A Policeman in the Free State

NOTE: The opinions and commentary expressed in this essay are those of the author and are an exercise of free speech. They do not necessarily represent the views of Free State Project Inc., its Directors, its Officers, or its Participants.

A Policeman in the Free State

by Tom deSabla

7:00 A.M. 2017 - I get out of bed energized to go to work. Why not? After all, I'm making 70K a year to do what I love - law enforcement. I give my sleepy wife a kiss as I prepare to dress for work. Noticing my work pants are still too tight, I sit down for a bowl of fruit and some coffee with no fat creamer. No way am I getting suspended for exceeding the body fat guidelines again. That was embarrassing as hell. Ten lousy pounds overweight and they suspend me without pay. Of course, I love my job; and it pays more than what cops make in the O49. Still, just like them, we take pride in how well we do our jobs. We do our jobs better, if you ask me. Our standards are so much higher, it's almost unfair to compare. It's not our fault the free state does things differently; in fact, that's why most of us came here.

After my distinctly unsatisfying breakfast, I hop in my car, radio the station, and take off. Driving down the interstate at a comfortable 95 mph, it's remarkable how polite everyone is about yielding to faster traffic. I chuckle at my recollection of the heated debate over the changes in our state traffic laws - changes that resulted in the lowest fatality rates ever; and brought sanity back to a deeply flawed process. Oh, how the statist judges and politicians screamed. Most of the people, however, came to realize that it made perfect sense for traffic laws to be refocused on protecting our rights, instead of mindlessly creating and enforcing violations.

Nowadays, every traffic ticket has a section where the officer must specify how the infraction impacted a specific other driver or vehicle. Faced with this new requirement, speed violations tumbled to record lows, leaving cops better able to catch true rights violations, such as blocking traffic, failure to yield, and running red lights in traffic. This resulted in a much more polite and respectful driving experience for everyone. And they got where they were going quicker than ever. When drivers see my vehicle this morning, they don't suddenly slow down, like they do in the O49; instead, they maintain speed, and stay to the right so as not to block me, or anyone else.

All except this one brown Lexus with Vermont tags, stubbornly cruising in the left lane at about 70 mph, with a line of 7 cars backed up behind it. I knew what this could lead to - impatient drivers pulling into the right lanes to pass, increasing the potential for a rush hour mishap. I pull in behind the Lexus and flash my lights. The driver pulls over on the left side of the highway with me behind, radioing in the stop and the tag # of the Lexus. I walk up to the drivers side, and a man dutifully hands me his license and registration, "What's the problem, officer," he asks. "I was only doing 70." "That's the problem," I inform him. "I pulled you over for blocking traffic."

He looks at me as if there were rutabagas growing out of my ears. "How can I be blocking traffic if I'm going the speed limit?" I explain to him that speed limits are only suggestions; and that he can be cited for impeding the flow of traffic, regardless of what speed he's traveling. I remind him to stay to the right if he wants to do 70 mph. I ask him if he understands the law now, he assures me he does. After reminding him that we have a warnings database, I issue him a warning. As he drives away, I notice an old, faded "speed kills" bumper sticker on the back of his car. Good old NHTSA. I sigh and continue on my way.

12:00 Noon - A turkey sub with light mayonnaise. Dry as a bone, but I wash it down with cola.

1:18 PM - I get called to a house in a nice suburb of Concord. Apparently, there's a man locked in a room, bingeing on cocaine. His wife is terrified, and wants the police to intervene. Hyper alert now, my brain racing, I remind myself that totally new strategies can be used - different from what I had learned years ago in training. The reason is that 18 months ago, in a very bitter debate, the state had courageously and completely legalized cocaine and narcotics in the face of federal threats and opposition.

Opponents feared that the new law would ensnare many more citizens into drug addiction; while proponents said it would reduce overall harm. This afternoon, this particular problem and the way it is handled will go a long way toward determining which group was right. I am dispatched to the Williams' home along with a two-man team in another cruiser.

I arrive first; but resisting temptation, I wait for the two junior officers, Sanders and Pino, to pull up with their lights flashing. I walk up and ask them to turn them off,
"Hey, turn out your lights, will you? Yeah, listen, this guys supposed to be high as a kite, and I don't want to agitate him, ok?
I remind them that as far as we know, according to the laws of our state, he hasn't committed any crimes yet; so our objective should be to assess the situation, and basically either be of help to the family, or failing that, at least do no harm. Seeing the looks on their faces, I suggest what I had wanted to do from the beginning, "I'm pretty familiar with this type of situation, so how about you let me handle it, and back me up if I need it, ok?" They don't question how I got familiar with it; but they sure look relieved anyway.

I realize now that the situation is mine to deal with, for good or for ill. I walk up to the door with Pino ten feet behind me, and Sanders out at the car. A distraught woman immediately opens the door and motions for me to come in.
"It's my husband, he's locked in the basement."
"Is he doing drugs, ma'am?"
"I'm sure he's doing cocaine."
Even though I already know this, the implications still give me a chill of fear,
"How long has he been in there?" I query, trying to conceal my mounting sense of dread.
"Since last night."
"All night ma'am? How do you know that?"
"Well, he never came to bed, so I got up about 1:00 AM and went knocking on the door. He kept saying he'd be out in minute but he never did come out."
"He hasn't come out?"
"No - I'm scared, officer, I don't want him to die from that stuff. And he acts weird when he does a lot of it; sometimes he talks about suicide. I want him to stop; but I don't want him to go to jail. That would ruin his life - our lives. But it's legal now, right? So you won't take him to jail?"
"I won't arrest him unless he breaks the law, ok ma'am?
She nods her head and looks grateful.
"Has he threatened you?"
"No."
"Does he have a weapon down there?"
"Yeah, he probably has his pistol, and I think there's a shotgun down there too."
Swell, I'm thinking, now I've got to deal with a coked up Rambo. I ask her if she had ever seen him violent, and she said she hadn't. Nor did he ever talk about shooting other people. Somewhat relieved, I decide not to rush.
"Do you have any reason to believe that he's going to come charging up out of there with guns blazing, ma'am?"
"Well...no, I don't think so; he's only talked about killing himself. He's probably too busy with his drugs, anyway."
"Let me ask you something, what do you want me to do? I can't arrest him unless he breaks the law. You DID say that you didn't want me to arrest him, right?"
"I understand, but can't you do something? Can't you make him leave or something?"
"That's going to drive him out into the street with his stuff. Is that what you want?"
"Can't you take the drugs away from him?"
"Mrs. Williams, he could just get more. Besides, if I try to do that, he may become more dangerous than he is now. And, they are his drugs, his property. I have no right to take them away from him. Unless he was forcing them on others - then I could take the drugs away and lock him up. Has he done that?"
"Of course not," she says indignantly, "he would never do that."
"Ma'am, please remember, he's your husband. I don't know what he would or would not do. I'm depending on you to help me with that - ok?
"Ok."
"Now, what I can do, is try to talk to him a little. Maybe I can get him to stop. If he stops, he can go right up the street to the clinic if he wants. I could give him a ride if needed. They might be able to help him come down from the drug a little easier."
"Can't you make him go?"
"No ma'am, I cannot make him go."
"Why does he have to stay here?"
"Is this house partly his ma'am - doesn't he live here?
"Yes."
"He has a right to be here, as long as he isn't violating someone else's rights. Do you understand that, ma'am?"
Reluctantly, she nods her head.
"You know, Mrs. Williams, it might be safer for you to leave the house for a while."
She shakes her head and says "Officer, he's my husband and I love him; I won't leave him like this. I want to help."
I tell her I appreciate that, but I'm already thinking of what to say to this guy. I go over to the basement door and knock quietly.
"Mr. Williams? Mr. Williams? Can you hear me?"
After a pause, a thick voice answers, "Who is that? I'll be out in a minute..."
"This is Officer Paine, state police, Mr. Williams." I hear a sound like a glass pipe clinking and a chair squeaking, and then an alarmingly familiar metallic clicking sound.
"Now I'm not here to arrest you, Mr. Williams." I quickly say, trying to keep my voice low.
"That's right," his voice is stronger now. "I'm not breaking any laws, and this is my house. Why don't you leave me alone?"
"I respect your property rights Mr. Williams, but..."
"Doctor Williams - I'm a doctor." What a butthole.
"Yes, Dr Williams - I'm here because your wife has given me permission to come in. She's worried about you. She says you've been down there all night doing cocaine."
"So what? I'm not hurting anyone. If you come in here, I'll kill myself." His wife gasps and begins quietly sobbing.
"Why would you do a thing like that, Dr Williams?"
"I just want to get high right now. I just want to be left alone."
"Dr Williams, do you love your wife?"
"Yes..."
"Sir, you've been locked up in the basement all night, your wife is very upset. You do realize that something is wrong here, don't you sir? Something IS wrong, isn't it sir?"
"I know, I know, but I can't stop right now, I just can't. I'll stop in a little bit."
"Ok, Dr Williams, let's reason this out, ok? We can do that, can't we? I'm not busting in there, and you're not committing a crime. So...it doesn't hurt to talk, does it?"
"I guess not."
"You got this coke from a pharmacy, correct? So, you can always get more, right?"
"Yes."
"How much coke did you buy sir?"
"Two ounces," Jesus Christ, two freakin ounces?! That's enough for one guy to stay high for two weeks. In other words, enough to kill himself with.
Trying not to show my concern, I ask him "How much did you spend on it, sir?"
"120 dollars."
I note this admission with guarded relief. After all, the more money someone blows on drugs, the more despondent and suicidal the user becomes. $120 isn't going to break this guy.
"Ok, so you have most of it left then, right sir? You've only used what, a couple of grams?"
"I don't know, an 8th of an ounce, maybe."
"Dr Williams, I know, and I think you know too, that it's going to be very difficult for you to stop doing the coke. You have a very good chance of killing yourself if you stay in there long enough. You don't really want to kill yourself, do you, doctor? I mean, what about your wife?"
"I don't want to die, but if I let you in here, you'll take it away, and you'll put me in jail."
"I won't do that Dr Williams, but I'd like you to, at the very least, take a break."
"You're telling me that if I just stop for while, and come out, you won't take my stuff, or lock me up?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying." Now an idea was coming to me, a little unorthodox, but it might work.
"I'll make a deal with you, Dr Williams, I'll hold your coke for you, while you take a pause. My only condition is that that pause is at least one hour. I'll give you my pager number, and when you page me, I'll drop it off. Also, if you want to go down to the clinic, I'll be glad to take you down there. I'll still hold your coke for you."
"How do I know you're telling me the truth?"
"It's not a crime for you to possess the coke, so it isn't a crime for me to possess it either. If it'll get you out of that basement for a while, it's worth it to me."
"Swear to God that you're not lying to me. If I give you my stuff - you promise to give it back?"
"I promise, but you have to stop for one hour, and you ought to eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
I snicker to myself upon hearing this - of course he wasn't hungry - he's coked out of his mind. But still, if he eats, he may get tired, and maybe quit. I decide to go for broke.
"Dr Williams, you have to eat; that's part of the deal. You stop for at least one hour, and you eat something. Then, if you still want to keep destroying yourself and your marriage, I'll drop off your stuff for you."
"I'm going to want it back in an hour, officer, I'm sorry."
"Ok. If you want it back, I'll bring it."
"I'm going to do one more hit, and then I'm coming out."
"Dr Williams, please don't do that." We hear the noise of a torch being lit coming through the door. She looks at me helplessly, silently asking me to break in and stop him. My mind is swirling, but I realize that I can't do it because he hasn't committed a crime. I'm also remembering that metallic clicking sound, and hoping he'll come out voluntarily. I turn to her and speak quietly and quickly "Mrs. Williams, you love him, right? When he comes out, have some food ready, and stay very loving with him." I lean close to her, "Ma'am, I'll deny that I ever said this, but if you want him to stop, feed him, and then try to get him into bed. If you can do that, however you do that, he may be able to go to sleep."
She looks at me quizzically for a second; then she understands and nods her head.
"I understand. I sent the kids to the neighbors; they can stay there the rest of the afternoon," she confirmed.
"Dr Williams? You ready?" No answer for a couple of seconds. I'm getting worried. Finally his thick voice answers, "Ok, I'm coming out." I breathe a prayer of thanks. But, "You aren't armed, are you Dr Williams?"
Panicked now, "What, are you all out there getting ready to shoot me? Oh my God, I'll kill myself first."
Damn, this is going south in a hurry.
"No, Dr Williams, there is no we, I swear it's just me and I'm not going to shoot you. I'm trying to help you. My gun is in my holster, isn't it Mrs. Williams?"
"Walter, honey, he's telling the truth," she immediately supplies, to her credit.
Williams wants to make sure; "You swear you'll give me back my stuff in one hour?"
"I swear." I just got another idea, "Dr Williams, I'm going to slide my pager number under the door. You can call it from down there, right? You'll hear it go off when you call. I'm not lying to you sir, I promise."

2:28 PM - A bedraggled and zombie-eyed man opens the door with two bottles in his hands, looking frantically around like a wild animal. "Ok, I'm taking your word on what you said; here's my stuff, now will you leave?"
"I have permission from your wife to search the basement to make sure that you keep your word."
"Oh, great honey, thanks a lot."
"Walter, please..."
"I left more down there. I'll go get it." Screw that, I'm thinking, I quickly block his way. Technically, this is a rights violation, but I felt justified.
"No, No Dr Williams, you stay up here like you promised. Tell me where it is, and I won't have to search for it."
"I can't believe this crap."
"Please, Dr Williams, let's just both of us follow through on our word, ok?" I'm a little bit scared now, because this whole plan depends on his voluntary cooperation. If he craps out, there would be little I could do, absent the commission of a crime. Seconds pass, though they seem like hours. Finally...
"It's in the bottom drawer of my toolbox."
"All of it, Doctor?"
"Yes, but you promised all of it back."
"I know, Doctor. I'll keep it all safe 'till you page me."

Five minutes later, the smell of bacon wafts through the house, as Sanders, Pino, and I prepare to leave. The basement is clean of coke, as far as I can tell, and Williams is sitting in the kitchen with his wife fussing over him. She looks up at me with a tight little smile that speaks volumes. As we walk out to our cars, the two officers both start talking at once.
"Jeez, Paine, are you freakin nuts? I can't believe you're going to carry this guy's dope around with you."
"Paine, you are one crazy mother. Did you really tell him you'd give him his stuff back?"
"Sure I did, why not?"
"What are you going to do if he pages you while you're on a call, you're just going to run his stuff over to him?" Worried now, afraid they've been party to something improper.
I stop and lay it out for them. "Look you guys, first off, I'm not going to drop everything and run the guy's stuff back to him. He'll probably page me in an hour; then I'll call him back in another ? hour, telling him that I'll be by in ? hour to 45 minutes. Meanwhile, his wife is going to be feeding him and keeping him in bed. By the time I finally DO get by there, it'll be at least 3 hours from now, by which time I'll bet the guy will give up the binge, and hopefully tell me to throw his stuff away."
This seems to impress them somewhat; but then Pino says, "I would have just busted in there and taken the guy's stuff. You had the wife's permission, why didn't you just do it that way?"
I then tell them what I'd just seen in the basement: A loaded automatic pistol and a loaded shotgun, and a suicide note wadded up and thrown in the trash. I remind them of all the cocaine suicides in the O49.
"He was ready to shoot himself, guys. If I had busted in, he might have done it, or shot me. This way is better - less risky."
Sanders persists "You don't think he's going to just wait for you to bring back his stuff and start all over again?"
"Maybe, but look at it this way, that family is better off than when we came there. And we did no harm. I mean, if the guy's going to be a stupid cokehead, in the end, there's not much we can do about it anyway. At least he didn't spend his whole paycheck on it like I used to do. Talk about wanting to kill yourself."
They look at me wonderingly, and seem to understand a little.
"I can't believe he's a freakin' doctor," says Sanders.
"I know! Some doctor he is, I don't want him working on me," Pino adds.

4:45 PM - As I head in to the station for end of shift, I reflect on the Williams situation. Sure enough, one hour after I left his house, Williams had paged me. I called back ? hour later, and his wife answered. "He's right here," she said in a husky voice. There was some fumbling and whispered argument, and then he came on the line and said, "Just throw the stuff away, will you Officer Paine? I don't want to do any more right now. I'm going to the clinic when I wake up tomorrow. And thanks for what you did."

Chalk up one for the good guys, I think to myself. It's a good thing that this little episode happened in the Free State. Had Mrs. Williams' call for help been answered in the O49, someone would have likely been shot or sent to jail, or both. But not today, not in the free state, and not on my shift, I affirm with pride. Maybe I'll splurge on a rib dinner tonight. I've earned it.

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New Hampshire Winters

NOTE: The opinions and commentary expressed in this essay are those of the author and are an exercise of free speech. They do not necessarily represent the views of Free State Project Inc., its Directors, its Officers, or its Participants.

Pointers for Handling New Hampshire Winters

by Howard S. Katz • 1/10/04

The temperature here in the White Mountains reached ten degrees this morning – ten degrees below zero!

As a long-time New Hampshire resident, I would like to offer a few (sometimes irreverent!) pointers on making it through a chilly New Hampshire winter:

1. With the exception of those from Alaska and the northern border of the U.S. from Montana east to Maine, you all have thin blood. :-) Thin blood is good in warm climates because it helps to dissipate heat in the summer. Natives of New Hampshire have thick blood, which helps the body to retain heat. It will take you one winter to thicken up your blood; so expect to suffer that first winter. Don't give up. Tough it out. It will be better in subsequent winters. It is my understanding that they built the Appalachian mountains to keep the cold Canadian air from getting to the East Coast, but the mountains are just not doing their job.

2. Dress in layers – flannel shirts and sweaters. The air space between the layers helps keep you warm. And if you get overheated, you can always shed some layers. It is important not to get overheated during a 5-minute dash into some building to do some errand as your body's temperature mechanism then starts trying to cool you down; and this is not good when you rush back outside.

3. Wool is warm; cotton is cold. Cotton may be king in the South, but it doesn't do the job up here. In particular use wool for your extremities. Wool socks are a real plus.

4. Check your car's battery in Nov. or Dec. and make sure that it is tough enough to make it through a winter. Batteries suffer a serious loss of power in cold weather, and it is most definitely not fun to face a bitterly cold winter morning with a dead battery. Remote control devices which can start your car from inside your house and let it warm up while you are dressing are a welcome innovation. I haven't gotten one yet, but I believe they retail for under $100. For those naﶥ persons from south Texas, San Diego and Florida, learn about anti-freeze and make sure you are checked out for 30-40 degrees below zero (F).

5. If you intend to live in one of the rural areas (which is most of the state), then an American car is better (in my opinion). I used to prefer foreign cars (because of the gas mileage). But with the American car you have more car under you. You are better able to climb a snow-covered hill in a storm or bull your way through a mound of snow. Ice melt and sand are quite helpful, and it is not a bad idea to carry a small shovel in your trunk through the winter.

6. Deceive yourself that the winter has not yet come until late December; then start looking forward to spring on March 1. The weather breaks sharply (for the good) right around March 15. That way you only have to make it through 2 months. You can suffer for 2 months to live free.

7. The sun is low on the horizon and is often in your eyes. Pick up some UV-blocker sunglasses. You can buy them at Dollar Store for $1.00.

8. (For autumn) New Hampshire is apple country. Johnny Appleseed was a real person and lived just south of here. Eat apples; drink apple cider; and use apple cider vinegar. This keeps the doctor away – which is why New Hampshire has not had a problem with socialized medicine.

Howard S. Katz
614 Nashua St. #122
Milford, N.H. 03055-4917
(603) 654-4321

North Dakota's Non-Partisan League

NOTE: The opinions and commentary expressed in this essay are those of the author and are an exercise of free speech. They do not necessarily represent the views of Free State Project Inc., its Directors, its Officers, or its Participants.

North Dakota's Non-Partisan League: Lessons for the Free State Project

by Sean Scallon

This article first appeared in the February 2002 issue of Chronicles: A Magazine of American Culture (www.ChroniclesMagazine.org).

"Here in North Dakota, people vote Republican for president or for local offices because they're seen as the white party," North Dakota State University political science professor David Danbom told me. "But they'll vote for the Democrats for Congress and some local offices to look after their economic interests in Washington or here at home."

North Dakota is as good a place as any to see these cultural and political forces in action. But it is also a place where people on the outside of the elite economic and political structures of the state once used the two-party duopoly to build an independent political force that swept the Upper Midwest from 1915 to 1925. It was not a new party, like the Progressives of Wisconsin or the Farmer-Labor Party of Minnesota, but an organization that used the Republican and Democratic nominations to advance its own agenda: the Non-Partisan League (NPL).

I am not offering a paean to the League's socialist policies or its legacy within North Dakota, which includes a state bank that contributes $40-50 million to state coffers each fiscal year and a state grain elevator and mill that, like so many socialist enterprises, struggles every year and is constantly asking the state for more money. A brief overview of the League's history, however, may help conservatives, patriots, libertarians, and even the occasional Green understand that third-party politics are often infantile and that the best way to promote policies and candidates favoring their own views may be to build independent political organizations based on cultural and economic factions that can use familiar party labels to advance their own policies and candidates.

Throughout the decade of the 1910s, the Socialist Party tried to organize farmers across North Dakota. Since farmers got virtually nothing for the wheat they worked hard to produce, many sympathized with their ideas, which included state control of banks, railroads, mills, and elevators. Low prices on Minneapolis grain markets, low payments from Minneapolis millers such as Pillsbury and General Mills, and high shipping rates from railroads squeezed North Dakota farmers in a tight vise. The state banks - also controlled by Minneapolis financial interests - foreclosed on farms all over the state in 1915 and 1916, and the failure of the legislature to act upon a successful ballot initiative in favor of a state grain-terminal facility fueled farmers' frustration and anger.

The Socialists could never warm themselves by this prairie fire. They had little support outside of Fargo and a bad reputation for atheism, rabble-rousing, internecine warfare over party doctrine and theory, labor unrest, and violence. In Northern Lights, an independent film that won a critics' award at the Cannes Film Festival in 1979, Ray Sorenson, a Norwegian farmer who is organizing for the NPL in the northwest part of the state near the Canadian border, tells a grocerystore owner in Crosby, who happens to be a Socialist, that "I've never seen a successful Socialist." In many ways, the Libertarians of the late 20th century are similar to the Socialists of the early 20th century. Many are sympathetic to their ideas, but no one wants to identify with the Libertarian Party.

Socialist organizer A.C. Townley recognized this problem first. A former flax farmer, he was frustrated at Socialist infighting, the party's failure to strike a chord in the rural parts of the states that were suffering the most, and its inability to court more moderate voters. He focussed his efforts on builing a cultural and economic coalition of small farmers and businessmen from hamlets across the state. Rather than engage in party politics, this new group simply called itself the Non-Partisan League.

In 1915, the year of the League's founding, North Dakota switched to an open primary. Since the Democratic Party was a nonentity, the NPL ran candidates under the GOP label. NPL candidates, however, did not join the GOP or become a part of the party structure. The NPL was a political force for nearly half a century. In 1916, it swept its way into office, taking control of the North Dakota House of Representatives and electing Lynn Fraizer governor. By 1918, it completely controlled the government of North Dakota.

The deep distrust that most farmers had of cities played a role in the development of the NPL. Cities such as Fargo - and especially Minneapolis and St. Paul - were where those who ripped them off, when it came to the price of their grain, lived. And those were the places where the evil bankers cut off the credit they needed and made them pay high interest rates to try to force them off their land. To build its political base, all the NPL had to do was to tap into rural anger.

"To the small farmer, the Twin Cities was the Evil Empire," Lloyd Omdahl, a former NPL state tax commissioner, lieutenant governor, and political-science professor from the University of North Dakota told me. "They felt exploited by the granaries there, along with banks, which had chains all throughout the state, and the railroads, which charged them high shipping rates to take their grain to market. The further west you went in North Dakota, the stronger the League was."

That dichotomy is still present in North Dakota - even within Fargo itself. Like many Midwestern cities (or many American cities, for that matter), Fargo is made up of two parts. One is the old town of well-kept homes and downtown streets built along or near the constantly flooding Red River. The other is where you find the tract homes, duplexes and multiplexes, and the strip malls and shopping malls that cluster near the two interstate highways running along the western fringe of town. This is the new Fargo, built on the edge of the prairie, and it is filling up with refugees who come looking for work and wind up in the service industry. Some in this pool of cheap labor hope to save enough to own a farm of their own one day - when they're retired, of course.

Alas, the League became a part of the powers-that-be between 1918 and 1920. Perhaps it became too powerful. All it took was six dollars to become a member; by 1918, there were over 40,000 NPL members in North Dakota. The League also got into banking and publishing and became a distributor of consumer goods to general stores all over the state. Townley organized NPLs all across the Upper Midwest and managed to increase the membership to 188,365 dues-paying members. Charles Lindbergh's father was an NPL member in Minnesota who ran in Republican primaries, and Montana's Sen. Burton K. Wheeler also used an NPL organization to get himself elected.

With all these interests, it soon became obvious that the NPL was turning into what it was set up to oppose: a corporation. Splits began to appear in the leadership between Townley and a faction led by Fraizer and North Dakota Attorney General William "Wild Bill" Langer. The severe recession after World War I and the depression in crop prices forced the League-inspired Bank of North Dakota to foreclose on the very farmers it was supposed to serve. The war and the Red Scare that followed also caused splits, with charges and countercharges of anti-patriotism, communism, pro-Germanism, and disloyalty filling the air. The League lost power in the 1920 Republican sweep and withered in the rest of the Midwest.

But the NPL still held sway in North Dakota, even as the major parties became irrelevant during the Roaring 1920s. Elections were decided along pro- and anti-NPL lines. (The Independent Voters Association, organized by citizens who opposed the League, became the NPL's competition in 1920.) Thanks to the Great Depression and Langer's efforts to restructure it culturally, the League revived in the 1930s. Norwegians had been the core of the League back in the 1910s. From the 1930s to the 1960s, they were the backbone of the NPL, along with the Volksdeutsch. The latter, while officially listed as Russian immigrants on the U.S. Census, were really German farmers who, at the invitation of Czar Alexander II, settled in southern Russia, particularly along the Volga River, the Black Sea, and in the Ukraine. They arrived in North Dakota in the late 1890s after a series of severe famines and droughts. Langer, a descendant of a Volga German family, spoke fluent German. The Volksdeutsch appreciated his antiwar stand back in 1917 and his cultural conservatism; their descendants hold similar views today. If you want to know where Pat Buchanan did his best during the 2000 election, check out the towns of southern North Dakota where Volksdeutsch wrought-iron cemetery crosses rise up among the prairie grasses.

These disparate elements from the corners of old Europe - Norwegians, Volga Germans, and Slavs from the Ukraine and Russia - came together in the 1932 election when Langer was elected governor, Gerald P. Nye was elected to the U.S. Senate, and William Lemke was elected a member of the U.S. House of Representatives. These three were the NPL's top vote-getters in the 1930s and 40s, and they made their mark on the national scene. Nye became famous when he coined the term "merchants of death" while investigating the munitions industry. Langer eventually moved on to the U.S. Senate in 1940 and served for 20 years, and Lemke was the presidential nominee of the Union Party, the most vocal anti-New Deal party in the 1936 election. The NPL joined in coalition with Fr. Charles Coughlin, Gerald L.K. Smith, the remnants of Huey Long's "Every Man a King" organization, and Francis Townsend. Unencumbered by party machinations, these men could fight the powers-that-be on a national level, just as they had in North Dakota.

Unfortunately, they did not remain independent for long. The NPL, like so much that was unique in America, was destroyed by FDR's New Deal. Before 1932, Democrats in North Dakota and the rest of the Upper Midwest were not part of the political culture, except in Irish quarters or big cities. To the countryside, the Democratic Party was the party of Catholics, of the big cities, of the political machines and crooked bosses and gangsters. But the New Deal farm programs and subsidies wedded many farmers to the new party of Big Government. Young NPL members, backed by the liberal Farmers' Union, wanted to steer the NPL into the donkey's stable. They did not want to remain independent, as the NPL had with the GOP; they preferred integration. At the same time, Republicans, led by U.S. Sen. Milton Young (who defeated Nye in 1944), were working overtime to eliminate the influence of the League within the party. Old-time NPL members like Langer were caught in the middle and declined in importance. Quentin Burdick, son of NPL Congressman Usher Burdick, was elected to the House as a non-NPL Democrat in 1958. When Langer died in 1960, Burdick grabbed his seat, and the NPL slowly faded into oblivion. Local Democrats in North Dakota still use the NPL label, just as Minnesota Dems retain the old Farmer-Labor tag, but such labels are simply curiosities now.

Could the NPL be revived today? In some ways, as Professor Danbom points out, it already has been. Throughout the 1990s, the Christian Coalition elected like-minded candidates in Republican primaries and precinct caucuses through grassroots organization and financial sup- port. Like the NPL, it ultimately failed because it tried to control the entire party, rather than stay independent of it. The NRA and the pro-life movement are non-party groups that fund and assist candidates sympathetic to their views, but they are limited to single issues. One figure who represents the kind of leader a new NPL could produce is Texas Congressman Ron Paul, the Libertarian Party presidential nominee in 1988. Recognizing the futility of trying to win office with the Libertarian millstone around his neck, he ran as a Republican to win his seat. He has never strayed from his beliefs, however, nor does he feel the need to do so out of party loyalty. Almost alone among congressmen, Ron Paul is asking questions about the way we are conducting our "War on Terrorism." He is protesting the erosion of our civil liberties and the growth of leviathan. Few (if any) Republicans are following his lead, and certainly none of the Democrats are. Recent elections show how a renewed Non-Partisan League could help likeminded candidates. In the 1998 Illinois governor's race, the Democratic candidate, Glenn Poshard, was clearly more conservative than his GOP opponent, George Ryan. Yet the Republicans used the national Democratic Party's platform positions on such issues as taxes, gun control, and abortion to tar Poshard as a liberal. A new NPL could have given Poshard its seal of approval and made him attractive enough to conservatives to gain crossover votes.

Lloyd Omdahl thinks a new NPL could work in the civic-minded states of the Upper Midwest. But he also warns of the difficulties of facing the powers-that-be, since, in his words, politics is "a rich person's game." That may be true now, but it was also true back in 1915, when many poor people first joined the NPL and successfully put their stamp upon North Dakota. If a new Non-Partisan League could identify a potential cultural and economic base among MARs (Middle American Radicals), stay-athome moms, libertarians, WASPs and European ethnics, orthodox Christians, and those who work with their hands, it might put the powers-that-be on the run again.

Sean Scallon is a reporter from East Ellsworth, Wisconsin.

January 6, 2003

The views expressed in this essay do not necessarily represent those of Free State Project, Inc.

Taking a new look

NOTE: The opinions and commentary expressed in this essay are those of the author and are an exercise of free speech. They do not necessarily represent the views of Free State Project Inc., its Directors, its Officers, or its Participants.

Liberty Action of the Week
May 20, 2003

Taking a new look at the Free State Project

by Mary Lou Seymour

[From www.rationalreview.com/archive/mls/mls052003.html]

Two weeks ago, I posted the story of Tim Condon, Membership director for the Free State Project, getting arrested for handing out flyers in front of the NRA Convention in Florida. The response from liberty activists was overwhelming; many of you contacted the media, the NRA, local FL news, and posted the alert around the Net. (For a good local news story, see "Someone didn't like Condon's message" in the Orlando Weekly.)

But many of the messages I got were surprising in another way. Many folks asked me for more info on the Free State Project (that in itself is not so surprising), but several others asked me if I was a member, and why. Well, yeah, I'm a member, and an early one, I'm listed on the web site as an organizer. But I guess I never have explained "why," except to individuals who have asked. And since the column I write is a "weekly action" type column, and, the FSP is more of a long term commitment type action, I just never have written a column on my participation.

But for this week's action, I'd like to suggest that everyone "check out" the FSP, if you haven't already done so, or, if you checked it out in the past but were "waiting to see how it went," check it again – the project has really grown over the past year. And as the action part, ask your friends to check it out also.

This is an exceptionally good time to do so. There are two big FSP conferences coming up, one in the West (Grand Western Conference, May 24 and 25) and one in the east (New Hampshire Getaway, June 21-29). And there are numerous local FSP groups throughout the country. The project is beginning to hit the "mainstream" now, with predictable results. Statists in the governments of the "target states" are saying "NIMBY," and some FSP members are thinking perhaps we need to "soften" our message to "not scare Aunt Minnie."

As y'all should realize by now, if you've been reading my columns, I'm a big believer in the necessity of changing our culture as a pre-requisite to changing the system. Change comes from the bottom up, not the top down. To put it another way, even if it's possible to "sneak" libertarian candidates into office by mainstreaming the message so it doesn't scare Aunt Minnie, once in office, the libertarians can, basically, do nothing to actually change the government except in a minor way, such as lowering taxes to some extent … because they have no constituency who supports their "real agenda," that of reducing government to a "night watchman" state, if even that.

The prime example of this is Leadville, CO, one of whose council members, BTW, is a FSP member. The city council is taken by a libertarian majority … who try a fairly innocuous libertarian change (getting rid of business licensing, if I recall correctly), and all hell breaks loose. They end up backing down. The "culture" of Leadville just wasn't ready for the change.

The best way to change a culture, of course, is one person at a time. Each of those "changed" people then "changes" another, etc., etc. Obviously, this is a really slow process. And those of us who have been slogging away in the trenches for many years, trying to "change our cuture," know how lonely it can be.

The idea of the FSP is to "jump start" the cultural change by moving 20,000 liberty lovers to a single state, a small state where 20,000 will have an impact, and be able to realistically affect the electoral process, win state office, and actually be able to "prove" governmentt can be drastically reduced … and, once it IS done, serve as "proof" that the world won't come to an end if libertarians "control" the state. (This is akin to the idea of pointing out to gun-control freaks that "Vermont Carry" – no gun control laws – hasn't made Vermont a hotbed of crime and murder.) "Statists To Libertarians: 'You Can't Win!'" gives a quick overview of how and why the FSP would bring electoral change.

The objections I usually get about the FSP are, "it's naive" … well, hardly as naive as thinking that reading enough ISIL brochures or Reason articles will magically transform the culture; "even if you do 'free' one state, that'll be 1 state surrounded by 49 police states" …. well, better one free state than NO free states, also the synergy should be "expandable;" "the Feds will never let ou get away with it" … well, but what is the alternative?

I personally "joined up" cause after 20 years of trying to change the culture one person at a time and 15 years of trying to get libertarians elected to office, while the police state grew every year and the dependent mentality of the citizens grew much faster than "we" could change it, it occurred to me [finally] that something more was needed. Or the the cartridge box was all that was left to prevent the final descent into tyranny.

The time is drawing near for a vote on "the chosen state," when the first 5000 FSP members will pick a state for this great experiment. I urge you, the liberty activists who are reading this column, to be among those who "make the choice."

Til next week
For freedom

Mary Lou

Morning in the Free State by Bryan Stevenson

NOTE: The opinions and commentary expressed in this essay are those of the author and are an exercise of free speech. They do not necessarily represent the views of Free State Project Inc., its Directors, its Officers, or its Participants.

Morning in the Free State

by Bryan Stevenson

I wake up with the sun, not suddenly, but quickly. Within 60 seconds I am wide awake. I take a moment to enjoy the stillness of the house and to look over at my wife and thank God for her, my children, and the blessings of liberty.

Ten minutes later I head out for my morning workout. I pass my Ruger Security 6, 357 Magnum hanging in its holster by the door as I head out. I jog down the mostly typical suburban street, but I notice again some of the distinctions that make this place home. The lots are larger and more spread out than most, and the houses vary in style and size, with yardwork and other accoutrements proclaiming the personality of the occupants. Within minutes I have reached my destination.

The community fitness center is the result of a collaborative effort among 22 of the neighborhood's families. We bought a centrally located lot and proceded to build a small gym to house fitness equipment, everything from free weights to aerobic machines. The cost was extremely affordable and we were able to get it built in under one month thanks to the fact that there are no property taxes, and no city permits or building inspections are required, although we did hire Solomon's Builders to inspect it, just to be safe. The building received their Gold Seal, which is only given to about 2% of all the buildings they inspect! We now have over 50 families participating and we have been able to add a racquetball court, two tennis courts, and we are planning for future expansion.

I jog back home the long way, reflecting on the conversation in the gym. In between the strain of bench pressing and inverted crunches, a few of us got into a debate about the best elementary education options in the area. Some supported homeschooling, others religious schools, while others preferred the new curriculum-based school which catered course work for each student based on their strengths and interests. All three of my children were in the catered school, and my youngest was already working on basic internet technologies at the age of six, while my oldest, who is twelve, was getting ready to display some of his work at the art exhibit.

I arrive at my house, out of breath, and still thinking about my kids and the success they have had pursuing their dreams, even at such a young age. My wife sees me through the front window and signs that she loves me and asks what I'd like for breakfast. I sign back that I was planning to make some of my famous honey-wheat waffles. I have to do something around the house, afterall, my wife is superwoman. Not only does she manage the three children, and the house, but she also works part-time at the school teaching ASL (American Sign Language) as a foreign language, and she volunteers at the church with their "basic skills" classes, teaching reading and writing to new students who were recently attending public schools in another state.

The morning passes quickly. I make breakfast, and the family eats together in the dining room. We talk about the recent visit from Doctor Wong, which is always exciting for the kids (that guy has a real gift).

We were able, as a state, to opt out of all the federal health care requirements, so it was a simple matter for our community to sign a contract with Doctor Wong. He visits each family every six months to make sure everyone is healthy and happy. Granted, every community and neighborhood is different, but with all of the young families here, it makes sense for us to pool our resources, and anyone is free to opt-out if they choose to.

I get the kids dressed after breakfast, encourage them to work hard during the day, and assure them that we'll have a huge watergun fight when they get home. I walk them out to the school van and strap them all into the seats which are custom made for their size. The driver, who is licensed by Jehu's Driving School, waves as he drives off at 35 mph. My wife gets a much better kiss as she heads off to the church for her volunteer work. She double checks her purse making sure all the necessities of life are available, makeup, cash, credit card, ample supply of cotton balls (I still have no idea what those are for, and I'm afraid to ask), her employer issued id card, and of course the 9mm Beretta she carries with her everywhere (yes, it's a large purse).

I stand outside of my garage, waving to my wife. A small cloud passes in front of the sun. The American flag on my front porch catches my eye as it sways slightly in the breeze. I smile as I realize that one of those 50 stars now truly stands for liberty and freedom.

Well, the daily grind awaits, enough daydreaming. Thank God that my home office doesn't have to meet OSHA requirements. I can't be bothered to run those cables under the house, and who screws in all the mounting screws on a computer rack? In any case, today is beautiful. I think I'll just sit out back by the heated pool with my wireless laptop and a nice cold protein shake. Ok, now that I'm settled in, let's get to work.

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