The Quiet Divide

I. What He Missed

Some time back, I read a piece in the Atlantic by Derek Thompson entitled The Political Fight of the Century. In the article, he laid out a vision for America’s political future rooted in abundance. He argued that we’ve entered a rare window where a new political order could emerge—one that breaks from scarcity, bureaucracy, and institutional stagnation. He called for a movement that blends progressive compassion, conservative pride, and libertarian urgency, focused on fixing what’s broken in housing, energy, and governance.

He wasn’t writing about rural places directly. He was writing about urban failure—and making the case that if liberal America can fix itself, rural America might fall back into alignment. Maybe from where he sits, that sounds like hope. But from where I sit, it sounds like the same old hubris.

Because when someone misses the resentment simmering in rural places—not out of hostility, but because they didn’t think to ask—it reveals the quiet power imbalance at the heart of this divide. It assumes the answer is more of what cities need—never stopping to ask what the rest of us already know.

This isn’t just a divide in policy preference. It’s a cultural divide—between people who live by rhythms of independence and community, and people who consider themselves stakeholders in those same landscapes, even if they’ve never truly been part of them.

I used to enjoy visiting Portland. I gave talks there. Took friends to Blazers games. But over time, something shifted. It’s not just the graffiti or the tents. It’s the sense that the people crafting the new vision for America stopped seeing folks like us as part of it.

So I wrote this—not as a rebuttal to Thompson’s essay, but as a companion piece. One that starts where his left off. Not with what urban America wants to build, but with what rural America sees, lives, and remembers. The kind of abundance that doesn’t begin with systems—but with people.

Kind of like a Maasai herder I once met—Oxford-educated, fluent, brilliant—who told me, as he turned to watch the animal, in reply to my question “what are you doing here with that education?” He said, “They didn’t have anything I need.” That’s how a lot of us feel when we’re talked at, not with—and not respected as a culture.

II. A Narrow Road and a Wide Gap

A few years ago, I had a couple visiting from the city—folks I’d worked with overseas. Good people. Thoughtful. They’d spent most of their adult lives in places like San Antonio, and this was their first time out to our part of northeast Oregon.

We were driving down into a canyon on a narrow dirt road when another pickup came up the other way. It was Travis. So I stopped, rolled down the window, and we started catching up like you do around here. A minute later another truck pulled up behind him—Dusty hopped out, leaned on the fender, and joined in. Then the UPS guy showed up. We all know Dan. He hunts with us. He parked, stepped out, and added his two cents to the conversation.

At this point, the couple from Texas was getting nervous. The woman said, “Shouldn’t we move? There’s a line of cars now.” I smiled and told her, “This is the town square.”

Eventually there were five or six rigs lined up and people just chatting in the middle of the road like it was a church potluck. Nobody was honking. Nobody was in a hurry. That’s how it works out here.

They were surprised. But what they didn’t know—what takes time to learn—is that this kind of thing isn’t just a traffic jam. It’s community maintenance. It’s news, support, repair, weather reports, and sometimes prayer. In a place where cell service is spotty and towns are hours apart, this is how people stay connected.

And that’s the heart of the story I want to tell. Because right now, there’s a widening divide in this country between the people who live in places like that and the people who live in places with Uber and Whole Foods and five-year climate plans. The rift isn’t just about politics. It’s about pace, and place, and respect. It’s about who gets to define what a “good life” looks like—and who gets listened to when decisions get made.

I’ve worked in 17 countries, helped write national biodiversity plans, and designed community development programs from the ground up. But back home, I’ve found that rural Americans often get talked about like a problem to solve—or worse, like they don’t know anything worth hearing.

That’s not just wrong. It’s dangerous.

And it’s time we talked about it.

III. The Stories Behind the Numbers

If you just look at the data, rural America doesn’t make a lot of sense. Lower incomes. Higher poverty rates. Less formal education. Fewer services. And yet—many of us stay. Not because we’re stuck. Not because we don’t know any better. But because there’s something here that doesn’t fit in a spreadsheet.

You want to talk about poverty? Alright. But define it first. Is poverty not having a lot of money, or not having anyone to call when your truck won’t start in the dead of winter? Because I know which one I’d rather live with.

But if you really want to talk about wealth, let’s start by asking what it actually means. Because out here, it’s not about income brackets or net worth. It’s about the air we breathe and the land we walk. I’ve got clean air, a river full of fish ten minutes from my house, and quiet trails where I can walk for miles and see elk, deer, maybe even a bear—but not another person. I’ve got wheat fields that ripple like water when the wind blows through, and mornings where the frost makes everything sparkle before the sun burns it off.

That’s not poverty. That’s a full life.

In town, I stop by the parts store and the owner knows my name. We talk about what’s going on—who needs help, who got married, who’s calving late this year. I walk into the bank and no one asks for ID because they’ve known me for twenty years. If I go into the hardware store, I’ll see a neighbor or a workmate. And if something breaks, someone shows up with tools before you’ve even called.

That’s wealth too.

We have kids who’ll mow lawns for a few bucks and feel proud of the work. Neighbors who check on each other when the power’s out. A quiet confidence that if you need something, someone will lend it—or help you build it. It’s not just the farms that hold value. It’s the towns too. The kind of places where you still get a wave from every passing pickup, and where nobody stays a stranger for long.

And yes, money matters. Of course it does. More and better jobs are a good thing. Economic opportunity is important. But not at the expense of what makes rural life rich in the first place. We’re not trading a life that fills our days with meaning for a paycheck and a parking garage. We’re not leaving land we know by heart for cities that promise more—but ask us to give up the very things that define who we are. Out here, we don’t measure success in dollars. We measure it in freedom, beauty, connection, and capability. And by those measures, we’re doing just fine.

IV. The Bridge Builders

You’ll hear folks say the divide between urban and rural perspectives is too wide to cross. But that’s not true. I’ve seen the people building the bridge, one plank at a time.

There’s the USDA rep who doesn’t start the meeting with a handout—he starts by asking about the calving interval. Or the extension agent who still shows up with a notebook, takes time to walk the field, and doesn’t pretend to have all the answers before listening. I know professors who grew up in ranch families and still carry a crescent wrench in their truck. They understand the difference between an idea that works in theory and one that works through a Montana winter.

I know professors who grew up in ranch families and still carry a crescent wrench in their truck. They understand the difference between an idea that works in theory and one that works through a Montana winter.

And you know what? There are city folks who get it too. People who come out to help at branding, stay for supper, and end up elbow-deep in dishes. People who don’t make a fuss about doing things differently—they just want to understand why it’s done that way in the first place.

I’ve had some of my best conversations about grazing, land use, or food systems with people who had no interest in winning an argument. They came to learn, and they stayed long enough to realize it’s not simple. That kind of curiosity builds trust.

Even a few politicians are starting to show up differently. Not the kind that sweep through in a clean truck with a staffer holding a camera. I mean the kind that actually sit down at your kitchen table, ask what’s working and what’s not, and don’t start crafting a press release or Instagram post the moment they leave. The ones who ask, “What’s going to help—and what’s going to make it worse?” And then shut up long enough to hear the answer.

They’re rare, but they’re out there. And they deserve credit. Because bridging this divide doesn’t mean we have to agree on every policy point. It just means we show up honestly. We listen more than we talk. And if there’s pie involved, well, that never hurts. In fact, it usually goes further than a pie chart.

We need each other. We really do. The people who fix fences and the ones who read water tables. The ones who build markets and the ones who grow into them. This country works best when we stop pretending one side knows it all.

And when the bridge is built right, you don’t even notice the crossing.

V. Education, Intelligence, and the Parts Guy at the Counter

There’s a certain kind of insult that gets tossed around—usually by people with fancy degrees and fast opinions. It sounds like this: “Those rural folks just don’t get it. They’re undereducated. They vote against their interests.”

I’ve heard it a hundred different ways, from articles to interviews to overheard conference chatter. What it really means is: “They don’t think like me, so they must not know much.”

These comments show how out of touch we’ve let our definitions of expertise become.

I once ran a lab for a major ink company. We had twenty chemists—four of them PhDs, most with at least a bachelor’s or master’s. But the A-team, the guys who fixed what nobody else could? One had a PhD from MIT. The other had a high school diploma. I hired him because he could troubleshoot better than anyone I’d ever seen. And they worked together like a dream.

There’s a reason we love those old Holiday Inn Express ads. “Are you a doctor?” “No, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night.” The 2024 version? “Are you a land management expert?” “No, but I got my MD from Stanford.”

Education comes in a lot of forms. The question shouldn’t be “Where did you study?” but “What have you learned—and what can you do with it?”

Ask around in any farm town. There’s always a guy at the parts store who knows every bolt and bearing by memory. He can tell you what alternator you need for your 1996 Massey and what belts fit the baler you got third-hand. He didn’t go to college for that. He lived it.

I’m not knocking college. I’ve taught university courses myself. But the idea that education equals intelligence—or worse, that intelligence requires a diploma—is flat wrong. I’ve met professors who couldn’t start a chainsaw and ranchers who can rebuild a transmission before lunch and fix your Wi-Fi in the afternoon.

More than that, people forget something basic: education should help you live the life you want. And for a lot of folks out here, that means learning skills that let you live close to the land, raise kids in a safe place, and have just enough to keep the lights on, the pantry full, and maybe a little left to lend the neighbor if his steer goes down.

There are city folks in their thirties still living at home with their parents. Some blame student debt. But the truth is, a college degree that doesn’t lead to a job isn’t an investment—it’s a lesson. Meanwhile, the guy who went to trade school and got certified to run heavy equipment is out here making good money, home by supper, and has a freezer full of elk he shot last fall.

So let’s stop pretending one kind of education is better than the other. Different lives require different knowledge. Respect isn’t about credentials. It’s about competence. And if someone doubts that, they’re welcome to try pulling a calf at midnight in a sleet storm.

We’ll see who’s uneducated then.

VI. Land Rich, Life Rich

People throw around the term “land poor” like it’s an insult. Like if you’re not cashing out or flipping acres, you must not be very smart. But that’s not how it feels when you’re standing in the field at dusk, watching your daughter toss hay to the horses and the dogs chase quail through the grass.

Out here, a lot of folks don’t measure wealth the same way. We’re not stacking bank statements. We’re stacking firewood. Putting up fence. Sharing tools. Watching a neighbor’s kids while they’re in town for parts. That might not register on a tax return, but it shows up where it counts.

Most of us could sell our land, buy rental properties in the city, and probably come out ahead in dollars. I’ve run the numbers. With the equity in my place, I could stop working, move to a suburb, and let someone else mow the lawn. But then what? Sit inside and read articles about community while mine fades behind me?

No thanks. I’d rather fix fence.

See, we’ve got something here that money doesn’t easily buy. When you live in a place where people still call before heading to town to see if you need anything, where someone drops off extra firewood just because they had time to cut more than they needed—that’s not poverty. That’s wealth of a different kind.

And it’s not just favors. It’s a system. I’ve put in pumps for neighbors, and never expected payment. Other folks have shown up with welders, trailers, chainsaws. Nobody keeps score. You do what needs doing. And when it’s your turn to need help, someone’s already knocking on the door.

So when people talk about rural poverty, I get cautious. Because the numbers don’t tell the story. You might have a small house, but if it’s full of laughter and the pantry’s stocked and your boots are worn from honest work—you’re not poor.

Quality of life means different things to different people. Some want fine dining and four-day work weeks. Others want a dirt road, a full freezer, and time to fish before supper. One version isn’t better than the other. But don’t call it poverty just because it doesn’t look like your success story.

I’ve worked with rural communities around the world. And let me tell you—when I’m walking through a village in Malawi or sitting with farmers in Kazakhstan, I don’t look at them and think, “These people are poor.” I think, “These people are raising kids, growing food, helping each other, and laughing more than most people I know.”

And funny enough, when I mess up the language—which happens a lot—they don’t laugh at me. They laugh with me. Same way we do here.

That’s not poverty. That’s life, lived honestly. And if we can’t see that, maybe it’s not their understanding that’s lacking. Maybe it’s ours.

VII. The Quiet Resentment: Power Without Understanding

There’s a kind of resentment out here that doesn’t show up in polling. It doesn’t shout. It simmers. And most of the time, it’s quiet—until someone who’s never set foot on your land starts telling you how to manage it.

That’s when the temperature starts to rise.

See, we’ve had folks try to ban head catches, even though they’re the most humane way to handle cattle for pregnancy checks or pulling porcupine quills from a calf’s nose. We’ve had people push to remove grazing from public lands without realizing what happens when you let cheatgrass take over and the next lightning storm rolls through. There’s a difference between loving nature and knowing it. And some of these policies are coming from people who don’t seem to know the first thing about either.

It’s not always about politics—at least not the kind with party labels. It’s about who gets to make the rules. And more importantly, who has to live with the consequences.

One night my neighbor Wes heard a commotion outside. One of his cow dogs was yelping. He grabbed his rifle and opened the front door—just in time to see a cougar mauling the dog. The cat darted behind a tree in the yard. The dog limped to Wes and laid at his feet. A few seconds later, the cat came out again, crouched and locked in on that dog like it was unfinished business.

I asked Wes how far out the cougar was when he fired. He shrugged. “I waited until it got to the gun,” he said.

It’s not the kind of thing you forget.

I had to kill a bear once that was trying to come through my front door. Big one. About 350 pounds of muscle and bad ideas. And I can tell you—there’s a reason we keep a rifle by the door out here. Not because we’re itching to use it. Because sometimes you have to.

So when someone starts talking about sweeping gun legislation without knowing these stories, it doesn’t land as public safety. It lands as disarmament. It sounds like it’s coming from people who live a different kind of life.

We get told we need to start practicing regenerative ag like it’s some brand-new concept. But we’ve been doing that for decades—rotating pastures, cover cropping, building organic matter in the soil. We just didn’t call it that. We called it “taking care of the place.”

It’s the same with agriculture. We get told we need to start practicing regenerative ag like it’s some brand-new concept. But we’ve been doing that for decades—rotating pastures, cover cropping, building organic matter in the soil. We just didn’t call it that. We called it “taking care of the place.”

And when politicians do show up, it’s often for the photo op. Maybe they tour a big operation, shake a few hands, and fly out again with clean boots. But they didn’t sit down in the local bar. They didn’t ask the folks who fix tractors on Saturdays and run the school board during the week.

The quiet resentment builds when decisions are made far away and then dropped on a community like a load of bricks. And we’re expected to say thank you. Like we should be grateful to be included in a conversation we never really got to join.

You want to build policy that works in rural America? Great. Then show up. Stay a while. Eat at someone’s kitchen table. Help string fence. Learn the names of the dogs. Because if you don’t, what you’re offering isn’t help. It’s imposition. And out here, that never sits well. We don’t expect every outsider to understand this life. But if they’re going to legislate it, they ought to at least be willing to live it for a week. Put on boots. Tuck your pants in. We’ll hand you a hammer. You might just learn something that doesn’t come in a policy brief.

VIII. The Culture of the Table

Out here, meals still matter. Not just because people are hungry, but because that’s where things happen. You don’t pass up supper with family, even if there’s work to do. In fact, the work can wait. The table can’t.

We cook more than we eat out—not because we’re purists, but because food’s a part of our rhythm. You might have canned green beans from last year’s garden, elk from the freezer, bread you made yourself, and maybe a pie from a neighbor who still uses her grandmother’s rolling pin.

And that pie? It’s not just dessert. It’s a thank-you, a welcome, a peace offering, and a reward all in one. I’ve known ranch hands who’d pass on beer but wouldn’t miss a slice of pie. Around here, the median household probably doesn’t track pies baked per year—but I’d wager it’s more than the national average. Especially around branding season.

But it’s not really about the food. It’s about the table. Because that’s where stories are told, kids learn to listen, old arguments get settled, and plans get made. You don’t need a boardroom when the coffee’s strong and there’s room at the table.

I’ve sat at tables made from plywood and propped on sawhorses where conservation plans were drawn up, where haying crews divvied up fields, and where neighbors sorted through which family had an extra pressure tank to loan. The table isn’t just where we eat—it’s where we figure out how to live.

That’s why city folks sometimes miss the rhythm of rural life. It doesn’t run on apps or meetings. It runs on trust built over shared meals and work done shoulder to shoulder. And yeah, sometimes someone drops by just as the roast comes out of the oven. That’s not bad timing. That’s good manners from the universe.

So if you ever find yourself in a place like this, don’t be surprised if you’re offered a slice of pie and a cup of coffee. It’s not a gimmick. It’s not a performance.

It’s how we say: you’re welcome here. And we’re glad you came.

IX. The Economy of Enough

We get told a lot out here that we should want more—bigger houses, fancier trucks, newer everything. But the truth is, most rural folks aren’t chasing maximum. We’re chasing enough.

Enough to keep the bills paid and the freezer full. Enough to take Sunday off without falling behind. Enough to help a neighbor without worrying how it’ll hit the bottom line.

That doesn’t mean we’re not ambitious. It just means the ambitions look different. A good year isn’t measured by profit margins—it’s measured by hay stacked, calves weaned, fences mended, and kids home safe from school.

A lot of folks don’t understand that. They see a small house and assume struggle. But out here, you don’t build a house to impress people. You build it to stay warm. You think about how to heat it in February, where to put the mudroom, and how to hang sheetrock with a friend. You think about whether it’ll hold up for the next thirty winters, not whether it’ll match the neighbors’ porch railings.

Same goes for vehicles. Someone rolls up in a brand-new pickup, they’ll get ribbed before they get complimented. We take pride in how long something lasts, not how quick we can get it financed.

But that kind of mindset doesn’t show up on spreadsheets. It doesn’t track well in economic models. It’s not flashy. It’s just functional. And in a world obsessed with growth, sometimes functionality gets mistaken for failure.

I’ve run businesses. I’ve sat at big tables in capital cities. But the most honest accounting I’ve ever seen is the one that happens after branding, when everyone’s full and someone says, “We got through it again.” That’s the kind of wealth you don’t bank—you build.

We’re not allergic to progress. We just know it’s not always measured in decimals. Sometimes, it’s measured in the neighbor who shows up when your tractor won’t start. Or the kids who grow up knowing how to use a chainsaw and a soup ladle.

That’s the economy of enough. And when it’s working, it’s stronger than people think.

X. Who Gets to Decide?

In international development, I’ve walked farms in seventeen countries. Sat in kitchens. Met with elders. Helped folks build systems that work for them—not for me. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: if you don’t start with the question “What do you need help with?”, you’re not doing development. You’re just rearranging furniture in someone else’s house.

But back home, I’ve seen policy after policy dropped into rural communities like a load of bricks. No discussion. No context. No time spent at the table.

That’s not consultation. That’s imposition dressed up in good intentions.

You’ll hear the word “stakeholders” thrown around a lot. But somewhere along the way, we changed the definition. It used to mean people who are directly affected. Now it seems to mean anyone with an opinion, or a feeling, or a philosophy—no matter how far removed they are from the outcome.

When I worked in Rwanda, we built credibility by being there. By farming ourselves. By planting pineapple and showing neighbors it could grow. By trying things. Failing at some. Succeeding at others. And by listening. Always listening.

I never once walked into a village and said, “You need to reintroduce lions.” Even though I remember seeing lions in the Loita Hills as a kid, and part of me misses that. But I also understand that the page has turned. You don’t rebuild the past by flattening the present.

Back here, it sometimes feels like we’re living under policy made by people who’ve only seen our world through a windshield—or worse, through a nature documentary.

If someone in Rhode Island wants wolves in the West, fine. But they shouldn’t have an equal say in managing wolves in Montana. If you don’t have to live with the teeth, you don’t get to call the shots.

And when rural people push back, we’re called selfish. Or anti-science. Or just plain ignorant.

But let me ask you this—when’s the last time a community got real veto power over a plan that would reshape how they live? Not a townhall after the decision was made. Not a listening session that goes nowhere. Real power. Because without that, it’s not democracy. It’s choreography.

So yeah, we get testy. We get tired. And sometimes we say no just to prove we’re still allowed to.

If you want to build real policy that sticks, start the way I do overseas. Walk the land. Ask what’s broken. Sit at the table. Eat the food. Listen long enough to get it wrong once, and stick around long enough to get it right the second time.

That’s how trust starts. That’s how change works. And that’s how you stop losing people before the conversation even begins.

XI. What Makes an Expert?

I’ve met people who genuinely believe that their credentials—earned, yes, but far from the field—give them more say over rural land than the folks who live and work it every day. They can quote studies but haven’t built a fence. They can name species but couldn’t tell you when to cut hay.

Now, if someone were to ask me, “Are you a land management expert?” I’d probably smile. “No,” I’d say. Despite doing the job since the ’80s, across 17 countries, and writing for scientific journals, I still think I’m learning more than I know. Every time I put boots on the ground somewhere new, I find something different. And I’ve never met a farmer I couldn’t learn something from.

That’s the truth. Expertise isn’t about having the final answer. It’s about knowing enough to ask better questions—and sticking around to hear the full reply.

When we started SACPP in Rwanda, we didn’t show up with a ten-point plan. We just started farming. Learned the rains. The soil. What worked. What didn’t. We tried pineapple. Sent a crew to Kenya to figure it out. Now it’s growing in fields all around us.

And when the community said they were losing too much maize to pests and bad timing, we didn’t write a grant. We built a storage facility and taught what we’d learned. When they said they couldn’t afford the pesticides being pushed on them, we started making our own—with tephrosia and now with BT bacteria, so they can kill fall armyworm without harming pollinators.

One day we asked our workers what they needed. They didn’t ask for a raise. They asked to learn how to read.

That’s when I knew we were doing something right, when people can look past feeding their children, and see that maybe they can expand their horizons, they have the luxury of taking the time to learn to read.

However, being able to read or not, the people in that community aren’t “uneducated.” They’re raising kids, growing food, helping neighbors, and sharing laughter more freely than most places I’ve been. They don’t need a lesson in how to live. They need support for the life they’ve chosen—and that’s something we can all relate to.

You want to be a stakeholder? Then be present. Do the work. Share the risks. And if you’re not willing to do that, maybe sit this one out. Because around here, we don’t judge you by your degree. We judge you by whether you stick around when something breaks.

XII. The Quiet Divide

ThatT piece in the Atlantic I mentioned earlier calls for a politics of abundance—more housing, more clean energy, more innovation. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Most rural folks I know would be glad to see those things, too. We’re not against building. We’re just tired of being built over.

The piece offered a vision: fix what’s broken in the cities, and rural America will come around. But it never asked why we’re standing so far apart in the first place.

It didn’t ask why trust has eroded. Why there’s a quiet bitterness every time another regulation shows up without a conversation. Why we tune out the speeches and tune into each other.

Out here, it feels like we’re often talked about—but not to. We’re framed as obstacles, or relics, or people who need convincing. But no one seems to stop and ask: “What broke the relationship?”

It’s not scarcity that bothers us. It’s condescension. It’s hearing that your way of life is outdated, your knowledge dismissed, your values misunderstood—by people who don’t know what it’s like to pull a calf at midnight or sit up all night fighting a wildfire.

When urban lawmakers say “We’re including all stakeholders,” and then center the voices of people who’ve never set foot on the land—they’re not building bridges. They’re building facades.

Respect doesn’t come from slogans. It comes from showing up. Listening longer than you speak. Admitting when you’re wrong. Letting someone else lead when it’s their home, their water, their season.

Too many progressives talk down to rural people. Too many conservatives take rural votes for granted. Neither protects what matters most: land access, community, dignity, and a fair chance for the next generation to stay rooted.

So yes, there’s a divide. But it’s not unbridgeable. It just requires something we haven’t seen in a while: Trust. Not policy-driven, press-conference trust. Earned trust. Shared-work trust. The kind that comes when someone shows up not to explain—but to ask, “What do you need help with?”

XII. A Path Forward: Respect, Repair, and Real Dialogue

Let’s be honest—rural America isn’t perfect. We’ve got our share of problems. We have 3 kids in the school closest to me, healthcare is too far away, and too many small towns are losing their main street businesses. There’s a shortage of mechanics, nurses, welders, and reliable broadband. Some places are fighting addiction. Others are just trying to keep a volunteer fire crew together.

But here’s the thing: we already know that. We live it. What we don’t need is someone from the outside dropping in, pointing it all out, and then offering a plan that’s been written without us. You want to help? Start with the table. Not a think tank. Not a press release. Sit down. Ask a real question.

The best solutions I’ve seen didn’t come from a federal building or a white paper. They came from conversations on tailgates. From neighbors pooling money to buy equipment. From ranchers rotating pasture long before it was called regenerative. From welders training the next guy just so someone else could take a weekend off.

So how do we fix the divide?

Start with trust.

Start with showing up—not to speak, but to listen. Spend time in the community you’re hoping to help. Eat at the local café. Walk the fields. Meet people where they are, and ask them what they know. Then ask what they need. Stop treating rural places like test sites for someone else’s theory. Stop writing policies based on numbers alone. Context matters. So does humility.

And politicians? You’ve got work to do too. When you visit, don’t bring a camera crew and a curated guest list. Bring work boots. Spend a week cutting hay, hauling pipe, helping dig a water line. Then sit down in the only bar in town and ask what people actually care about. If you’re going to legislate for a community, the least you can do is understand how it works.

And here’s the kicker: when it works, it’s beautiful. It’s John and Linda—the couple who once stood at the edge of a pickup-circle conversation, unsure of the rhythm. They bought land. They stayed. Linda bakes pies with fruit from their trees. John gets up at 3:30 during haying season to grease machines that aren’t even his. He’s cut up trees from a neighbor’s driveway. Mowed lawns. Offered to hang sheetrock in a house that’s not his. They didn’t show up and build a McMansion. They didn’t tell us how we ought to do things. They rolled up their sleeves and joined in.

So what’s the future? It’s not about policy. It’s about people. About showing up, staying long enough to earn trust, and working alongside folks who’ve been carrying more than their share for too long.

So yeah—come on out.

And maybe—just maybe—you’ll stay long enough for a slice of pie on the porch. You won’t have to earn our respect with a title. Just your time.

Image via Flickr