There’s an idealistic nature about rural and small-town Ohio. People know their neighbors, they support their community, and they take care of each other when families face tough times. On its surface, it’s like Mayberry — but better, because it’s real.
With all of the wonderful aspects of small-town life in Ohio, however, there are challenges, and right now, one of the toughest of those is a growing struggle with mental health problems.
On Tuesday, May 8, Ohio opens the polls for registered voters to exercise the privilege of free selection in party primaries; to make your voice heard on statewide issues; and to cast your ballot regarding local matters.
In 2016, rural America played a historic part in our national election — 500,000 more rural voters went to the polls than in 2012. This year, we hope to accelerate that momentum by encouraging each of you to join 42 million electric cooperative members across the nation to remind our elected officials that rural issues matter.
Some of the best birding in all of North America takes place in the marshes, seasonal wetlands, and swamp forests bordering western Lake Erie. At the heart of that region sits Ottawa National Wildlife Refuge (ONWR), home to everything from huge trumpeter swans with 8-foot wingspans to tiny, colorful wood warblers weighing mere ounces.
On August 4, 1879, before the sun rose over the craggy mountains in western West Virginia, the oil boomtown of Volcano turned into a “lake of fire.” By the time the blaze died, Volcano was almost gone. The post office, opera hall, bowling alley, saloons, and all but a few buildings had been reduced to ash.
The fire didn’t end Volcano’s existence right away, as a few remained to continue oil production, but what had been a bustling burg was on an irreversible path to becoming the ghost town that it is today.
It was 25 minutes past noon when I scored the last serving of the Friday lunch special — scalloped potatoes and ham — at the Auction Restaurant in Shipshewana, Indiana. Just seconds after I ordered, a young man sat down and asked for the special too. “It’s all gone,” said the waitress, a pleasant, middle-aged woman wearing an apron, plain blue dress, and white bonnet. “Well, I was wanting it all morning,” he complained, then settled for a prime rib sandwich.
I admit it: I’m hooked on fishing. Like most addicts, I like to believe I can quit at any time — just walk away. But deep down I know that’s not true. We fishermen even have an expression to explain our illness: “The tug is the drug.”
Last April, for instance, I was fishing the Detroit River, which is always cold in early spring. Even though the air temperature was in the low 50s that morning, high winds had 2-foot waves white-capping the 42-degree water, and it felt like winter.
