If you build it, they will come: Rural relocation incentive programs prove popular

In an effort to combat rural depopulation, small communities across the United States are thinking of inventive ways to encourage relocation. Programs have popped up across the country offering financial incentives to new residents, ranging from down payment assistance to cash stipends. These packages can include anything from free internet service and recreation passes to lunch with the mayor. 

An earlier post on this blog discussed how rural communities are attracting California’s remote workers to Indiana incentive programs. This post discusses two programs that have emerged through state  initiatives in the last few years since that post that are seeking to draw folks from all backgrounds to find their new rural homes. Both programs offer bigger financial incentives than previous programs, and they specifically reward homeownership. 

An infrastructure project in Hickman, NE, an hour northwest of Pawnee City.

One program in Pawnee City, Nebraska, a town of about 900 residents, 90 minutes southeast of Lincoln, attracted considerable media attention last year. As part of their Vision 2030 plan, the city is offering $50,000 in down payment assistance to new home buyers. One video on the program from business news service Morning Brew garnered over one million views.  The money for this program has come from a grant from the Nebraska Affordable Housing Trust,

Over the next five years, the city plans to build 25 houses, multiple apartment buildings, and new community amenities. These projects are set for infill lots already owned by the city, which has helped to reduce costs.  The first two houses will be sold for $325,000, significantly higher than the average home price of $116,768 in Pawnee City. 

But the buzz has proved to be more than just media hype. The Chamber of Commerce reported receiving 115 applications for the two homes in the first two weeks. To qualify, applicants must make no more than 120% of the Area Median Income (AMI), $108,375 for a family of four.

Aaron Sawyer, Pawnee City's Economic Development Director, explained to Morning Brew what kind of applicants they are looking for:

The ideal people for these homes that we're building here in Pawnee City would be people that work from home. They can get a lot more bang for their buck to come to a small town like this, in a safe environment, and their same job, and just have a much better lifestyle.

Pawnee City isn't the only place trying to attract the growing number of remote workers to rural areas. Ascend WV is one of the largest relocation programs, covering several rural communities across West Virginia. A partnership between Brad D. Smith, former CEO of Intuit, Governor Patrick Morrissey, the West Virginia Department of Tourism, and the University of West Virginia, this program provides incentives for remote workers to move to the Mountain State for at least two years. 

Maverick's Bar, located in Morgantown, WV, an Ascend WV community.

Ascend WV is offering $12,000 cash payments for relocation, paid out in monthly installments over two years. If participants choose to buy a home at any point in their two years, the remaining money can be paid out as a lump sum for a downpayment or other home-buying expenses. The program also offers free outdoor recreation and gear rentals, access to coworking spaces, professional development through West Virginia University, and exclusive social events.

The program seeks to grow West Virginia's economy while helping remote workers find a community to call home and get involved in. West Virginia recorded the ninth-worst job growth of any state coming out of the pandemic, and post-COVID corporate investment has been concentrated in wealthier-than-average counties. This program could drive spending and tax revenue to more remote locations, like New River Gorge. The community there still faces long-standing infrastructure concerns, like sufficient housing for residents, even after the recent designation of New River Gorge as a National Park. 

Ascend WV complements First Ascent, a program to support recent graduates of West Virginia University and avoid brain-drain.WVU Today reported that as of September 5, 2025, 

[B]oth programs have drawn nearly 65,000 applicants, relocated upwards of 950 new residents, and kept 60 graduates in West Virginia, boasting above a 96% retention rate. Notably, 38% of participants also are West Virginia homeowners.

It remains too early to tell if these relocation programs are enough to meaningfully combat rural depopulation over the long term. However, these programs have proven incredibly popular and created significant online chatter. Attracting remote workers could pay off considerably, as they are able to increase the tax base and drive up consumer spending, without taking much-needed jobs away from residents. 

The gain isn't solely with the rural community, however. Young people with remote jobs report feeling less happy and engaged in their communities. These programs, especially those that offer social engagement and recreation opportunities, can help people find their place in the world. As twin crises of affordability and loneliness impact young Americans, programs like these may offer a chance for rural areas to revitalize community, reverse demographic trends, and shore up tax revenue. 

Literary Ruralism (Part L): Farming debates and farmer decision-making in Louise Erdrich's "The Mighty Red"

In a prior post about Louise Erdrich's The Mighty Red, I highlighted some excerpts about small-town life.  In this post, I'm going to feature some excerpts about farming decisions, in particular the debates about soil health and how to deal with weeds.  For those who read the first post, you may recall that the crop of choice in this area of North Dakota is sugar beets. 

I found the commentary on different types of farming--and on urban ignorance of farming--fascinating.  A few reminders about who's who:  Winnie is Gary's mother (see prior post).  We start with part of hte story of how Winnie's family lost their farm to the Geist family, into which Winnie married.

People in towns and cities had strange ideas about farming. People thought you just put a seed in the ground and it grew. Winnie Geist’s husband, Diz, called farming a war, but Winnie said it was a conflict. True, something was always trying to kill your crop, but there were ways and there were ways . . . she drifted off thinking of her parents’ ways. Driving to town over the summers, she had looked out to either side and seen that a field of sugar beets was going to be a good stand, that corn was growing unevenly, that soybeans had been planted too early or too late, that the sunflowers were outstanding. She knew who owned each field too, and so she was glad for or irritated by various families along the way. Now, driving toward the book club meeting, she let her mind relax. 

* * * 

While she was in high school, the government accelerated her family’s loan payments and blow after blow had landed. They’d lost their home, their farm, everything. Except one another, they kept saying, except us.

Sport Geist, father of Diz, had bought Winnie’s family farm from the bank for half of nothing. Her parents had sold their cattle at a loss, the equipment at an auction, moved out of their hand-built home into a rickety little white house in town. Her father had held her shoulders, looked into her face, said that as long as they worked, no job too menial, they’d hold their heads up. She held her head up. And anyway, in town people didn’t care. Most of the town kids had no idea what life on a farm was like. Losing a farm had no meaning for them. Winnie had kept her girlfriends and stayed Diz’s girlfriend, in spite of everything. She’d always loved Diz as much as she hated his father. Sport had mostly regarded his sons as free labor and rarely addressed them except to give an order. All through high school, Diz asked her to marry him. She said the best she could do was go to the local junior college and take bookkeeping so she could keep books for the farm. It was a kind of promise but she wouldn’t marry him until after Sport was dead and buried—in the earth he didn’t deserve to inhabit.  (pp. 84-85) 

This chapter is about Diz and his brother Gusty, both farmers.  The date is 2009.  

As boys they were husky. As men they are bulky. They loom like monoliths. They are chainsaw art. As Diz and Gusty lumbered across the yard, strong bulwark guts atop leg beams, they talked. Their thin exquisite lips barely moved. Their handsome wind-whipped faces were impassive in the shadow of billed caps. They had survived their father by sticking together. They never discussed the past. To speak about the way their father, Sport, had treated them, would be like grabbing an electric fence. 

The sun was fierce, the ground already kicking up heat. Their narrow blue eyes of Roman generals glinted as they entered their shadowy arsenal. Diz unlocked the back room of the tan and green metal pole barn, switching on the light, and the brothers frowned at the supply. Gusty lifted his hand and counted containers, which were kept in a chain-link enclosure with a padlock. 

Dual Magnum. Roundup. Warrant. Outlook.  Chloroacetamide. Betamix. Ethofumesate. UpBeet. Gramoxone. 

‘We should scout again. But I know what we’re gonna find,’ said Gusty. 

Diz switched off the light and they adjusted their hats before they walked into the field planted with his non-improved seeds. In that field the beets were past the emergent stages, the soil dry and powdery despite the recent flood and rain, and the sun was now relentless as hate. But worse than the glare of sunlight was the presence of the 2009 weed of the year, Chenopodium album, one of the most noxious and difficult to eradicate. 

‘Hot damn,’ said Diz. 

His shoulders sagged, and Gusty even took off his hat. They’d sprayed proactively, pre-emergence, using the big guns. But lambsquarters was back. Such a meek name, but their devil had a lot of names—goosefoot, pigweed, shitweed, baconweed, wild spinach. Cheerful shallow lobed leaves, silver undercoat winking in the sun. The men turned. Trundled or strode back toward the same outbuilding and the ninety-foot-boom self-propelled sprayer they had gone into deep debt to purchase. 

In some places, lambsquarters is considered the Prince of Greens, one of the most nutritious greens ever analyzed; it was one of the earliest agricultural crops of the Americas. It also resembles amaranth, but the brothers rarely spoke of that. The rough-cut men were preparing to eradicate one of the most nutritious plants on earth in favor of growing the sugar beet, perhaps the least nutritious plant on earth. Evolution thought this was hilarious.   (pp. 220-221).

This is Kismet's interaction with her mother-in-law, Winnie, Gary's mom, about Kismet's desire to plant a small garden on their propert: 

Kismet started by raking the dirt in the yard smooth. The nice loamy soil that she’d clutched earlier on had disappeared. Scratching at field dirt, she broke up clumps of gray grit and spread the dust around. She was wearing lots of sunblock and a big straw cowboy hat. She would need more sunblock to live out on the land. And for later, she would need more beer to reward herself through the long evening and keep herself in a trance. 

‘Honey, that won’t work,’ said Winnie, coming up behind her. 

Kismet straightened up, holding the rake. 

‘What won’t work?’ 

‘That dirt.’ 

‘What do you mean? It’s dirt.’ 

‘It’s not real dirt. It’s that dirt.’ 

Winnie pointed out into the field. ‘This is sugar beet dirt. Don’t you see? To plant anything else we have to get a pile of real dirt.’ 

‘Dirt’s supposed to grow anything,’ said Kismet. 

‘Regular soil dirt, sure, but this is sugar beet dirt, like I said. Diz and Gusty get this fertilizer that helps the dirt work for the seed. The seed is fixed up so the beet won’t die when it’s sprayed for weeds. Also, bugs. See, it’s all a system they have with the companies.’ 

‘Okay.’ Kismet threw down the rake. 

‘My farm had a lot of real dirt,’ said Winnie vaguely. ‘When I was a kid, my mom had us spreading chicken shit on the garden.’ 

‘Let’s go in and make iced tea.’ 

‘It sounds ridiculous,’ Winnie continued. ‘But we can call up Prairie Lawn to get the dirt. I was going to make a garden someday. But you can do it. I’m going to the grocery so let’s make a big list.’  (pp. 228-229) 

Fast forward to Diz and Gusty in 2023.  This chapter is titled "Evolution." 

Diz said to Gusty, ‘Follow me.’ They drove out to the field that had been the first field where they had used the Roundup Ready sugar beet seeds. He’d never forgotten how after spraying that year, 2009, there just wasn’t a weed in sight, and how the weedless wonder continued until they’d lifted out the beets. Since then, they had rotated the beets every three years with barley. Every time they planted beets the seeds lost some magic. 

‘Remember?’ Diz asked. 

‘I do,’ said Gusty. 

They walked out to the rows. Here and there dead pigweed had nearly melted into the earth. But also, here and there something else was happening. Some of the dead plants were turning green again. A few were lifting their heads. Across the field, as the brothers turned their great bodies, faces keen, eyes implacable in the shade of their caps, hands cupped at their hips, Diz and Gusty saw the resurrection. Silhouetted against the white haze of August heat there were spears of Palmer amaranth. Just here and there. But those plants could mean a million next year. 

‘The goddamn stinkers just pretended to die,’ said Diz. ‘They were dead a week ago, I swear. But now it’s their Easter Sunday out there. Pardon my’—he choked a little on his words—‘irreverence,’ he mumbled. 

‘It’s just a fuckin’ dickens of an outrage,’ said Gusty. 

Diz grabbed his hat and threw it on the ground and stamped on it. ‘There. I feel better,’ he said. He reached down to pick it up. Gusty noticed how his hand shook. Diz dusted the hat off by slapping it on his thigh. He put the hat back on his head. Put his hands in his pockets to try and still them. 

‘If we could grow that monster,’ said Gusty, almost in admiration, ‘bombproof crop.’ 

‘Maybe,’ said Diz, as they walked back to the truck. ‘Soon as we figured out a market for it, yeah. I think it’s something like quinoa. Quinoa ain’t sugar. And there’s nothing on it like a price protection.’ 

‘Sure not. Soon as we tried to grow it, some bug would come along and clean it out anyway.’ 

‘I know,’ said Diz. ‘Nobody ever said farming was easy.’ 

‘It’s not for dummies,’ said Gusty. 

They laughed silently because they’d said exactly this a thousand times before. To outwit nature for even a few years, you had to be a brilliant SOB. 

‘I can see a lot of steps ahead and this weed is gonna win.’ Gusty plodded along, kicking at the half-living weeds. 

‘Ichor says it’s actually metabolizing the poison now. Just eating it. Whatever you throw at this thing, it can break it down. We’re gonna have to handpick. Pay a church group or a football team or hire a bunch of kids and migrant labor like back in the day.’ 

‘Darva’s book group,’ said Gusty. 

‘Oh. wouldn’t that be . . . didn’t Darva hoe beets when she was a kid?’ 

‘Didn’t everybody?’ 

‘What goes around . . .’ 

‘What does go around?’ 

‘Weeds.’ 

‘Believe it.’

That night Diz lay awake staring into the bedroom gloom, Winnie softly burbling and snorting beside him. He saw himself running the thresher on one of those bright cool fall days and the obedient crop was falling into the rolling blades and the amaranth seeds were hissing onto the conveyer belt and down into the bed of a giant grain truck. He and Gusty were slapping their hands together, the way they did that time they’d temporarily beat the weeds. He was talking to Gary at the screen of a computer and they were looking at drone footage of the Red River Valley covered with amaranth. Field to field, that was all there was. His arm was big, a smooth honey bear arm, but he had the sudden childish sense of how tiny their farm was on its plot of earth, and on that plot a house, and in that house a bed with two people on it no bigger than gnats. He felt the weight of all he couldn’t control, tiny little human that he was, working and striving, without really knowing how big it all might be.  (pp. 362-64) 

There is more on weed control in the next chapter, Evolution 2024. 

Look at this,’ said Winnie. She pulled up an issue of Agweek on the computer. The magazine featured a firm of young fellows from the Northwest, based in Fargo now, who’d programmed their robots to recognize weeds and leave crop plants alone. There was a video of the robots plucking weeds out early on at the sugar beet two leaf stage. Winnie called Gary over. Grace came too, her wan crooked little face round now, her eyes bright, cheeks apple red and shiny. 

‘We should hire these guys,’ Gary said to Grace. 

‘Probably an arm and a leg,’ said Diz from his chair. 

He had a special weighted coffee cup because his tremor was getting worse. 

‘I bet you get a good deal for being one of the first,’ said Winnie. ‘And you’ll cut down, maybe cut out, dicamba or whatever.’ 

‘Why not call Ichor?’ said Grace. ‘He must know.’ 

‘Weed resistance,’ said Ichor. ‘Give it a try.’ 

Diz and Gusty talked about the pigweed resurrection and decided why not. 

A few weeks later, they invited people over. Eric held hands tightly with Orelia DeSouza, whom he’d met in college, and Bill and Bonnie stood together with their arms crossed, grinning. Spiral pulled up honking. Ichor brought a pan of bumble bars. Everyone stood at the end of the field watching the robot van pull into the yard. Two thin young men with an urban vibe shook hands all around, then rolled up the back of the van and attached a ramp. Three smallish contraptions came rolling out. The technicians tapped information into their laptops, then guided the robotic weeders onto the first field, ninety acres of beets. There was something appealing about the mechanisms as they trundled along, something earnest, sturdy, slightly comical. The watchers nodded, laughed, broke out in soft applause. (pp. 365-366). 

Here's the last part of the bit about different types of farming:  

Although he got farmers to use them all the time, Ichor didn’t like crop protection chemicals, the ’cides—fungicides, molluscicides, insecticides, rodenticides, bactericides, larvicides, and, most of all, herbicides. The world needed food, but farmers couldn’t keep going this way, ratcheting up the kill strength, adding layers of product. No chemical could be precise and there was no way to really quantify the overall effect. Nobody could adequately factor in the big picture, which was really big, being all of creation. Sometimes he woke at 3 a.m., sweating, having absorbed, say, a new study about the link between the herbicide paraquat and Parkinson’s disease. Glyphosate and depression. Insecticides and schizophrenia. The plunge in insect life was disturbing. The velocity of loss was exponential. He kept going by hoping better things than more chemicals were coming along. He saw no way for things to end well unless they changed course. Most farmers knew this or were becoming aware of it or even agreed, but nobody liked anyone not trying to survive off farming to tell them what to do. 

There were other ways to manage the most pernicious weeds around. In fact there were some methods that made him happy. Take for instance the nemesis of pastures—leafy spurge—a plant to reckon with, sinking roots down fifteen feet and spreading top root systems too, shooting seeds out over twenty feet. The spurge had been considered almost ineradicable, it had taken over whole pastures, crowded out the good forage, killed cows and horses. Poisons had to be applied and reapplied, to only modest effect. Then Ichor started hearing about how leafy spurge beetles went to town on the spurge. Season by season you could see those yellow pastures turn green. 

A while ago, Ichor had been to a barbecue hosted by another weed control officer, Ron Manson Jr. There he ate famously well and took home a cooler of those beetles. Now Ichor was turning those caramel-colored beetles loose regularly on all the pastures in his county, and beyond, too. The beetles went wild eating the stuff they were named for, and better yet, multiplied and sent their larvae down to eat the roots. Every year Ron, and now Ichor too, express-mailed tens of thousands of beetles to farmers and ranchers with infested ranges. The rancher would open the cooler of leafy spurge beetles, release them out onto his problem, and bugs would start eating the problem. After a few years the bugs would be so numerous that Ichor would drive over to shake them off the plants into his tarps. The pasture he was going to was even restoring a section of the river it sloped down to meet. One thing he especially liked about the beetles was that they controlled the weeds but never quite ate all of the spurge, never ate themselves entirely out of existence. They weren’t like people. They respected their existential limits.  (pp. 341-342).

Here's Gary (son of Winnie and Diz) talking to Ichor, the farmer from the passage above who is committed to sustainable practices, about his thinking on how farming should be done.  The first quote is from young Gary, the second from Ichor.

‘Used to be my mom’s pasture.’ 

‘I know.’ 

‘She talks about how farming’s going off a cliff; she wants to farm like her dad and mom farmed, more like Eric’s dad and mom.’ 

‘What’s your dad think?’ 

‘He won’t say it to her, but I know he thinks it’s bullshit. It won’t work at the scale we’re farming.’ 

‘What do you think?’ asked Ichor. ‘Me? Nobody asks.’ Gary cleared his throat. ‘But I read stuff. They’re both right. First, I’d get out of beets, over time because we have a contract. I’d plant nitrogen-fixing crops, plowing them back in, using less fertilizer. I wouldn’t go full-on organic, not for a while, but for every problem that comes at us I’d look for a solution that gets us further along, like toward a goal of getting certified. I think the fastest-growing market’s in organics, so I want to get in there. I haven’t told anybody.’

 It took a second for Ichor to ask, ‘Why not?’ 

‘Obviously,’ Gary said, ‘I’m a dumb jock.’ (pp. 347-348). 

What follows is Diz ruminating about farming with fellow farmer and brother, Gusty:

‘Nobody ever said farming was easy.’ 

‘It’s not for dummies,’ said Gusty. 

They laughed silently because they’d said exactly this a thousand times before. To outwit nature for even a few years, you had to be a brilliant SOB. 

‘I can see a lot of steps ahead and this weed is gonna win.’ Gusty plodded along, kicking at the half-living weeds. 

‘Ichor says it’s actually metabolizing the poison now. Just eating it. Whatever you throw at this thing, it can break it down. We’re gonna have to handpick. Pay a church group or a football team or hire a bunch of kids and migrant labor like back in the day.’ 

‘Darva’s book group,’ said Gusty. 

‘Oh. wouldn’t that be . . . didn’t Darva hoe beets when she was a kid?’ 

‘Didn’t everybody?’ 

‘What goes around . . .’ 

What does go around?’ 

‘Weeds.’ 

‘Believe it.’  (p. 363). 

Literary Ruralism (Part XLIX): Rural life in "The Mighty Red" by Louise Erdrich

I've very much enjoyed Louise Erdrich's latest novel, The Mighty Red (2024), set in the farming exurbs near Fargo, North Dakota, along the Red River.  I'm going to share some excerpts here that reflect on small-town life.  The protagonist is Kismet Poe, a high school senior when the story begins in 2008.  Her mother is Crystal, a Native American.   

Early in the novel, Kismet marries Gary, the somewhat hapless scion of a local sugar beet farming empire. She does this even though she is in love with another young man, the brilliant high-school drop out, Hugo.  Also looming over the novel, Gary has an ominous secret that gets revealed close to the novel's end.  Along the way, we get some vignettes that provide incisive commentary on small-town life.  Indeed, the entire novel is about a community entirely involved in each others' business. 

Also of note are Erdrich's ruminations on farming and different ways of being in relation to the natural world.  I'll save most of those for a separate post.  

In this opening scene, Gary and Kismet are out driving.

However, within a mile or two, Gary’s question whether she was bored made the silence complicated and exposed the fact that she actually was bored, very bored, and being consciously bored reminded her of what her cynical best friend, Stockton, had said—how boredom was a part of small-town life that you had to get drunk to accept. She wasn’t drunk now. She wasn’t drunk very often. She did think that if she spent much time with Gary, though, she’d have to have a bottle handy.  (p. 13) 

Kismet wanted to forestall Gary from sharing his thoughts. He might get solemn and talk about his farming ideas or his philosophy, which was that you should do what your mother told you to do. Kismet had met Gary’s mother and she questioned that. Gary believed that radio frequencies could carry disease. He started many sentences by declaring ‘There are two kinds of people . . .’ He didn’t believe in God but said he could get behind the idea that aliens had manufactured the skein of life. He also talked about, say, the Ten Commandments, and would wonder whether ‘Thou shalt not kill’ applied to deer. He loved deer. He cried when he saw a dead one. He also cried when he saw a living one. This was a thing about Gary that really got to Kismet. He didn’t hunt. His father and uncle tried to take him out hunting. He refused. He loved animals, not only deer, but every animal. Still, she didn’t appreciate it when he said that she reminded him of a deer in winter with her dark brown eyes and matching hair. Deer were lovely creatures but they were prey animals. 

College will get me out of here, thought Kismet, and a tiny rush of fear made her want to sleep. She pushed her seat back. The sun was beaming through the windshield and it was autumn sun, the mellow light of early afternoon. She fell into a dreamy nap as Gary meditated aloud about whether dinosaur bones were real or had been placed there by a super-intelligent race of ancient humans, or by aliens. ‘Aliens again,’ she murmured. 

‘Damn straight,’ said Gary in a heroic voice. 

‘You know the bones are real,’ said Kismet. 

‘Probably,’ said Gary. ‘Here’s the turnoff to that place. Remember Blosnik? He was a hands-on man. There’s two kinds—’ 

‘I know,’ said Kismet. ‘Your mom and dad . . .’ ‘

Yeah, Winnie and Diz.’  

He liked calling them by their first names. 

‘They always say there are two kinds of people, hands-on and hands-off. They really liked how Blosnik took our class out to dig fossils—’  (p. 13-14)

This scene from one of Gary's days at high school, when he is upset about something a teacher has said to him about Gary's still unrevealed secret:      

He knew that Kismet had social studies during third period. He paused outside her classroom. Instantly, his breath slowed and his heart calmed. There was something mysterious and magical about Kismet and dating her helped Gary feel sane. He suspected it was her Indian, oops, Native American, blood—though he never mentioned it again after the first time. Gary was awed by her effect on him, but for most of the years he’d gone to school with her she just seemed weird.  (p. 24) 

On Kismet and her relationship with her mother, especially when Kismet went through a goth phase: 

Like all mothers and daughters, both Kismet and Crystal went through Kismet’s phases. Before she took a job and cleaned up her act, Kismet was a goth, a dollar-store goth, but wasn’t that the point? One bleary night she self-dyed her shiny hair a harsh lusterless blue-black, set off her narrow eyes with thick black lines, and brushed her eyelids with gradations of purple and maroon. Crystal didn’t react when Kismet came downstairs the next morning and went to school. So she upped the ante. Tried to be secretive about her stick and poke tattoos. Kismet and Martin had memorized some of their namesake Edgar Allan’s work. Crystal caught a glimpse of the word nevermore on Kismet’s shoulder blade and a raven that came out looking like a pigeon. She pretended not to notice. In truth, she was depressed about it for weeks. Kismet’s clothes were from rummage sales or Thrifty Life, all black of course. Some she shredded artfully, others were ripped or worn thin already. Kismet was sent home for the slashes beneath her butt that went too high and showed violet panties. She was sent home again for sneaking out of the house wearing a T-shirt printed with fake breasts including nipples—she’d found the T-shirt in a garbage can. 

‘Stop wearing garbage!’ Crystal yelled at her. She was on a 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. schedule and had been roused from crucial sleep by the call from the principal.

‘All we can afford is garbage,’ Kismet said.

This stung and Crystal teared up. Kismet got all hangdog and mumbled she was sorry. (p. 25) 

What follows next speaks to the community and lack-of-anonymity themes.  It has Winne, Gary's mom, arriving at book club--a book club in which it seems every other woman in the novel--and perhaps in their town--is a member:    

[Winnie] turned into Bev’s drive. She cut the engine, but her hands were stuck to the wheel. The others lived in Tabor and saw one another all of the time. She had gone to school with Bev, though, and stayed friends with her. Bev had been a Pavlecky before she’d married Ichor. Bev would stick up for her. Still, Winnie Geist sat outside in her car. She’d arrived early to the book club and had to gather her courage before facing the women who would walk into Bev’s house. This was only the second meeting she’d made it to since the accident, and at the first meeting she hadn’t said a word. So she needed to see who was coming before she entered.

Many women she knew from church would be at the book club meeting. She knew that some actually prayed for her and her family. But on dark days Winnie believed that some prayed against her. She found it hard to bear the sting of their eyes when they’d watch her enter a room, and it was even more difficult to open her mouth and speak. (p. 84-85) 

Here's a scene following Kismet and Gary's wedding, which takes place shortly after Kismet's father and Crystal's long-time partner, Martin, runs off with the local Catholic parish's building fund, also leaving Crystal's home mortgaged without her knowledge.  That gives rise to the need for a lawyer, a very unusual event for folks of such modest means in rural-ish North Dakota: 

Kismet raised the skinny glass to her lips and the gentle bubbles grazed her nose. She took her first-ever sip of champagne. The ghost of a taste, an emotion in her mouth, unreadable. She drank again to try and understand. But it was too fleeting. Then she got it and smiled. An ephemeral blip. She drank until the champagne stopped thought, stopped taste, stopped emotion. People whirled, talking in her face. People watched from the sides of the room. They were talking about her, talking about her father, trying to corner Crystal, who eluded them all. 

After a brutal set of photos, Kismet’s mother squeezed her arm and said that she had to leave. Early. 

‘Are you going to see a lawyer?’ said Kismet. 

‘Oh, honey, yes,’ said Crystal. 

They wrapped each other in a silent hug with eyes squeezed shut. Getting a lawyer? It had never happened to them. It was as apocalyptic as Kismet getting married. They hugged harder, trying not to cry. Everybody looked away. (pp. 126-127) 

What follows is a scene from very near the end of the book, where the women's book group gathers again, this time to discuss Cormac McCarthy's The Road. 

There followed a pleasurable babble containing many theories: nuclear winter, the Rapture, aliens, the flu, ozone holes, this thing about the climate, which split members off in subarguments, China conquers us, Russia conquers us, or maybe . . . Tania White waited patiently so that her theory was the last. She stood up and with a smile of satisfaction unrolled a chart of the Yellowstone volcano, the probable epicenter of destruction, as well as the outlying circles of poisonous gas and falling ash. 

‘So we have here the super-volcano. You see the red circle? Kill zone. Right here, this is us. In the pink zone. We’re in the primary ash zone. The secondary ash zone is this peach circle from Lake Superior over to California, taking in the Texas Panhandle. If this volcano erupted, and I guess it’s overdue, we get covered in volcano ash. It would be another ice age. Everything in the Upper Midwest would die—just like in the book—only a few random apples left—just like in the book,’ said Tania. She paused for maximum effect and tag-teamed Tory, who rose and spoke. ‘This is why we wanted to bring it to the club. This book is a very realistic look at the aftermath of the Yellowstone super-volcano.’ 

‘I’ve read where an asteroid is more likely to hit,’ said Mary Sotovine. 

‘You guys are way off the mark,’ said Winnie, pointing out the window, at the fields. ‘Look. There’s your answer.’ 

The women leaned sideways or forward to stare out the picture window and saw that, as usual, the wind was sending up curls of earth dust and dust devils were crisscrossing the fields. ‘I don’t get it,’ said Tory. 

Across the horizon a band of gray dust wavered. The sun would go down in a bloody stew. Every night was like the end of the world. It was gorgeous! ‘What is going to happen?’ said Mrs. Flossom, excitedly. ‘What can we expect?’ Jeniver went over to the table and opened another bottle of white and one of red. Even Karleen had a few sips. 

‘Don’t you see?’ said Winnie. ‘Every time you look out the window there’s dust rising up.

That’s dirt. We are losing our dirt. No dirt, no food.’ ‘Okay,’ said Karleen, eyes glittering. ‘Round that out for us.’ ‘No dirt, no food, no life. General starvation. My parents’ fields were surrounded by shelterbelts and they left stubble in their fields the way Pavlecky does now. They planted cover crops, but . . . sorry . . . I did some historic reading before Diz and I went to Russia years ago and it curdled my bones. When Stalin made the little farms into humungous collective farms . . .’ ‘

Like the sugar beet collective?’ someone asked. 

‘That’s a voluntary collective and a functional one,’ said Winnie, with a hint of scorn. ‘In Russia it was total and complete retooling where the Soviets kicked out . . . well, starved and murdered, all the landowners and farmers who were growing the wheat and turnips and food crops. Then they tried to organize giant farms, but nobody knew how to farm because most of the farmers-in-charge were dead! It was like when Stalin killed the doctors in Moscow, then he dies because there’s nobody to save him!’

‘Let’s get back to—’ Bev started. 

Winnie blew right past her. ‘Anyway, let’s say present practices continue in our case. No dirt. Nothing to eat.’ 

‘Except people,’ said Jeniver with a stern, conclusive nod all around, as if they were on The Road or on a lifeboat, ready to draw lots. Karleen shrank back. Jeniver’s brown hair, held on top of her head by a small golden sword, flashed in the bloody sunset light. 

‘Correct,’ said Winnie, though Jeniver had stolen her punch line. Winnie nodded her head and looked down into her fuchsia lap. ‘Starving, that’s a bad way to go. You don’t just fade out. Extremely painful, and the cravings! One of the worst . . .’ 

‘Not as bad as—’ Mary Sotovine began like a pitcher winding up. 

‘Let’s not go there,’ Darva cut in. 

Once Mary and Darva began competing over worst-case ways to perish, the book club usually spiraled into ghoulish hysteria. Mary’s glowing round face flattened in disappointment. 

‘How about getting pickled?’ Jeniver wondered. 

The other women looked at Jeniver and she held out her empty wineglass. 

‘Oh, pickled!’ The general mood shifted. 

‘Wasn’t that last line of the book really beautiful?’ said Tiny Johnson, and the book discussion was soon complete, except that suddenly Bev stood up. 

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘While we’ve been talking about the end of the world like we’re looking forward to it, I’ve been thinking how the world as we know, used to know, it really is ending. I thought of what the world was like even when I was a kid, how it was more . . . it was more full.’ 

‘Last call,’ said Tiny. ‘I’m bringing out the ice cream.’ 

‘Don’t you remember?’ Bev went on. ‘How there used to be meadowlarks?’ She looked around. ‘C’mon, when’s the last time you heard a meadowlark? You know, our state bird. When I was growing up they were everywhere, in all the ditches, as soon as you got to the edge of town they started. Am I right?’ 

‘She’s right,’ said Mary Sotovine. ‘I’m older, so ten years before Bev remembers, they were in the ditches, as soon as you got to the edge of town. You’d hear them all the time.’ 

‘She’s right,’ said Winnie. ‘There used to be flocks of those cedar birds, cedar waxwings, and bluebirds, even. And bugs, which they ate. Grasshoppers. Mayflies when you went out to the lakes. Now you don’t even see grasshoppers. And there’s only a mayfly or two. It’s the pesticides.’ 

All of the women suddenly began to talk. 

‘Do you notice how you look at the grille of your car and there’s no bugs? No bugs hit your windshield? And moths. How they used to swirl in the streetlamps?’ 

‘They did. Like snow.’ 

‘And how when it rained the frogs came out and they were everywhere and the grass was thick with frogs?’ ‘Toads. You could always go out and pick up a toad.’ 

‘Now it’s surprising. A toad! It’s special!’ 

‘And there were nighthawks, lots of nighthawks swerving around, after the mosquitoes. And bats everywhere and how we used to scream if they dived at us. And flocks of pigeons on the grain elevators.’

‘What does it mean that prairie falcons are living in town?’ asked Stockton. 

Everyone fell silent. 

‘It means there’s less to eat in the country,’ said Winnie. 

Kismet waved her hand. Winnie recognized her with a nod and called out, ‘Kismet has something to say!’ 

Kismet looked at her mother and said, ‘I don’t think this book is about the end of the world. That’s just the setting, to show what happens between people in extreme situations. The end is about consolation. The father goes to the end of the earth for his son, then dies, satisfied. I mean, it’s a really sentimental book. McCarthy’s not afraid of that. And it’s a brutal adventure book—exciting when they find the food cache, and then there’s that cannibal army.’ 

Jeniver stood up and spoke with urgency. ‘This book is about what’s most important. You know, this kind of love between a parent and a child.’ 

Crystal put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders, and Kismet leaned on her mother. Winnie saw that Kismet would leave. She thought of Gary and started to cry, wondering how she could possibly save him. All of a sudden she had a thought that dried her tears right up. She’d searched for a way to thank Gary’s angel. Well, Kismet was his angel. Oh no! Oh yes! Again she wept. Bev thought about how Hugo had escaped that terrifying pre-apocalyptic landscape [the Bakken oil fields of western North Dakota], and she also started to cry. ...  Mary Sotovine was moved to tears at the thought of the days when she’d see bluebirds in a strip of grassland, now planted in soybeans.  (pp. 328-332). 

More on Walz' attractiveness to rural voters

From Nicholas Jacobs article in The Conversation, discussed below

Vice Presidential nominee Tim Walz gave his speech to the Democratic National Convention in Chicago last night, and in doing so used some of his now standard rural and small-town lines--including how small-town folks mind their own damned business.   

Meanwhile, Nicholas Jacobs,  co-author of The Rural Voter, wrote in The Conversation about Walz' attractiveness--or lack thereof--to rural voters: 

Walz’s performance within his home state of Minnesota is a relevant bellwether for his national appeal among rural voters. Though Walz has deep rural roots, rural voters have not always supported him as much as his backstory might quickly suggest.

In six elections over the past eight years, populist candidates for major offices in upper Midwestern states have seen differing levels of success in rural parts of their districts or states. Using the vote share that each candidate received from majority-rural counties – counties where the rural population is more than 50% of the total – as a proxy for rural support both district- and statewide, Walz’s performance has decreased among rural voters since he last ran for reelection to Congress in 2016. It does not exceed the support other candidates in the Midwest received from similar rural-majority counties.

I calculated the percent of the population living in a census-defined rural bloc for Walz’s former congressional district and the state of Minnesota. I then calculated the percent of Walz’s vote share that came from rural-majority counties in each of his past three elections, one for Congress and the other two for governor.

Like other Democrats in districts across the nation, Walz struggled to win rural voters in his congressional district – Minnesota’s First District – and statewide. Neither of those are majority-rural constituencies, but even when just looking at the most rural areas, Walz never won a majority. In fact, his largest losses running for reelection as governor in 2022 were in rural communities. That year, Walz captured just 38% of the vote in rural-majority counties across Minnesota.

Some might see this as evidence that no Democrat could do well in rural America. If not the folksy Walz, then who, they might ask?

Just look next door.

In Walz’s own Midwest region, other Democrats have performed strongly among rural constituencies. U.S. Sens. Tammy Baldwin of Wisconsin and Amy Klobuchar of Minnesota performed nearly as strong as their Republican opponents within the most rural parts of their electorate. Even Michigan Gov. Gretchen Whitmer outperformed Walz’s rural numbers.

* * * 

A recent Washington Post poll on the two vice presidential nominees’ popularity shows that Walz has secured a marginal geographic advantage among voters across the U.S. In urban areas, about 20% of voters dislike Vance more than like him. Among rural respondents, just 14% of voters dislike Walz more than like him. Walz, however, is still less popular than popular among rural voters, while Vance is viewed favorably, on average.

But it is worth remembering that the most popular candidate to ever win rural America neither hails from a rural America nor pretends to. Donald Trump’s appeal lies not in his personal connection to rural life but in his ability to tap into the sentiments of rural discontent and align them with his broader political message. Trump has shown that the politics of rural identity do not easily translate to simple identity politics.

Jacobs opines that Walz' job is not just to present a "rural-friendly image."  

It’s addressing the deeper issues that motivate rural voters, such as economic insecurity, perceived cultural marginalization and distrust in government. Symbolic gestures – and camo hats – alone are not sufficient to sway their support.

You'll see more on Walz' attractiveness to rural voters in my prior post, based on a story in the LA Times, here.

Another Tim Walz profile, this one in the uber-urban LA Times

Hailey Branson-Potts of the Los Angeles Times reports on her recent trip to Tim Walz's two Nebraska home towns: Valentine (population 2,737) and Butte (population 326).  Here are some rural-focused excerpts: 

During the 2022 midterm elections, 69% of rural voters cast ballots for Republicans, compared with 29% supporting Democrats, according to the Pew Research Center. Among urban voters, 68% supported Democrats and 30% backed Republicans.

Randy Adkins, a political scientist at the University of Nebraska Omaha, said he does not see places like Nebraska suddenly going blue.

“What we’re seeing in the polls right now is there’s a little bit of movement toward Harris, but people made hard decisions and they made them a long time ago,” he said.

Still, there is palpable excitement among rural Democratic organizers, who say they have long been overlooked by their national party.

Jane Kleeb, chair of the Nebraska Democratic Party, said in an email that Harris “has absolutely expanded the map beyond swing states with Tim Walz” and that “we do not have to hand him a briefing book on rural issues, because he has lived our experiences.”

Among Democrats’ many identity-based Zoom fundraising calls that have raised millions — including “White Dudes for Harris” — was an event last week called “Rural Folks for Harris.” It drew about 6,000 listeners across 48 states and raised $22,000.

In Valentine, there were no visible yard signs for Harris or Trump this week. At the Cherry County Rodeo, people donned cowboy hats, not MAGA caps.

The story appeared on the front page of the paper, above the fold, on Friday, August 16, 2024.  

Both NYTimes and LATimes cover the matter of electric school busses in rural America

Last December, Hailey Branson-Potts wrote this LA Times story about electric school busses in far northern California,  The dateline was Susanville, population 17,000, county seat of Lsssen County, which is about the size of Delaware, with a population density of 7.2 persons per square mile. The headline is "California is pumped about electric buses.  Rural schools say they're a pain." (The alternative headline is "California rural schools say electric buses won't work."

Dionne Searcey wrote this NY Times story about electric school busses in Nebraska, published just this week.  Her story is out of her hometown of Wymore in Gage County, population 21,000, in the more populous eastern part of the state.  Because Searcey is writing about her hometown, she frequently mentions having been in school with several of the men featured in the story.  Her headline is "A Brand New Electric Bus, No Charge. (That Was One Problem)."  The subhead is "In tiny Wymore, Neb., a sleek new battery-powered school bus became a Rorschach test for the future."

As reflected in their respective headlines, both of these stories engage the politics of the rural-urban divide, as well as the practical challenges of traversing the long distances associated with rural living and doing so with little charging infrastructure.  Here's a representative paragraph from the NYT story:

[T]he electric bus became a surrogate for far bigger issues this quiet corner of the nation is facing. In conversations in the school boardroom, at the volunteer fire hall and at the American Legion bar, the bus exposed fears of an unwelcome future, one where wind turbines tower across the flatlands, power generated by Nebraska solar farms is sent out of state and electric cars strand drivers on lonesome gravel roads.

Both pieces are well worth a read.  Here's a prior post I wrote about the federal program supplying the electric buses--and how it was playing in my hometown. 

For contrast, here's a Los Angeles Times story on the uber-urban Oakland (California) School District going all electric with its school bus fleet. 

Wall Street Journal takes up the rural lawyer shortage, sorta'

Shannon Najmabadi's story in this weekend's Wall Street Journal was headlined, "Courts Come to Order with Judges, Litigants--but No Lawyers."  The dateline is Pittsburg, Kansas, population 20,646, and here's the lede:  

A court day with no lawyers used to be rare for many Kansas judges, but Judge Lori Bolton Fleming now regularly presides over hearings similar to the divorce case she heard in late September.

The man showed up with no lawyer and no paperwork, when he was supposed to bring a completed divorce decree with him. Bolton Fleming pulled out the necessary form and began filling it out.

“What year were you married?” she asked.

Across the U.S., more people are forgoing lawyers in state civil courts. Some can’t afford an attorney, have had bad experiences with them or prefer to take advantage of advice and tools posted online. Unlike criminal defendants, who have a right to a public defender, people appearing in civil court for cases including housing, debt collection or protections from abuse have no such guarantee.

Najmabadi doesn't mention until the next paragraph that his partly--perhaps largely--a rural phenomenon: 

Some rural areas, such as the counties Bolton Fleming oversees, have an added challenge: Few or no lawyers practice nearby. Those who remain can be choosy; they might, for example, limit their acceptance of domestic cases that can be lengthy and emotionally involved.

Najmabadi quotes Judge Bolton Fleming, 

It's just supply and demand--they will take paying clients. 

This is, then, a story about both the market--but in particular the rural market.  It's a story about the rural lawyer shortage--but in disguise.  Nevertheless, the feature is worth a read in its entirety, for the deep dive into what's happening not just in Kansas--and not just in rural places--but more and more across the country as pro se litigants show up to court and judges must figure out how to mete out justice.  

A prior WSJ story about the rural lawyer shortage, this one by Erin Mulvaney, appeared a few months ago.  It discusses the use of paralegals to help alleviate problems associated with the rural lawyer shortage, with a focus on a new Minnesota proposal.  

South Dakota Law Review Symposium on Rural Lawyers set for September 21-22

Read more here.  This event marks the 10th anniversary of South Dakota's Project Rural Practice (now called the Rural Attorney Recruitment program) and is also a decade on from the 2013 symposium that kicked off the conversation on these issues.  For that symposium, Bradley Showman (Class of 2014) and I co-authored Law Stretched Thin:  Access to Justice in Rural America. 

The schedule for the event is below.  

Thursday, Sept. 21

9-9:05 a.m.: Welcome | Knudson School of Law Courtroom

 
9:05-10:15 a.m.: Rural Indigent Criminal Defense Panel | Knudson School of Law Courtroom
Panel discussion about the roles of rural defense attorneys and with the issues that face rural defendants.
Moderator: Dean Neil Fulton - Knudson School of Law

Panel: South Dakota Sixth Circuit Judge Bobbi Rank, Attorney Brent Matter, Attorney Justin Bell, and Attorney Tom Sannes

10:30-11:45 a.m.: Rural Prosecutor Panel | Knudson School of Law Courtroom

Panel discussion about the roles of rural prosecutors and the issues that face rural prosecutors.

Moderator: Professor Maybell Romero - Tulane Law
Panel: Professor Quinn Yeargain - Widener Law, Professor Margaret Raymond - University of Wisconsin Law, Flandreau Attorney General Seth Pearman, and Associate Director of Advancement Elaine Yellow Horse – Thunder Valley CDC

Noon-12:30 p.m.: Lunch and Unsettling Expectations and Expertise to Address Rural Attorney Shortages | Al Neuharth Media Center

Dr. Michele Statz, from the University of Minnesota Medical School, will speak during the lunch hour about the rural lawyer shortage and address solutions including how to recruit, retain, and sustain rural legal professionals.

1-2:15 p.m.: How Other States and Industries Draw Talent to Rural Areas Panel | Al Neuharth Media Center

Panel discussion with attorneys from different states about what other states have done in addressing the rural attorney shortage.

Moderator: Attorney Amanda Kool

Panel: Professor Maybell Romero - Tulane Law, Dr. Michele Statz - University of Minnesota Medical School, Professor Lisa Pruitt – UC Davis Law, and Professor Anthony Schutz – Nebraska College of Law

2:30-3:45 p.m.: 10 Year History of South Dakota Project Rural Practice Panel | Al Neuharth Media Center
Members of the South Dakota bar will discuss the history of South Dakota’s Project Rural Practice and the ten years since its beginning.

Moderator: Attorney Kelsea Kenzy Sutton
Panel: Chief Justice David Gilbertson, Attorney Bob Morris, Attorney Pat Goetzinger, Attorney Rachelle Norberg, and Professor Ryan McKnight

4 p.m.: Keynote Address | Knudson School of Law Courtroom

South Dakota Supreme Court Chief Justice Steven Jensen

Friday, Sept. 22

8-9:15 a.m.: Professional Responsibility Issues Affecting Rural Lawyers | Knudson School of Law Courtroom

Panel discussion about ethical issues facing rural attorneys.

Moderator: Professor John Cook - William H. Bowen School of Law
Panel: North Dakota Supreme Court Justice Daniel Crothers, Professor Rebecca Feldmann - William H. Bowen School of Law, Professor Tom Simmons – Knudson School of Law, and United States District Judge Daniel Traynor

9-10:30 a.m.: Rural Community and Attorney Data Panel | Knudson School of Law Courtroom
Panel discussion about rural data including issues, tracking, and compilation.

Moderator: Professor Lisa Pruitt – UC Davis Law
Panel: Professor Aleks Schaefer - Oklahoma State University, Professor Andrew Van Leuven - Oklahoma State University, Professor Brian Farrell - University of Iowa College of Law, Professor Daria Fischer Page - University of Iowa College of Law, Third-Year Law Student Bryce Drapeaux – Knudson School of Law, and Professor Hannah Haksgaard - Knudson School of Law

10-11:45 a.m.: Teaching and Scholarship Panel | Knudson School of Law Courtroom
Panel discussion with academics about what teaching methods and scholarship will benefit attorneys entering rural practice. 

Moderator: Professor Hannah Haksgaard - Knudson School of Law
Panel: Attorney Amanda Kool, Professor Lisa Pruitt - UC Davis Law, Professor Melissa L. Kidder - Claude W. Pettit College of Law, Professor Kelly Collinsworth - Southern Illinois University School of Law, and Professor Marilyn Trefz – Knudson School of Law

Noon–1 p.m.: Experience from the Field – Rural Lawyers Panel and Lunch | Al Neuharth Media Center

Panel discussion with rural South Dakota attorneys about their practice and experience as a rural attorney.
Moderator: Volume 69 Symposium Editor Trevor Case – Knudson School of Law
Panel: Attorney Kelsea Kenzy Sutton, Attorney Willie Hustead, and Dakota Plains Legal Services Executive Director Thomas Mortland

 
1 p.m.: Rural Career Fair | Knudson School of Law: USD Knudson School of Law’s Career Services will be hosting a Rural Career Fair following the symposium.

If you are a rural law firm in South Dakota and are interested in networking with students after the conclusion of the symposium on Friday, email Teramie Hill at Teramie.Hill@usd.edu or register here for the “Stay in South Dakota” career fair on Friday afternoon.

The SD Bar Foundation sponsorship for the Rural Law Symposium is provided through the generosity of the Cozad Fund.

Small-town government run amok (Part XII): Who and what were behind the police raid of a small-town newspaper in Kansas?

This story out of Marion, Kansas, population 1,922, made big national headlines two weeks ago when police raided the local newspaper, the Marion Record, as well as the home of its publisher  The reason these events attracted so much attention, of course, is that the law does not typically permit prior restraints of media in the United States--and thus we don't tend to permit seizure of journalists' notes and tools.  After-publication liability can attach if, for example, a publication runs afoul of defamation law or some other laws. 

Since these dramatic events unfolded in Kansas, catapulting little Marion onto the world stage, national media have been revisiting the "scene of the crime" to reveal who and what were behind the raid.  What evidence justified the search warrant?  Early reports suggested that it came down to a dispute between the newspaper and the owner of a local business, Kari Newell, over a DUI she got 15 years ago, which caused her to lose her driver's license for a time.    

OK, I thought, but a local judge and local police still had to get involved for the raid to have occurred, which caused me to file these events temporarily under my "small town government run amok" folder.  This is my mental category for events when small-ish local governments do knuckle headed things--often unconstitutional things--because no one is watching the watchers.  That is, the officials aren't getting legal counsel or don't, for example, have a lawyer present to advise when decisions are being made.  In this case, though, a magistrate judge (with a law degree), Laura E. Viar of Kansas Eighth Judicial District, approved the police chief's request to search the offices of the newspaper and the homes of the newspaper editor and a councilwoman.  The judge granted that search warrant based on evidence suggesting unlawful use of a computer and identity theft, the latter being a felony.  (I note that in this district, the means of ascending to the bench is through "assisted appointment" and that Judge Viar is not listed on the ballotpedia webpage, though she is listed on the government webpage of the Eighth Judicial District).

The facts underlying that allegation were that a Marion Record reporter had checked the accuracy of an allegation about Newell, a local business woman, whose past DUI and loss of driver's license, the journalist was investigating.  The reporter did so by entering information gleaned from a screenshot purporting to document Newell's DUI and entering those details into a state government website to confirm Newell's loss of license.  Newell's old DUI and loss of license were of public interest only inasmuch as she was applying for a liquor license for her restaurant.  Nevertheless, the newspaper did not publish a story about the restauranteur's DUI. 

It appears that the judge, having the police department appear ex parte seeking the search warrant, never considered the first amendment implications of the warrant she signed off on.  That's a pretty significant oversight given how relatively little was at stake for Newell, the victim of the alleged identity thefl. 

Some of this detail is revealed in this Washington Post feature, published just this weekend, which provides the most detailed back story I've seen so far on these events.  It it a tale rich with rural and small-town themes, including lack of anonymity.  Here's the lede:

The phone conversation between the journalist and the town’s newly hired police chief quickly turned contentious.

Tipsters had been telling Deb Gruver that Gideon Cody left the police department in Kansas City, Mo., under a cloud, supposedly threatened with demotion. So now she was asking him difficult questions on behalf of the weekly Marion County Record about the career change that had brought him to this prairie community of 1,900 people.

The chief bristled.

“If you’re going to be writing bad things about me,” they both recall him telling the reporter, “I might just not take the job.”

He also advised Gruver that he had hired a lawyer.

Cody later said he had been on guard during the conversation, having been warned by longtime residents that the Record could be overly aggressive in its reporting.

“If you live in Marion, you understand,” he told The Washington Post. “If you don’t live in Marion, you don’t understand.”

Gruver wouldn’t publish any of her reporting on Cody for months to come. But their confrontation in April marked an escalation in long-running tensions between a group of local journalists and the officials and community members they cover that would boil over through the summer.

The small-town intrigue might have stayed in a small town, though, had Cody not initiated a dramatic step earlier this month. Responding to a local businesswoman’s allegation that the paper had illegally accessed her driving record, Cody obtained search warrants from a magistrate judge and led half a dozen officers on an Aug. 11 raid of the Record’s offices and the home of its editor and publisher — seizing computers, servers, cellphones and other files.

* * * 

Cody, 54, officially assumed his post in June. Shortly thereafter, he ordered his deputies to stop sending daily police activity logs to the Record.

Crime is infrequent in Marion, but the Record had consistently published these weekly reports — detailing every minor traffic accident police responded to, every report of wandering cattle — for decades. Cody told The Post that his review led him to believe these disclosures could violate privacy laws. In response, the paper began publishing a pointed notice where the reports had formerly appeared: “Chief Gideon Cody has ceased providing a weekly report of police activities.”

The story later suggests that Cody was motivated to seize the Record's computers not to vindicate restauranteur Newell, but because the computers would reveal details of who had made allegations against the police chief himself.  

And then there's this sort of "last chapter," involving someone else in Marion County who has a law degree and should understand the constitutional implications of what transpired with the newspaper seizures:  

Marion County Attorney Joel Ensey announced five days after the raid that he would withdraw Cody’s warrant and return the seized items to Meyer and his staff.

The announcement seemed to amount to an admission that the now-infamous raid had been a mistake. Ensey said in a statement that there had been “insufficient evidence” to justify a raid on the searched locations or to connect the sought-after items with an alleged crime.

You can read earlier coverage of these events here, here and here.  The last of these, from the Kansas City Star, alleges Marion County Sheriff copied the newspaper's hard drive before returning it and that the county is being asked to destroy that copy.

It all makes me wonder what sort of legal advice Marion County and the City of Marion are getting now, as they face fall-out from the raid--a raid that, incidentally, appears to have led to the death of one of the newspaper's owners/publishers/editors, a 98-year-old woman whose house was searched in the initial raid.  

Why the highest paid doctors (but not the highest paid lawyers) live in the Dakotas

"The real reason the highest-paid doctors are in the Dakotas" is the headline for Andrew Van Dam's recent report in the Washington Post.  Here's what the data show:    

The best-paid doctors in America work in the Dakotas, where they averaged $524,000 (South) and $468,000 (North) in 2017 in their prime earning years, including business income and capital gains. That’s well above the already astonishing $405,000 the average U.S. doctor made in the prime earning years, defined here as 40 to 55.

And it’s way above the $288,000 we estimate was earned by lawyers in that age group. Prime-earning-age attorneys in South Dakota made $165,000 in 2017, while their neighbors to the north made $183,000.

By contrast, lawyers in New York earned an average of $438,000, which is roughly comparable to the $447,000 earned by the average New York doctor. Their D.C. lawyer friends made $406,000, while the average D.C. doctor eked out just $349,000.

* * * 

Rural regions rule the doctor rankings: Alaska, Wyoming and Nebraska join the Dakotas in the top five states for physician pay, confounding the intuition hammered into our souls by more than a decade of covering economics. None of those are high-earning states overall, with the evergreen exception of Alaska. They’re also not high-cost: North and South Dakota rank 41st and 45th, respectively, in cost of living among the states and D.C.; only Alaska costs more than average, according to the Bureau of Economic Analysis.

And here's the "why" part:   

“For lawyers, there is a strong relationship between the lawyer’s income and incomes of other people in the area. And that’s not true for doctors,” Gottlieb said, noting that doctor pay doesn’t have a strong relationship with local education levels and real estate prices, either.

Economists explain that competition is another key factor:  

Rural America has about 20 percent of the U.S. population but about 10 percent of its doctors, according to our analysis of Census Bureau data. So the talented young physicians willing to hang their shingles in North Dakota don’t have to worry about rivals undercutting their prices. They can charge more for everything, from appendectomies to vasectomies.

* * *

The government also influences physician pay directly through Medicare, perhaps the biggest spigot of health-care cash on Planet Earth. Typically, people in low-income areas can’t spend as much and merchants tend to earn less. But that’s not the case for health care, in large part because Medicare ensures that retirement-age Americans — by far the biggest health-care consumers — can afford about as much in South Dakota as they can in South Beach. Which means doctors work in one of the few industries where demand is not necessarily determined by disposable income.

* * * 

But Medicare plays an even more explicit role in fostering this geographic pay-gap anomaly. A stellar 2022 report from the nonpartisan Government Accountability Office lays out the astonishing design choices that have caused Medicare calculations for doctor pay to be remarkably flat from state to state.

Van Dam goes even to even more depth on this point, but you'll have to read the rest of his story for that level of detail.  His related story, "The states that produce the most doctors, artists and writers, and more!" is here. 

On the most rural Presidential candidate yet

Doug Burgum, governor of North Dakota, declared his candidacy for the Republican nomination for U.S. President last week, leading to a relative avalanche of coverage of a previously obscure political figure. 

Jonathan Weisman's New York Times story of June 8, 2023, dateline Fargo (population 127,000, which is 16% of the state's population), is headlined "The Presidential Candidate Who Has His Own Supporters Scratching Their Heads."  Here's an excerpt that explains Burgum's extraordinary wealth: 

[A]s a base for a presidential run, Fargo is still the smallest of towns, closer to Winnipeg, in Canada, than to Minneapolis, the nearest American metropolis. The hamlet of Arthur, where Mr. Burgum grew up and where his family’s prosperous, century-old grain elevator dominates the flat landscape, is still more removed from the nation’s political currents. Even North Dakotans who express admiration for their governor’s wealth, business acumen and energy are baffled by his suddenly lofty political ambitions.

“He’s a long shot, for sure,” said Brad Moen, 69, of Jamestown, N.D., who has known Mr. Burgum for 60 years and traveled 100 miles for his presidential introduction on Wednesday. “California, New York, Ohio, Florida — they’re the big dogs, not North Dakota.”

* * *

Mr. Burgum’s path to the White House seems particularly forbidding. His story is out of central casting: the son of a tiny town who as a teenager lost his father, and then channeled a natural entrepreneurial spirit into enterprises that included chimney sweeping, a business software empire and venture capital — all within the state lines of North Dakota.

Mr. Burgum’s status as a billionaire traces back to Microsoft, which bought his company, Great Plains Software, in 2001 in a $1.1 billion stock deal that made him one of the richest men in the Dakotas.

Maggie Astor's story for the Times, "5 Things to Know about Doug Burgum," ran the day before.  Here's an excerpt focused on the fact that Burgum's election as governor in 2016 was a "major upset."  

When Mr. Burgum began running for governor in January 2016, few people in North Dakota knew who he was either.

A poll conducted the next month found him running 49 percentage points behind the state attorney general Wayne Stenehjem, who was the chosen candidate of the North Dakota Republican Party, the departing governor Jack Dalrymple and Senator John Hoeven.

He ended up beating Mr. Stenehjem in the Republican primary by more than 20 points.

“Stand up if you saw this coming,” Mike McFeely, a columnist for The Forum, a newspaper in Fargo, wrote after the primary. “OK, now sit down. Because no you didn’t.”

Mr. Burgum, who had never held elected office, benefited from an anti-establishment campaign message — this was, after all, the year that Donald J. Trump showed Republican voters’ appetite for perceived outsiders — and from Democrats who crossed over to vote in the Republican primary, as state law allows.

Also, Burgum supports fossil fuels as well as carbon capture.  He's signed into law one of the nation's strictest abortion bans, along with eight anti-transgender laws in 2023 alone.  

Maeve Reston writes for the Washington Post about Burgum here, and I love the small-townish, farm-values anecdote she leads with: 

When Microsoft was on the verge of acquiring the software company that tech entrepreneur and soon-to-be GOP White House contender Doug Burgum had helped build from a small firm to one with more than 2,000 employees, he had specific ideas about where he wanted to iron out the details of the $1.1 billion deal.

He convened a meeting at a ranch deep in the rolling hills of central North Dakota. Between working sessions, he said in a recent interview, he dispatched soon-to-be co-workers to mend fence posts, then had them saddle up and move cattle. Burgum, who grew up shoveling grain and hauling fertilizer at his family’s grain elevator business, wanted the big-city Microsoft team to understand the work ethic of the employees they were acquiring, who were “mostly kids from small towns who grew up on farms or ranches,” he said last week during a driving tour that wound its way from the shabby converted warehouse where he helped build his company to the gleaming Microsoft campus at the outskirts of town.

I first became aware of Burgum during the relatively early days of the coronavirus pandemic when he became almost tearful in asking people to be considerate of one another in relation to pandemic restrictions--or the lack thereof--in North Dakota.  Unlike Kristi Noem, the governor of neighboring South Dakota, there was no show-boating, no polarizing language.  Instead, there was just a plea for people to be empathic toward each other, noting that some folks might be fighting cancer or other illnesses and thus be particularly vulnerable health-wise.  I suppose the "nice" or "kind" response he was trying to elicit could be seen as a quintessential rural thing.  Back when I watched the clip of a tearful Burgum at that May, 2020 press conference, I would never have guessed he was a wildly successful entrepreneur.  Instead, he struck me as more like an unassuming, local protestant minister.  

"A small town's tragedy, distorted by Trump's megaphone"

I can't beat the New York Times headline on this story by Charles Homans and Ken Bensinger, so I just repeat it here.  The subhead is "When a teen’s killing became a right-wing talking point, the rush to outrage obscured a more complicated story."  What follows are some key excerpts from the piece, based on events in the tiny town of McHenry, North Dakota but then broadcast and distorted by the national media.

There were no known witnesses when Shannon Brandt and Cayler Ellingson got into an argument in the blurry hours after last call at Buck’s n Doe’s Bar & Grill in September. And no one but Mr. Brandt could say with certainty what led him to run over Mr. Ellingson with his Ford Explorer, crushing him to death in a gravel alley.

But the people of McHenry, a town of 64 in sparsely populated Foster County, N.D., have gotten used to hearing from people who think they know.

They include former President Donald J. Trump, who denounced the killing of Mr. Ellingson, an 18-year-old recent high school graduate, at the hands of a “deranged Democrat maniac who was angry that Cayler was a Republican” in a Truth Social post. Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene of Georgia described Mr. Brandt on Twitter as a “Democrat political terrorist” and cited the case as evidence that “Democrats want Republicans dead, and they’ve already started the killings.”

Mr. Trump and Ms. Greene were among a chorus of Republican politicians — including several members of Congress and the attorney general of North Dakota — who rushed to condemn Mr. Brandt. They relied on a handful of early news stories that cited a state highway patrol officer’s report, which suggested Mr. Brandt killed Mr. Ellingson because he believed he was a “Republican extremist.”

That claim, made weeks before the midterm elections, ignited a brief national political firestorm. Republican politicians and right-wing media figures claimed that Mr. Brandt had been inspired by President Biden’s recent warnings about “extremism” in the Republican Party. They complained that news media coverage of political violence willfully ignored instances when the assailants were Democrats.

But the episode quickly became an example of another media phenomenon: the distortion of complex, painful events to fit an opportune political narrative.

And here's a part that highlights the lack of anonymity and intergenerational attachment to place that mark many small towns and rural areas:   

In conversations this month, residents of McHenry — a conservative, close-knit agricultural community where most families, including the Ellingsons and the Brandts, have known each other for decades, if not generations — said the narrative of the tragedy that Mr. Trump and others promoted never made much sense to them. 

Hand counting ballots in rural Nevada, and other tales of election irregularities in (mostly) rural America

Here's the New York Times report on an ACLU lawsuit aimed at stopping the hand counting of ballots in Nye County, Nevada, population 51,591. 

The American Civil Liberties Union of Nevada filed a complaint on Monday with the Nevada Supreme Court seeking to stop a rural county from continuing its hand count of ballots, citing concerns that the process will be used to fuel misinformation about election security.

The group, which is suing Nye County, argued that hand counts “set a dangerous precedent for future elections by encouraging local officials to make up and implement their own vote-counting processes that violate voters’ constitutional right to an accurate election.”

Voter protection advocates from the A.C.L.U. and the Brennan Center, which also participated in the lawsuit and provided legal representation, are worried that the hand-count, which was being conducted alongside the official count being done by machine, might produce faulty numbers that would provide fodder for conspiracy theorists.

Nye’s hand count was initiated by the state’s Republican nominee for secretary of state, Jim Marchant, who lost his race on Saturday.

Another recent story about election administration out of Nye County is here.  

Other stories about controversies regarding election administration are here (out of Jasper, Georgia), here (Shasta County, California) and here (Surrey County, North Carolina).  

Postscript:  A New York Times piece about an election integrity skeptic in New Hampshire is here.  The talented and always balanced Farah Stockman is the author.  

And here's a story out of Tripp County, South Dakota, population 5,624, that also implicates election integrity.  The South Dakota Searchlight reports under the headline, "Tabulator catches human error in Tripp County post-election audit."  The subhead is, ‘To me, that shows that the machine is more accurate than humans,’ auditor says.  Makenzie Huber is the reporter, and here's an excerpt: 

The case of Tripp County’s 75 “missing” ballots has been solved, County Auditor Barb Desersa said this week.

The discrepancy emerged last week after a hand count of ballots in the only county in South Dakota in nearly 20 years to perform one. The mismatch does not have any impact on election results.

Tripp County officials were prepared to ask for a court order to reopen a ballot box to find the answer, but the question was resolved without one. The human error explanation for the mismatch, it turned out, was right there in the records from the vote tabulator – the machine that county commissioners had ordered Desersa not to use to tally the county’s official, reportable Election Day results.

A Thursday vote canvas revealed a discrepancy in a single precinct between the number of official, completed ballots recorded in the poll book and the number of audited ballots in one precinct.

Several races had to be recounted by Tripp County’s volunteer counting boards – sometimes three or four times on election night. The last precinct to come in, Colome, had mismatched numbers according to the tabulator audit the next day.

Postscript:  The NPR Politics podcast on December 6, 2022 was about Cochise County, Arizona's vote certification delay.   Here's the summary: 

Under a court order, officials in Republican-controlled Cochise County, Ariz., finally certified their local midterm elections results after they missed the state's legal deadline and put more than 47,000 people's votes at risk. A bipartisan pair of former officials in the state are calling for the two members who initially voted against certification to be criminally investigated.

Here's a December 4 story by Minnesota Public Radio under the headline, "Post-election hand counts find no issues with Minn. ballot-counting machines."  Kristi Marohn's story reported details on hand recounts out of a number of nonmetro counties; these re-counts have been a norm since 2006, but Marohn reports that some counties are recounting more precincts than is required.  No irregularities have been found.  

Postscript:  In early 2023, Shasta County, California ended its contract with Dominion Voting Systems, and a county official took a trip to meet with Mike Lindell, the My Pillow guy who has peddled election conspiracies.

Farmland values rising quickly.

Linda Qiu reports for the New York Times under the headline, "Farmland Values Hit Record Highs, Pricing Out Farmers."  An excerpt follows: 

What is happening in South Dakota is playing out in farming communities across the nation as the value of farmland soars, hitting record highs this year and often pricing out small or beginning farmers. In the state, farmland values surged by 18.7 percent from 2021 to 2022, one of the highest increases in the country, according to the most recent figures from the Agriculture Department. Nationwide, values increased by 12.4 percent and reached $3,800 an acre, the highest on record since 1970, with cropland at $5,050 an acre and pastureland at $1,650 an acre.

A series of economic forces — high prices for commodity crops like corn, soybeans and wheat; a robust housing market; low interest rates until recently; and a slew of government subsidies — have converged to create a “perfect storm” for farmland values, said Jason Henderson, a dean at the College of Agriculture at Purdue University and a former official at the Federal Reserve Bank of Kansas City.

As a result, small farmers like Mr. Gindo are now going up against deep-pocketed investors, including private equity firms and real estate developers, prompting some experts to warn of far-reaching consequences for the farming sector.

Young farmers named finding affordable land for purchase the top challenge in 2022 in a September survey by the National Young Farmers Coalition, a nonprofit group.