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. 

On rural gentrification, and the ensuing housing shortage, in coastal California

Hailey Branson-Potts reported for the Los Angeles Times a few days ago from Marin County, the famously wealthy county that lies just north of San Francisco, on the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge.  The headline is "Looking to vacation on the California coast?  Marin County just made it harder."  Here are some excerpts particularly relevant to the issue of rural gentrification. 

In Marin County, the explosive growth in short-term rentals has been particularly divisive in smaller towns. There, the number of full-time residents is dwindling while millionaires’ second — and third — homes, many of which are used as seasonal rentals, sit empty much of the year.

That’s a cruel paradox when there are not enough affordable homes for people who work in those communities, proponents of the cap say.

In unincorporated Marin County, the median sales price of a single-family home rose 98% from 2013 to 2021, to $1.91 million, according to a countywide housing plan adopted last year.

The story quotes Sarah Jones, who directs the Marin County Community Development Agency: 

Housing affordability and housing supply were really the driving factor in why we’re addressing short-term rentals right now.  There’s not housing being built. And the housing that’s available, people are just seeing that it’s more profitable and easier to use it as a short-term rental than to rent it out long term.

Branson-Potts' story continues: 

Although Marin County has much open space, it has little room to expand housing. Roughly 85% of its land, including the Point Reyes National Seashore and the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, is public space or agricultural land protected from development.

Marin County Supervisor Dennis Rodoni, who represents the scenic West Marin towns where vacation rentals are most heavily concentrated, said they have transformed “tiny communities where even losing a few homes is a big deal.”  

Rodoni continues: 

Our volunteer fire departments are losing volunteers.  Our schoolteachers, we’re having a hard time locating them in the community; they have to commute long distances.

Read more about this region of California in several posts here.  Posts about Sonoma County, just to the north of Marin, are here, here, and here.  

My Rural Travelogue (Part XXXVI): Southern Humboldt County, California and the Lost Coast

Along California's Lost Coast, Humboldt County

Last month, I had the opportunity to visit some time in parts of Humboldt County I'd not previously spent time (though I had passed through this segment of county, on Highway 101) over the decades.   I headed to the King Range to hike the "Lost Coast," a segment of California's coast so named because it is so rugged that when highway planners were building Highway 1, the Pacific Coast Highway, they were essentially forced to divert the road inland in northern Mendocino County to join the 101, which traverses California north to south, east of the coastal range.   

Peg House in Leggett, built in 1961

The communities along this stretch of 101 are Leggett, Garberville, Miranda, and others.  Throughout this stretch, the Highway weaves through redwoods at Richardson Grove and Avenue of the Giants.  

Signs for Shelter Cove businesses, including health care

Peg House, Leggett

From Garberville, one can head west on a narrow state highway to Shelter Cove, which is the southern terminus of the Lost Coast trail.   Until I got there, I hadn't realized there was a town of sorts at Shelter Cove, but there is, with a small grocery store, volunteer fire department (of course), and lots of homes rising above the coast, some nestled high up the mountains nestled in trees.  

Lighthouse at Shelter Cove

The quickest way to get from one end of the Lost Coast tail to the other is to travel a Humboldt County road, Wilder Ridge Road, that runs primarily north to south on the east side of the King Range. 

Honeydew, California

 That road takes you through the communities of Ettersburg, where there used to be a school, and Honeydew, where there is a store (with a post office inside) and a shade-tree mechanic.  There's also an attractive and fairly new looking school.

Honeydew General Store, which houses the U.S. Post Office 

Auto mechanic in Honeydew, right next to the General Store

Bridge over the Mattole River in Honeydew

A large--and legal--cannabis cultivation facility in Honeydew

My traveling companions were not particularly pleased when I asked to stop for photos of the local places, so I didn't get as many along the way as I would have liked.  One photo I missed out on getting was of a new, large store north of Honeydew, which was built to sell not only groceries, but all sorts of growing supplies.  Now, with the traditional (illicit) cannabis growers squeezed out of the business, our local guides told us that the new store may not open at all.  

At the north of the road, past Honeydew, one can travel north to Petrolia or had back west to the coast, to he Mattole River trailhead, the northern terminus of the Lost Coast trail.  

You can read many other posts about Humboldt County (or at least mentioning it) by both me and my former students, here.  

The bus connecting Eureka and Arcata to points south, including to Amtrak,
stops in Leggett, by the Peg House.

The Peg House has a lot of good food, but I most
recommend the wild blackberry sundae.

Another story of law enforcement struggles to serve (and protect) rural communities

Dani Anguiano wrote in The Guardian a few days ago under the headline, "‘We’re on our own’: the rural US town where police refuse calls."  The story is about Rancho Tehama, an unincorporated community in Tehama County, California, population 65,829, about 120 miles north of Sacramento.

Failures of law enforcement in Tehama County burst into the news in 2017 after a mentally ill gunman killed five in remote Rancho Tehama, including at an elementary school.  The Los Angeles Times covered the events thoughtfully, drawing state wide attention to happenings that might otherwise have gone largely unnoticed because of the remote location.  I wrote a few blog posts in the aftermath of the killings, here and here. 

More recently, Tehama County has been in the news in relation to its inability to recruit and retain enough deputies to serve the county.  CalMatters report on the issue was the topic of a December, 2022 blog post here. 

Here's a lede from Anguiano's Guardian story last week: 

In Rancho Tehama Reserve, residents are used to getting by without everything they need. The price, or the perk, of living among the oak trees and rolling hills where cattle graze in this rural northern California community is its isolation.

People typically come to the Ranch, as residents call it, looking for space and quiet – they only got proper cellphone and internet service three years ago. The settlement is at the end of a two-lane road that meanders through the hillsides of California’s Sacramento Valley and offers glimpses of the snow-capped peaks of Mounts Lassen and Shasta. The gas station has snacks, propane and phone chargers, and the hardware store carries alfalfa pellets, kerosene and bolts, but most anything else requires at least a 30-minute drive.

Sherri Burns, the owner of the hardware store, said people here knew one another, and were often united by their love for a place viewed by outsiders as the “armpit of Tehama county”.

Burns, who is also the assistant volunteer fire chief, is quotes:  

I love it. I wouldn’t go anywhere else.  If you respect people, you get respect back. I’ve never had fear out here – and I’ve gone on calls in the middle of the night by myself.

Recently, however, the remoteness has presented a dilemma:  

[R]esidents say when they call 911, they are frequently unable to get any help.

In places like Rancho Tehama, residents say, the issue is not a lack of police, but neglect. The staffing challenges only exacerbated a longtime problem – residents say that for years, even when the sheriff’s office had more deputies, the county’s remote settlements received little attention. Though the absence of patrol deputies affected the entire 3,000 sq mile county, it hit those living in rural areas particularly hard due to their distance from major population centers and the lack of other law enforcement agencies.

One Rancho Tehama resident, Cheyenne Thornton, called the situation a "ticking timebomb," adding:

 Unless you’re bleeding or dying, you’re probably not going to get a sheriff or anyone to respond.

You feel like you don’t matter out here – you’re on your own.

Others, like Chris Foster, said they were less troubled by the lack of law enforcement protection:  

I can protect myself and my family, whether I shoot you in the ass or beat you with a stick. This is the country. People packing guns is normal to me and my nine-year-old son. Because, you know, you have to protect your wellbeing and your property. It’s like anywhere else.

Don't miss the rest of Anguiano's story, where you'll also echoes of this post about rural law enforcement's struggles to effectively oversee vast physical territory with few resources.  The story also notes that some Rancho residents sued the county over the 2017 shootings, in particular the failure to seize the killer's guns pursuant to a restraining order that compelled them to do so.  

Finally, if you want to learn more about this community, the 2017 killings at Rancho Tehama are the subject of a just-released set of episodes on the podcast This is Actually Happening.  

Is Half Moon Bay, California "rural"?

Half Moon Bay, California, population 11,975, burst into the news on Monday afternoon when a gunman killed seven on the outskirts of town.  

I've been to Half Moon Bay a few times, and I have friends who live there.  When I visit, I see the posh parts--like the Ritz-Carlton resort and other somewhat less luxurious coastal hotels and amenities.  Many who live in the small city and nearby communities like Montara commute to San Francisco or over the mountains to Silicon Valley.  I think of it as exurban San Francisco, and it lies within densely populated San Mateo County.  

I was thus surprised to hear NPR repeatedly refer to Half Moon Bay as "rural" in the news coverage the morning after the shooting. 

When I started thinking about it, though, I realized that the town does have rural and agricultural aspects.  In particular, when you approach Half Moon Bay from Silicon Valley (rather than from San Francisco, via Devil's Slide), you drive past nurseries and other agricultural enterprises.  Further, the small city is known for its pumpkin festival.  

There's also the fact that the killings happened at two agricultural establishments--one the Mountain Mushroom Farm where the shooter is said to have lived.  The victims were Asian and Hispanic and all were farm workers, some of them migrant.  The shooter was also a farm worker, and the killings are now being characterized as "workplace violence."  Still, I've found it odd that the place is being depicted as essentially rural, when its character of Half Moon Bay is really much more nuanced than that.  Indeed, as I think about it, it's a great example of dramatic inequality crammed into a compact space.  

NPR's subsequent coverage included this description of the community.  Note the "close-knit" cliche associated with rural places.  

Half Moon Bay is a close-knit community known for its ranching, farming and fishing, officials said in a news briefing Tuesday. That sense of security and closeness was shattered with Monday's tragedy.

Here's how the Washington Post characterized the town: 

In Half Moon Bay, a tranquil agricultural town about 40 minutes from San Francisco, local officials were anguished as their home joined a grim fraternity of American communities scarred by gun violence.

Postscript:  Follow up coverage of the shootings indicates that several of those murdered lived in San Francisco.  This means they had a lengthy commute from a very expensive housing market to farmworker labor.   

This is a characterization of Half Moon Bay from the Los Angeles Times: 

Half Moon Bay is a rural beach town where the bedrock industry is vegetable and flower farms, though many, particularly the flower farms, have closed in recent years, affecting job opportunities. Farm owners have also pointed to the state’s extreme weather, with floods and heavy winds, devastating their fields and the surrounding infrastructure.

About 2,500 to 3,000 farmworkers live in the town at any given time, officials said. Many settle in the wealthy community after finding steady work, often living in mobile homes or trailers on the farms where they’re employed — just a short drive, but out of sight, of the town’s multimillion-dollar coastal homes.

This part of that story touches on the extreme inequality in Half Moon Bay:

Eric DeBode, executive director at Abundant Grace Coastside Worker in Half Moon Bay, said his charitable organization primarily serves the homeless population of the Half Moon Bay area but also farmworkers. The organization runs a farm whose produce is given for free to the very people working low-wage farming jobs that produce much of the area’s food.

A “large portion of folks we serve,” DeBode said, “are making the food we eat and aren’t able to afford it themselves.”

On Thursday, another organization serving farmworkers and other community members was overflowing with goods in the wake of the massacre.

Volunteers were stacking boxes of produce, snacks, eggs, milk and frozen chickens at Ayudando Latinos a Soñar. The group had gathered mounds of clothing, and its food pantry was overflowing from the community response.

A man emerged from a Lexus outside the group’s small, bright yellow building and dropped a bag on a table with a thud. “You said you needed underwear,” he said before returning to his car.

The community’s interest will wane eventually, said volunteer Victoria Sanchez De Alba. But, she said, unacceptable housing conditions for workers will remain: “Why can’t we hold these farm owners accountable?”

She added that, oftentimes when housing violations are reported, “officials red-tag the housing and the families get displaced.”

DeBode called the housing conditions on the farms “shocking” and “deplorable,” adding that farmworkers and the tourists who come to the area “are living in two different worlds.”

Monday’s rampage stunned the entire community. The gunman opened fire at the two rural locations.

The Associated Press also covered the extreme inequality in Half Moon Bay as part of its coverage of the murders:   

The state’s labor department is looking into possible labor, workplace safety and health violations at the farms where the shootings happened, a spokeswoman for the Department of Industrial Relations said Thursday. Newsom’s office said some of the farmworkers told him they made $9 an hour and lived in shipping containers. The state minimum wage is $15.50.

“The conditions farmworkers shared with the Governor ... are simply deplorable. Many workers have no choice but to tolerate the conditions provided to them by their employers,” Newsom spokesperson Daniel Villaseñor said in a statement.

Rural volunteer fire departments under strain from population loss, COVID, other factors

Frank Morris reports today for NPR, with this vignette out of rural Paradise, Kansas, population 49, in the central part of the state: 

FRANK MORRIS, BYLINE: More than 250 square miles of freshly scorched earth stretch out in three directions from tiny Paradise, Kan. In December, winds gusting up to 100 miles an hour pushed a wall of flames headlong across the rolling pasture here, torching farms and killing thousands of animals. Thick smoke, ash and dust blocked out the sun. Volunteer Fire Chief Quentin Maupin thought he'd never see his kids again when the raging blaze suddenly swept across his firetruck.

QUENTIN MAUPIN: That wall of fire was - I don't know - probably 60, 80 feet high - and both hands on the steering wheel, just holding on, thinking, this is probably it because you could hear the plastic melting and cracking. The stickers, the reflectors, the plastic flashing lights - it melted all that stuff on that truck.

MORRIS: Maupin was alone in the 18,000-pound pumper truck because, like many rural fire departments, his is chronically short-staffed.

MAUPIN: It's tough. You know, it's rural Kansas, and there just isn't that many people out here anymore. And young people - that's the other thing. Normally, our policy is you need two people on a truck. But that day, there wasn't anybody here, and I knew we just got to get a truck out there right now.

Morris also mentions rural Mississippi, and the struggle for volunteer fire departments to balance budgets and buy new equipment when typical fundraisers like spaghetti feeds or crab feeds can't be held in the era of COVID.  

Stories with similar themes out of the rural mountain west are here and here, though these focus on ambulance and EMT services.  Prior posts mentioning volunteer fire departments are here.  This one, in particular, features lots of photos of volunteer fire departments from around the country.  

A mellow, artsy story out of California's Motherlode

The inimitable Hailey Branson-Potts, who today celebrates a decade with the Los Angeles Times, reports from Volcano, California, about the re-opening of the community theatre, shuttered first by COVID-19 and then disrupted by nearby wildfires, including the Caldor Fire in neighboring El Dorado County.  

Here's a short excerpt: 

The Volcano Theatre Company has long been the cultural heart of this Amador County hamlet, drawing thousands of people each year to its few restaurants, hotels and businesses.

The town, population about 100, sits in a bowl-shaped valley, which Gold Rush miners thought might be the crater of a dormant volcano. It once was a boomtown, with thousands of residents, a private law school, an astronomical observatory, and — in deference to the sacred and profane — lots of churches and saloons.

Now, it’s one of those tiny places peppering California that seem primed to be blotted out by some calamity, human- or nature-made.

* * * 

The all-volunteer theater began in 1974. Shows take place in the outdoor amphitheater and, across the street, the Cobblestone Theatre built in 1856. With just 35 chairs, it is reputedly the smallest fixed-seat theater in California.

“We’re such a small county, and we don’t have a massive amount of art,” said Savannah Mulderrig, a 32-year-old actress. “It’s just important for people to experience live theater. If you don’t go here, you’re going to Sacramento.”

One of my favorite things about this story:  seeing the photographer, Myung Chun, who accompanied Branson-Potts to photograph this story, tweet this acknowledgement of his own lack of familiarity with rural California and gems like Volcano.  

Trying to save a rural(ish) fire protection district

(c) Lisa R. Pruitt 2021

I was in Bodega Bay, California (population 1,077) this past week and saw many signs, on both homes and businesses, regarding the need to save the "Fire Protection District."  Here's an excerpt from an April, 2021 story in the Sonoma County Gazette outlining what is going on: 

Firefighters and paramedics. They aren’t really known for just standing around or letting things happen.

They’re action people. No matter what.

That’s the point Lori Anello, wife of Captain Lou Stoerzinger, who serves with both the Two Rock Volunteer Fire Department and Bodega Bay Fire Protection District, was making.

“It is not in their nature to just stand by and be a spectator with a radio in their hand while waiting for additional resources to arrive,” Anello said in her statement.

Anello, along with a handful of wives and community members spoke or wrote on behalf of the safety of the firefighters and paramedics serving in the Bodega Bay Fire Protection District, which is currently facing possible closure due to dwindling revenue sources.

“Despite policy and procedure, despite industry standards and rules, if someone is in trouble, whether trapped in a burning building, my husband and his coworkers will risk everything to save a life,” Anello said.  

In recent months, the Bodega Bay Fire Protection District has responded to some dangerous calls: 

In early April, a car rolled off of Bodega Head. 

Eleven days later, a beloved community chef died in an accident on Highway 1.

And yesterday morning, a swimmer went missing off of Duncan’s Coast, just north of Bodega Bay.

Each time the truck is out, only one firefighter is left behind in the station. Nobody feels great about the option.But it’s all they’ve got right now.

“Leaving one firefighter behind is playing a dangerous game when it comes to emergency response and puts the members at a high risk,” Jack Thomas, president of the Professional Firefighters of Sonoma County, said during the March 22 Special Board meeting of the Bodega Bay Fire Protection District.

(c) Lisa R. Pruitt 2021

That special meeting came after Measure B – the community embroiled effort to raise funds for the fire district and west county high school district via transient occupancy tax – failed.

On the agenda of this special meeting? Budget cuts. And more specifically, staffing cuts. Again.

Rhianna Menzies, wife of Josh Menzies, a Bodega Bay firefighter and paramedic, was also getting her turn to speak. Josh has served with Bodega Bay for 6 ½ years and when he was hired, Rhianna said, the district was operating at a 3-0 staff but had a “healthy size of volunteers to make up the difference.”

“Just two years ago the Sonoma County Board of Supervisors agreed to provide funding for a fourth person and fast forward to the failure of Measure B,” Rhianna said. “Now Bodega Bay is forced to cut their staffing to 3-0 once again. But at what cost? Lives are put at risk when a crew is forced to wait for back up because in an emergency, every second counts.”

Over time, county and state policies have limited the resource bucket from which the fire protection district can draw. As a post Proposition-13 district, the district’s AB8 rate is 3.9%, or less than half of the county average. Additionally, the district is limited by what land is actually taxable, since state and county land use policies have rendered roughly 2/3 of the land within the district untaxable.

All told, despite sending more than $10 million to the county in property tax, Bodega Bay receives just $310,000 for its fire protection district. That $310,000 comprises 15% of the fire district’s entire budget. Another 60% comes from a voter approved parcel tax of $524 a parcel, likely one of the highest in the state, according to Dan Drummond.

(c) Lisa R. Pruitt 2021

The other 25% comes from grants and other one-type funding sources, often provided by the County of Sonoma. And still, the county found the district runs $900,000 short.

“That’s enough to keep us just exactly where we are,” Herzberg said.

A recent post about how rural ambulance and rescue services are struggling, particularly in the West, is here.  

Post Script from Sonoma Press-Democrat: on July 20, 2021, "Bodega Bay, other regional fire departments, get consolidation funding."   

Rural ambulance service under threat, especially in the West

This topic has been covered by two major media outlets in recent months.  First the New York Times' Ali Watkins reported a few months ago out of Wakashie County, Wyoming, population 8,533.

Then NPR's Aaron Bolton reported yesterday out of Dutton, Montana, population 316.  Bottom line:  

[S]agging [Medicare and Medicaid] reimbursement and volunteerism mean rural parts of the U.S. can no longer rely solely on volunteers but must find ways to convert to a paid staff.

The lack of anonymity and community aspects of this story caught my attention, though the following excerpt focuses on other practical and fiscal issues, too.  

Communities need to find ways to stabilize or convert their volunteer programs, or private services like his will need financial support to keep responding in other communities...

But lawmakers' appetite for finding ways to fund EMS is limited. During Montana's legislative session earlier this year, DeTienne [until recently Montana health department's EMS and Trauma Systems chief] pushed for a bill that would have studied the benefit of declaring EMS an essential service, among other possible improvements. The bill quickly died.

Back in Dutton, the EMS crew chief [Colleen Campbell] is thinking about her future after 17 years as a volunteer. Campbell says she wants to spend more time with her grandchildren, who live out of town. If she retires, there's no guarantee somebody will replace her. She's torn about what to do.

"My license is good until March of 2022, and we'll just see," Campbell says.

I can't help thinking about the parallel between EMS volunteers and volunteer fire departments, which have been the subject of many posts over the years.    

Postscript:  On July 8, NPR ran this story on the expanding urban-wildland interface in relation to fire danger, and it includes the topic of volunteer fire departments and their struggle to respond adequately to wildfires.

Law and Order in the Ozarks (Part CXXIX): High-profile violent crimes

Several high-profile crimes have been reported in the Newton County Times during the first half of 2021.   

First, the January 13, 2021 issue featured the front-page headline, "Two men arrested for suspected homicide, arson near Fallsville."  The story reports that the Deer and Ozone [volunteer]  fire departments were called to the scene of a house fire west of Fallsville around 3:35 pm on January 9.  "While battling the blaze, firefighters found the body of a male subject inside the residence.  It is believed to be that of the homeowner.  Evidence at the scene and subsequent information received confirmed investigators' suspicions that a homicide and arson ha occurred." 

A later story, in the March 3, 2021 issue, reports that charges were filed in the case.  The dateline is Oark:

Formal charges were filed Tuesday, Feb. 23, against a 61-year-old man and his 34-year-old son in connection with a suspected murder and arson event in early January, online court records show.

The story continues that the two are charged with first-degree murder and two counts of endangering the welfare of a minor, along with penalty enhancement of committing offenses in the presence of a child, while Steven Stepp (the 34-year-old charged) is also charged with arson, residential burglary, tampering with physical evidence, abuse of a corpse and felony with a firearm.   

The two men were identified after the deputies found a .22 caliber revolver in the front yard of the burned residence, along with a trail leading from the burned residence, where there were more .22 shells and empty beer cans.  

The Stepps were identified as the neighbors and they lived in separate residences on the same property.  

The story is not clear at all--is quite poorly written--but it appears that the Stepps were neighbors of the murdered man, Jerry Don Cantrell.  An interview with Cantrell's son indicated Cantrell was "having problems with the Stepps."  The story continues: 

At about 2:45 the following morning, Clarksville Police got a call from Angela Stepp and her daughter, Jessica Stepp, of Clarksville, who are related to Steven and Vernon [the suspects]. [The story later discloses that Angela is Vernon's sister-in-law] 

They told Clarksville Police that [the Stepp men] had told them they had killed man and burned his house.  They were told that Steven and Vernon [Stepp] would kill them if they told the police and that they were armed for the encounter with law enforcement, the affidavit said.

The involvement of the Clarksville Police is interesting because Clarksville is 16 miles from Oark, the story's dateline, and even farther from Fallsville, where these events occurred.  Clarksville is the county seat of Johnson County, which is also home to Oark, and Fallsville is in Newton County, to the north.  

The story later discloses that Cantrell had supervised visitation with Vernon Stepp's grandchildren.  He told police that Steven went to Cantrell's residence with him and Steven got into an argument.  Steven then left Cantrell's residence, while Vernon stayed.  Vernon said Steven returned a short time later with a .357 pistol and holster.  He said Cantrell produced a pistol-grip shotgun from under the kitchen table and pushed Vernon to the floor.  Vernon said Cantrell fired a shot over the Stepps' heads and Steven fired twice at Cantrell with the .357.  The suggestion is self-defense and/or Steven's defense of his father.  

Steven Stepp told police he burned the house because he was scared.

Will be interesting to see how this case is tried.   

The May 19, 2021 issue features a front-page headline, "Charges filed in matter of stolen school truck."  Here are the details:

Conner Ray Rigsbee, 22, was formally charged in Newton County Circuit Court, last May 5, on charges of theft by receiving, a Class C felony, and possession of drug paraphernalia, a class D felony.  

Court filings allege that last April 23, sheriff's deputy ... was dispatched to the Deer School to investigate a report of a 2006 Chevrolet pick up truck. 

The night before, multiple deputies were attempting to locate Rigsbee in the same area.  He had allegedly stolen a pistol from his mother earlier in the day.  

* * *

Rigsbee later stated he traded the gun and he bought tje truck from someone he had never met before.  Rigsbee was found to have in his possession a glass pipe having a crystal-like residue. 

The May 12 edition featured two more crime headlines:  "Man dies from self-inflicted gunshot wound," with the dateline St. Joe, and "Man sentenced for setting fire within [Buffalo National River]," dateline Fort Smith.  The former story is actually more interesting than it sounds at first blush because the man who shot himself did so after the vehicle in which he was a passenger--a vehicle driven by a woman--was pulled over by the National Park Service for routine traffic violations.   The man, during the "contact," was "determined ... to have possible, non-extraditable warrants from another jurisdiction, along with a lengthy criminal history involving firearms, drugs, assault and domestic violence."  Later, presumably after the suicide, the two were identified "as persons of interest in a shooting incident in Pulaski County [Little Rock]." 

The April 21, 2021 issue reports the headline, "Pregnant woman stabbed," for which the dateline is Harrison.  Here's the lede:  

Authorities say a man formerly from Missouri was in custody Friday on suspicion of stabbing his girlfriend Thursday night in Bellefonte.  

The story reports that the victim was 27 weeks pregnant with the perpetrator's child.  He reportedly attacked her "without provocation as she was lying on the couch."   He will reportedly face two counts of capital murder for the attack.  None of the wounds "damaged vital organs and weren't life threatening," though she suffered "multiple cuts and stab wounds to the arms, back, shoulder and face."  

Another story from that issue is headlined, "Man runs from deputy second time."  The lede states that the Newton Coutny sheriff "said a 33-year-old man on a four-wheeler ran from a deputy Wednesday night for the second time and was airlifted for treatment of injures."  Although on a four-wheeler, the driver took the sheriff's deputy on a chase through parts of two neighboring counties.  The man is wanted on multiple warrants from different jurisdictions, including for speeding and possession of controlled substance.  The "second time" in the heading refers to the man's arrest in August, 2020 after he failed to appear in court on charges from a pursuit in February of that year.  

Small town government run amok (Part VIII): New Mexico county literally loses (as in, misplaces) a fire truck

The Albuquerque Journal reported today out of Mora County, New Mexico, population 4500.

Fake invoices, stolen records, a firetruck gone missing and thousands of public dollars paid to family members for little to no work.

Those are just some of the findings against the Mora County Volunteer Fire Department issued by the state Auditor’s Office on Wednesday. The 86-page report details years of alleged fiscal misappropriations by county officials, which could eventually result in future arrests.

In total, investigators found an estimated $335,000 in unsubstantiated purchases and numerous violations committed by employees of the county, including potential embezzlement and fraud.

Here are quotes from the State Auditor, Brian Colon, and his report:

It appears a particular family and group of friends dishonestly benefited from the county’s taxpayers’ public funds.  

At the end of the day, it all just adds up to a complete breakdown in the system.  People who were placed in supervisory positions failed to do their job.

A fire truck valued at $81,000 is among the assets missing.  

The story also quotes county County Attorney Michael Aragon, who initially brought the issues to the attention of the state after his office completed an initial investigation in 2019. 

It’s even more offensive because these funds were specifically allocated to provide public safety and protection. It’s just heartbreaking.

My own theory on this is well known to those who read the blog:  too little human capital in such locales and therefore too few checks and balances on those with power.  You can find a few other posts about volunteer fire departments here on Legal Ruralism, too.  

Small towns in the West obliterated by fire (Part IV): Berry Creek, California

Here's the lede for Maria La Ganga's story out of Berry Creek, whose population varies dramatically depending on the source:  

Berry Creek has been many things in its long history — a stagecoach stop, a lumber town, a vacation spot, a gold mining camp. It is home to retirees from crowded, expensive cities, marijuana growers and loners — lots of loners.

Now, Berry Creek has a new and terrible distinction. When the North Complex West Zone fire swept through this wooded enclave about two weeks ago, it killed more people and destroyed more homes here than anywhere else in its destructive path.

Fire Station 61 burned to the ground. Chief Reed Rankin, who heads the volunteer company, lost his home in the blaze. Only one of the seven current or former firefighters still has a house to go back to when evacuation orders are lifted.

See earlier posts about Berry Creek in this series.  

Los Angeles Times features rural volunteer fire department in story about northern California wildfires

The report out of Ben Lomond, population 6,234 but unincorporated, in Santa Cruz County, California, is by Susanne Rust for the Los Angeles Times.  An excerpt follows:

On Friday night, the tired, equipment-strapped crew of Ben Lomond’s volunteer firefighting team was briefed by the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection in the mountain town fire station’s airy and unfinished kitchen. 

A collection of lightning-sparked fires had merged into one blaze that was raging in the Santa Cruz Mountains to the west. 

The firefighters were told that Cal Fire’s models suggested in the next 48 to 72 hours, the fire would move into Boulder Creek’s downtown. If the crews were unable to stop the fire there, Cal Fire would pull its reinforcements and allow the fire to funnel down the valley — through Brookdale, Ben Lomond and Felton — toward Route 17, the high-speed mountain highway that connects San Jose and Santa Cruz. 

It was dispiriting news. But local firefighters planned to wage a stand to save the communities, even without the backup.

Rust's story features a couple of quotes from these volunteer firefighters, whose day jobs are fighting fires professionally or working as first responders for urban fire departments in the Bay Area.  This quote is from Todd Ellis, captain of Ben Lomond's volunteer fire district: 

This is my home. These are our neighbors. There’s no way I wouldn’t be here fighting.

Rust also quotes Carl Kustin, a volunteer with the Boulder Creek Fire District:  

We don’t do this for money. We do this because we love our neighbors. We love our crews. And for us, there’s nothing more inspiring than helping others and using everything we have to support people and communities.

Another LA Times story discussing the Ben Lomond fire is here.  Prior posts that feature volunteer fire departments, among others, are here and here. 

"Metrocentrism" in coverage of the Delta fire

Near Burney California, along Hwy 299, looking East, July 2016 

I had to cancel a weekend trip to Ashland, Oregon for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival because of the Delta Fire that broke on last Wednesday along I-5, just north of Redding.  A stretch of I-5 from there to about Dunsmuir was closed, with the detour taking folks east on Hwy 299 to Burney, then back northwest on Hwy 89 through McCloud to I-5.  At one point, my fellow theatre-goers and I considered leaving early enough to take the detour and still make it to Ashland for our 1:30 PM matinee, but I had driven both legs of this detour at some point in the last two summers and I knew that, even in optimal conditions, it would add hours to the journey.  That said, I contemplated getting to stay in the cute old hotel I had seen in McCloud this summer.  In the end, we cancelled our trip.  Just too many unknowns.

Typical Hwy 89 traffic, when not being used as I-5 detour 

Burney, California, July 2016.

I was intrigued to see the Los Angeles Times coverage of the I-5 closure discussed the impact it was having on businesses in Dunsmuir, a town of about 1,600 at the southernmost edge of Siskiyou County.  The headline read, "Interstate 5 still closed, businesses slumping as Delta Fire continues to burn north of Redding, Shasta County."  I, in contrast, had been thinking about the positive economic impact the closure was surely having on the towns of Burney and McCloud.  (While these towns are not that much smaller than Dunsmuir, they are farther removed  from the thrum of I-5, especially Burney).  Indeed, as I had plotted my summer 2018 travel through far northern California (partly documented here and here), I had looked for accommodation in Burney.  I found very little of the "charming" variety I was seeking and ultimately decided to stay in Dunsmuir instead. 

Burney Falls State Park, July 2018 

When I drove through Burney this summer, I noticed a sign as I approached the intersection of 299 (coming south/southeast on 89) that said "Welcome to Burney, A Full Service Community."  I regretted not stopping to take a photo of that sign, and I've since pondered what it is meant to convey.  It was situated so that tourists entering Burney having come from Burney Falls State Park would see it.  Perhaps the hope was that tourists would stop, knowing Burney has lots of services, like the laundromat and tire store I photographed when I passed through in 2016.  On that trip through Burney, I stopped at a Subway to get my son a sandwich.  I see they also have a McDonald's.  A quick yelp search revealed a couple of gas stations and the Pit River Casino.  I wonder if these businesses have been price gouging the tens (could it be hundreds?) of thousands of motorists trying to get from Redding to points north or from Oregon to Redding and points south.

A bit farther down the road from Burney toward Redding are Round Mountain (with its award-winning, path breaking Health and Wellness Center), Montgomery Creek and Bella Vista.  Of course, all of these communities have volunteer fire departments, if few other services.

Traveling northwest from Burney, the only significant town is McCloud, a charming community with stunning views of Mount Shasta.  The town celebrates it lumber industry past (and present?) in various ways, including its annual festival and in the school's mascot, the Logger.  When I passed through this summer, it definitely struck me as the kind of place I'd enjoy spending a few days, though not when the air quality is poor, as it is now.

July 2018

Yard sign, McCloud, California, July 2018

"Downtown" McCloud, California, July 2018

On the more rural areas of Northern California hit by the deadly fires in October

A few stories this past weekend in major California newspapers have focused on the consequences of the early October wildfires in Mendocino County, as opposed to more populous Napa and Sonoma counties.  The Los Angeles Times reported under the headline, "Wildfires devastate California pot farmers, who must rebuild without banks or insurance," and the San Francisco Chronicle story was headlined "Deadly Mendocino County Fire under the radar of Wine Country devastation."   This lede from the Chronicle story sums up the rural v. urban angle (or at least degrees of rural ....) between these regions/counties:

Like thousands of other North Bay fire victims, the traumatized residents of the bucolic Redwood Valley are sifting through rubble, negotiating with insurance agents and struggling to figure out how they are going to rebuild their fire-scarred lives. 

The only difference is that the hellish inferno that rolled through their community two weeks ago went virtually unnoticed by a world mesmerized by the flaming disasters closer to San Francisco. 

The Redwood Valley Fire was not exactly ignored, but it was a side note during a historic week of calamity in Northern California — subordinate to the conflagrations that destroyed much of Santa Rosa and ripped through Wine Country towns in Napa and Sonoma counties. 

But the aftermath is no less horrible for the 1,759 farmers, vineyard keepers and pot entrepreneurs who live in this rural community between Ukiah and Willits — a place isolated enough for stagecoach robber Black Bart to use as a hideout and, about a century later, for Jim Jones’ Peoples Temple cult to set up shop before moving on to bigger things.

It's interesting that journalist Peter Fimrite refers to Mendocino County as the "North Bay." I'd agree with that characterization for Napa and Sonoma, but not once you get as far north as Mendocino.  Nevertheless, his "per capita" point is well taken (by me, at least):

The fire that swept through the community early in the morning on Oct. 9 killed eight people, blackened 36,523 acres and destroyed 545 buildings, about a quarter of the homes there, fire officials said. It was at least as damaging, per capita, as the cataclysmic blazes to the south.

Fimrite quotes George Gonzaelz, the battalion chief for the Mendocino unit of the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection:

It’s probably the largest modern disaster here in Mendocino County.  But nobody is paying attention.

And that, it seems, is par for the course when it comes to rural America.  I wrote a post making a similar point after the Butte and Valley fires (in Napa and Lake counties) two years ago.

Here's an excerpt from the LA Times story focused on the pot industry's losses.

Because the marijuana culture of Northern California has survived in secrecy for the last 50 years, and mostly still does, no one can know the exact loss to the industry. 

The threat of losing a year’s crop and cash reserves pushes many growers to take risks a grape farmer neighbor might not. 

When the fires broke, farmers thrashed over four-wheel-drive roads with horse trailers full of hastily cut marijuana. Some defied evacuation orders to save the crops. 

Others left, and lost everything.

Lots of posts about California's pot industry--with a focus on Mendocino, Humboldt, and Lake counties (the so-called Emerald Triangle) can be found in this blog. 

Postscript:  "As deadly fires burned Redwood Valley, delays, confusion about evacuation orders" in the Los Angeles Times on November 5.  An excerpt follows: 

But a Times review of police and fire dispatch calls that morning describe a chaotic scene in which officials debated when to send evacuation orders. The recordings provide an overview of communications that night as the fire swept through the valley but do not provide a full sense of what firefighters and law enforcement were doing on the ground. The county so far has declined to provide additional records. 

The dispatches and interviews show the county issued an evacuation order in Redwood Valley more than an hour after the fire was first reported there. During that time, several Redwood Valley residents phoned 911 dispatchers to say they were trapped by fire.

Firefighters struggled with a lack of manpower and equipment in the rural county, which relies heavily on small fire departments and volunteers. State and local engines, including the Redwood Valley volunteer fire department, were sent to battle fires that had started earlier in the night in the adjacent Potter Valley.  

Football: Collective expression of American ideals?

This past Sunday, February 5th, 2017, I joined 111.3 million viewers in watching the nation’s 51st Super Bowl. For those not in the know (I typically count myself among them), the Super Bowl is the annual capstone event of our nation’s favorite pastime. For days before Super Bowl Sunday, my newsfeed was flooded with game predictions, fiscal stats, advertising controversies, economic impact data for the city of Houston, and—perhaps least surprisingly—speculation about the political leanings of all involved participants. Most of this flood is par for the course for an event that holds the first, second, and third place titles for most watched broadcast in television history. But from the perspective of an outside observer with only a marginal interest (on the best of days) in football, I found one thing especially striking about the Super Bowl rhetoric: its emphasis on American nationalism.

Indeed, media pundits across the country seemed to conceptualize this exercise in organized sports as nothing less than the last expression of our nation’s collective "imagined community." Sports writers from Lincoln, Nebraska to Franklin, Kentucky casually described the Super Bowl as "an event that everybody can relate to . . . in an era when a lot of our national holidays have become polarized" and "an event that brings everyone together."

Concededly, in the post-game aftermath, much has been written about the politicization of this year’s game, and the appropriateness thereof. But the broader question still stands: In an era defined by "ideological silos" on both sides of the political spectrum, is football really one of the few remaining areas of common ground? And if so—common ground for whom? As I watched (albeit with my untrained eye) large, heavily-padded men pummel each other on Sunday . . . suffice to say, I was skeptical.

A few days later, with these questions still percolating in my subconscious, I stumbled upon an article about football in my home state. I am a (proud!) Coloradan by birth, a state with an estimated rural population of 696,435 (out of a total population of 5,029,196, as of the 2010 Census). On the eastern plains, representing “some of the most sparsely populated areas in the continental U.S.,” there is a town called Seibert.

In the interest of full disclosure, though a native Coloradan, I’d never heard of Seibert before this article. A quick Google search reveals why: Seibert is a statutory town in Kit Carson County populated by a whopping 220 persons.

In terms of demographics, Seibert residents are overwhelmingly white, married, and Republican. The local government payroll lists two full-time employees and the average per capita income in 2015 was $17,239. As compared to other Colorado locales, Seibert’s median age (49.7 years) is significantly above the state average (36.4 years); its length of residency is significantly above the state average; and the percentage of persons with college or higher level degrees (12.7%) is significantly below the state average (16.5%).

Geographically, the nearest major city is over 100 miles away, as is the nearest college or university. The local yellow pages list 25 businesses, including one grocery store, one volunteer fire department, two churches, two taxidermists, and—most notably—High Plains High School.

The recent setting of a championship game between the Hi-Plains Patriots and the Cheyenne Wells Tigers, High Plains High School boasts a total enrollment of 45 students, 23 of whom play for the school football team. Cheyenne Wells, located roughly an hour southeast of Seibert, has an enrollment of 48 students, 16 of whom appear on the Tigers’ roster. For those of you football aficionados who are paying attention, you’ll notice a disparity in the numbers. Traditionally, a high school football team will have between 40 and 50 players. Like other similarly population-depressed places—e.g., rural South Dakota, West Texas, Nebraska, Montana, Wyoming, and Wisconsin—several rural Colorado districts have adopted six-man football.

In the aforementioned article detailing the six-man title game in Seibert, Pencils Robinson writes:

[There’s] something beautiful about small-school athletics, particularly 6-man football. . . . Can there be anything purer in an athletic sense than these kids who are not playing for scholarships or media attention but for the love of the competition and the pride they feel for their schools and communities?

Robinson further describes the scene: fans surround the field in their “pickup trucks, Camaros and big Chryslers”; a spectator dons a fur hat with ear flaps; and, at the end of the game, the announcer invites fans onto the field for prayer.

Most of the crowd accepts the invitation and joins the players. Although the towns are 70 miles apart, there is a sense of community on the field this afternoon. The spirit that existed throughout the game – I never heard a boo all day from either crowd, never a criticism of an official or an opponent – continues as the fans mingle and linger, reluctant to leave the moment.

. . . Now, it is certainly possible that Seibert’s experience of football can be extrapolated to the country at large. Maybe football is the last bastion of national community-building, a collective expression of American ideals. On the other hand, maybe Robinson’s article is just another example of sports reporting that idealizes rural America. Or, more cynically, maybe football is simply an "artful exercise of brand management" by the NFL.

Ultimately, it is not for me to say. What I am comfortable suggesting, however, is that Seibert’s experience tells us something else—and something arguably more valuable. The adoption of six-man football in rural America is an indicator of more than just patriotism and American pride. While admirably plucky on the part of rural athletic directors, the dearth of high school athletes in places like Seibert is part of a broader narrative of economic hardship, depopulation, and rural decline.  (For an interesting take on football as a "town's connective tissue," see this New York Times article, first mentioned in a previous post on this blog.)  Especially in discussions about national identity and American ideals, I think it is important to remember that access to the "American Dream," be that in terms of access to education, health services, or national pastimes, is compromised for many American people.