When he’s not campaigning to save the Camp Yeomalt cabin, Robert Weschler contributes the occasional essay to this newspaper. These comments kept getting crowded off page 5 by the recent influx of topical letters, so we’re glad to take a day off and hand this space over to Robert.

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Lately, there’s been a lot of talk about the squabbles between various island factions and amongst City Council members. Should we spend taxpayer dollars on a downtown shuttle and/or a central parking garage? Where should the Waterfront Park toilets go? Should Ericksen Avenue and Hildebrand Lane be connected? Sometimes I wonder if there isn’t a better way to resolve our disputes than through turf wars, confrontation, frustration and indecision.

On a recent Saturday, I may have stumbled onto some partial answers while attending two local events. My family trip began at the Civil War Battle reenactment in Port Gamble. When that was finished, we drove down the road to Poulsbo, where we saw the Sons of Norway Mid-sommer Festival. Afterward, as I sat in the traffic of Highway 305 on the way back to our Bainbridge Island sanctuary, I had time to reflect on what we, as social animals, can learn from these two disparate gatherings.

In the reenacted Battle of Gettysburg, the opposing troops were assembled in taut parallel lines, standing shoulder to shoulder, firing in unison, facing off their enemy a stone’s throw away across an open field. This coalesced formation (common throughout history and place, if movies of ancient Chinese and Roman battles are to be believed) would not seem to be terribly conducive to soldier longevity. In watching these battles unfold, the poor conscript is more a sitting duck (or standing goose, as it were) than an elusive target. What could possibly be the advantage of such a tactic?

In Port Gamble, I heard from the genial public address announcer an explanation. While it may be true that there is strength in numbers, the greater reason is that in the days before loudspeakers and radio communications, the soldier on the ground had to be within clear earshot of his commanding officer amidst the thunderous chaos of war. This was simply so that he could be most efficiently maneuvered into place as part of the grand battle plan. Yes, he (and it almost always was a “he”) was a mere pawn in the larger scheme. Yet on the battlefield, the men’s faces, when they could be seen, were furrowed with determination despite the fact that they had virtually no control over their own fates. Meanwhile, we, the innocent spectators, were asked politely but firmly to remain outside the cordon for our own safety, so as not to be caught up in the crossfire.

Contrast this with the traditional Norwegian dances in Poulsbo. The violin caller exhorted all of us, men, women and children, to join the ever-expanding circle. The circle would occasionally unfurl into a snake to gather in as many onlookers as possible before reforming into a yet larger circle. The dancers, holding hands, all had smiles across their faces, their bodies lightly drifting with the flow.

So what is the moral of this tale of two towns?

If one is to judge from the boisterous posturing of the assembled Confederate and Union units, the soldiers seemed to get their satisfaction from the adrenaline rush of the battle itself and the humiliation of their opponents. By contrast, if one is to judge by the humble bowing to each other of the Norwegian dancers, the joy of the moment is derived from seeing their partners share in the quiet satisfaction of the group as a whole.

As a community (of nations, citizens or simply island residents), it is within our power to choose how we will organize ourselves and relate to each other. We can draw lines in the sand, form opposing gangs and get our energy from the thrill of battle. Or we can step back, seek out the larger, common good and dance to a tune we can all enjoy.