actress Brigitte Bardot with a dog in the Gennevilliers, Paris, while supporting the French animal protection society operation, Feb. 10, 1982. (AP Photo/Duclos, File)APIn her 1996 autobiography “Initiales B.B.,” she likened her pregnancy to “a tumor growing inside me,” and described Charrier as “temperamental and abusive.”Bardot married her third husband, West German millionaire playboy Gunther Sachs, in 1966, and they divorced three years later.Among her films were “A Parisian” (1957); “In Case of Misfortune,” in which she starred in 1958 with screen legend Jean Gabin; “The Truth” (1960); “Private Life” (1962); “A Ravishing Idiot” (1964); “Shalako” (1968); “Women” (1969); “The Bear And The Doll” (1970); “Rum Boulevard” (1971); and “Don Juan” (1973).With the exception of 1963’s critically acclaimed “Contempt,” directed by Godard, Bardot’s films were rarely complicated by plots. Often they were vehicles to display Bardot in scanty dresses or frolicking nude in the sun.“It was never a great passion of mine,” she said of filmmaking. “And it can be deadly sometimes. Marilyn (Monroe) perished because of it.”Bardot retired to her Riviera villa in St. Tropez at the age of 39 in 1973 after “The Woman Grabber.” As fans brought flowers to her home Sunday, the local St. Tropez administration called for “respect for the privacy of her family and the serenity of the places where she lived.”Middle-aged reinventionShe emerged a decade later with a new persona: An animal rights lobbyist, her face was wrinkled and her voice was deep following years of heavy smoking. She abandoned her jet-set life and sold off movie memorabilia and jewelry to create a foundation devoted exclusively to the prevention of animal cruelty.Depression sometimes dogged her, and she said that she attempted suicide again on her 49th birthday.Her activism knew no borders. She urged South Korea to ban the sale of dog meat and once wrote to U.S. President Bill Clinton asking why the U.S. Navy recaptured two dolphins it had released into the wild.She attacked centuries-old French and Italian sporting traditions including the Palio, a free-for-all horse race, and campaigned on behalf of wolves, rabbits, kittens and turtle doves.“It’s true that sometimes I get carried away, but when I see how slowly things move forward ... my distress takes over,” Bardot told the AP when asked about her racial hatred convictions and opposition to Muslim ritual slaughter,In 1997, several towns removed Bardot-inspired statues of Marianne after the actress voiced anti-immigrant sentiment. Also that year, she received death threats after calling for a ban on the sale of horse meat.Environmental campaigner Paul Watson, who was beaten on a seal hunt protest in Canada alongside Bardot in 1977 and campaigned with her for five decades, acknowledged that “many disagreed with Brigitte’s politics or some of her views.”FILE - French actress Brigitte Bardot poses in character from the motion picture "Voulez-Vous Danser Avec Moi" (Do you Want to Dance With Me), on Sept. 10, 1959. (AP Photo/File)AP“Her allegiance was not to the world of humans,” he said. “The animals of this world lost a wonderful friend today.”Bardot once said that she identified with the animals that she was trying to save.“I can understand hunted animals, because of the way I was treated,” Bardot said. “What happened to me was inhuman. I was constantly surrounded by the world press.”Elaine Ganley provided reporting for this story before her retirement. Angela Charlton contributed to this report.

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