Iowa At The Crossroads: A Blueprint For The Future

(A collection of articles originally published on this website. Some are expanded, some were never published before. Includes fifty all new color charts and infographics to better expmain the material. Available now on Amazon.)

Who’s deciding Iowa’s future… and are Iowans part of the conversation?

Across the state, billion-dollar decisions are changing Iowa.

Farmland is becoming data centers. Rural hospitals are closing. Cancer rates remain among the highest in the nation. Young people continue leaving while many communities struggle to survive.

None of this happened overnight. And none of it happened by accident.

The choices being made today will shape Iowa for decades. They’ll determine where jobs are created, where families can build a future, and what kind of state the next generation inherits.

Yet many of these decisions happen with little public debate. By the time most people hear about them, the deals are already done.

Iowa Crime Time Is Available Now

 

Iowa looks harmless.

Wide skies. Gravel roads. Farmhouses spaced just far enough apart that nothing ever seems to happen. The place where people leave doors unlocked and believe evil belongs somewhere else.

It didn’t.

Between 1874 and 1935, violence slipped quietly into Iowa’s towns and countryside. It didn’t arrive with warning signs or sirens. It came in the night. It came through back doors and empty streets. It hid behind borrowed names, stolen cars, and familiar faces.

Iowa Crime Time exposes forgotten crimes that shattered the illusion of safety. Bank robberies carried out with military precision. Outlaws who passed through the state like ghosts—here one day, gone the next. Men and women whose names would become legends, leaving fear and blood behind them as they moved on.

Some crimes were fast and brutal. Others were slow, calculated, and deeply unsettling. In one quiet town, a single night of violence left a scar so deep it never healed. After that, no door felt strong enough. No night felt truly quiet again.

These stories don’t unfold in crowded cities or lawless frontiers. They happen in places that believed they were immune. That belief made the danger worse.

This book isn’t about puzzles or courtroom drama. It’s about atmosphere—about the growing sense that something is wrong long before anyone realizes how bad it’s going to be. It’s about the fear of knowing that help is miles away, that darkness can move freely, and that evil doesn’t need chaos to thrive.

Iowa Crime Time drags these stories back into the light and reminds us of a chilling truth: The most dangerous places aren’t always obvious. Sometimes, they’hide in the corn.

Lewis Worthington Smith Drake University Poet

Lewis Worthington Smith was an English professor at Drake University from 1906 to 1940. He believed writing mattered. Style wasn’t decoration. Ideas should stand up to pressure.

He belonged to the Poetry Society of America and the Authors’ Club of London, alongside writers who shaped modern literature. Locally, he was active in Des Moines intellectual circles like the University Club and the Prairie Club. That mix—Midwest roots with international reach—defined him. He was proof that you didn’t have to live on the coasts to think seriously about culture.

 

Smith wrote eighteen books, ranging from criticism to broader reflections on language and civilization. Ships in the Port used metaphor and reflection to explore stillness, waiting, and transition. The Mechanism of English Style broke writing to its moving parts, treating prose like a machine that had to work cleanly and efficiently. The Skyline in English Literature examined how writers used cities, horizons, and modern landscapes to express ambition, anxiety, and change.

 

He didn’t chase trends. He asked how English actually worked—and what it revealed about the people using it.

Iowa Poet Edwin Ford Piper

Edwin Ford Piper joined the faculty at the University of Iowa in 1905 and stayed there for decades, writing and teaching until his death in 1939.

He wrote about the Midwest the way it really felt. Dirt roads. Wind. Work. And long days that didn’t care if you were tired.

 

Barbed Wire was published in 1917. The Land of the Aiouwas followed in 1922. Then came Paintrock Road in 1927.

 

People compared him to Robert Frost and Carl Sandburg. Maybe. But Piper had his own style. He favored simple words, sharp images, and no fake drama.

 

And here’s the wild part. He didn’t just write poems. He collected Americana—828 folk songs, work songs, ballads, and little rhymes people sang without thinking.

 

Edwin Ford Piper wasn’t just writing Iowa’s story. He was recording its voice.

Author John Irving New Hampshire Born Iowa Bred

John Irving

Iowa City looks harmless. Bookstores. Brick streets. Workshop gossip. Then John Irving shows up and says, “Sure, but what if we make it weird?”

He comes to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in the mid-60s, and ends up studying under Kurt Vonnegut—who’s basically a human smoke alarm with a typewriter. Funny. Furious. Allergic to fake seriousness.

 

Irving’s young. Full of big-story energy. A writer who loves accidents, coincidences, and fate like they’re all cousins at the same chaotic family reunion.

 

At Iowa, he drafts Setting Free the Bears. A thesis that turns into a full-blown novel. Europe. Wild turns. That shaggy, runaway-cart feeling that becomes his signature. Kirkus called it “a wonderfully fresh, wildly imaginative notion of a book,” which is reviewer-speak for this kid might be trouble in the best way.  

 

Then he cranks out The Water-Method Man and drags the chaos closer to home. Iowa City shows up. Graduate school creeps in. Relationships get messy. The jokes get sharper. The plot keeps slipping sideways like it’s trying to escape the room.

What Iowans Were Reading in 1876

 

In 1876, books were like pets. You didn’t have many, and if you lost one, you never got over it.

 Iowans were still clutching Uncle Tom’s Cabin like it was the last moral compass on earth. It had been out for years, but everyone was still crying over it. Pretending they’d learned something about humanity. Spoiler: they hadn’t.

 

Little Women was everywhere. Every girl wanted to be Jo; nobody wanted to be Beth (because, you know, death). The boys pretended they didn’t read it while secretly flipping through for the fight scenes. Louisa May Alcott had basically hacked the female brain: and given them sisterhood, heartbreak, and just enough sass to make it feel rebellious.

 

Charles Dickens still haunted America. Christmas wasn’t Christmas without A Christmas Carol, and you couldn’t swing a cat without hitting a copy of David Copperfield or A Tale of Two Cities. Every time someone picked one up, they said, “I’ll just read a few pages.” Three weeks later, they were still trapped in Victorian fog.