Radon: The Silent Killer Below Our Feet

 

If someone asked you what the biggest dangers in Iowa are, radon probably wouldn’t make your list.

You’d probably say tornadoes. Maybe floods. Icy roads in winter. Cancer. Heart disease. Fentanyl. Drunk drivers. Gang-bangers, Pick almost anything, and it would come up before radon.

That’s strange, because Iowa leads the country in it. Not corn, soybeans, or pork.

Radon.

Think about that for a minute.

We’ve lived with it our whole lives, yet most of us never give it a thought. We worry about storms because we can watch them coming across the horizon. We worry about floods because we can see the river rising. We even worry about hail because we’ve all heard it pounding on the roof in the middle of the night.

Radon doesn’t work that way.

You don’t hear it, smell it, or see it. It doesn’t leave water on the basement floor or cracks in the wall. It doesn’t kill the lights or set off an alarm. If your house has high radon levels, it looks exactly like the house next door.

The Water That Built Iowa

 

Water has always been Iowa’s greatest asset. It built towns. Powered mills. Floated steamboats up the Mississippi and Missouri. Filled wells. Fed livestock. Watered crops.

 

Now it’s become one of the state’s biggest arguments.

 

Mention Iowa’s water quality and the room immediately divides. Farmers accuse critics of blaming agriculture for every problem. Environmental groups point to polluted rivers, algae blooms, and rising nitrate levels. Politicians promise solutions. Lawsuits get filed. 

 

New studies appear. The other side dismisses them before the ink dries. Nobody agrees on much. Except that we’re still having the same fight.

 

Iowa didn’t wake up one morning with polluted rivers. We built the landscape we have today, one decision at a time.

 

Millions of acres of marshes, potholes, sloughs, and soggy ground stood in the way of farming. So Iowans drained them, dug ditches, and buried drainage tile beneath fields. They straightened wandering creeks and turned land that flooded every spring into some of the most productive farmland on Earth.

Trump Accounts: Iowa Should Put Its Money Where Its Kids Are

 

Iowa has tried just about everything to keep young people here.

 

We’ve run advertising campaigns, handed out tax incentives, built industrial parks, and spent millions making our cities more attractive. We’ve added bike trails, skate parks, breweries, apartments, and entertainment districts. Too many young people pack a U-Haul and leave.

 

Maybe we’re attacking the problem from the wrong end.

 

We wait until someone is 22, diploma in hand and a job offer from Denver or Seattle, then suddenly explain why Iowa is a great place to live. That’s like trying to sell a house after the moving truck pulls away.

 

Trump Accounts give Iowa a chance to try something different. Instead of waiting until young people are ready to leave, we should start investing in them when they’re kids.

 

Trump Accounts are investment accounts for children. Eligible children born from 2025 through 2028 can receive a onetime $1,000 federal contribution if their parents make the required election.

 

After that, parents, relatives, employers, and certain other groups can add money under federal rules. Employers can contribute up to $2,500 a year to the account of an employee or an employee’s child through a qualifying program.

Hello and Goodbye! How Can Iowa Stop the Outflow of People?

 

Iowa has a strange habit.

We spend eighteen years raising kids, building schools, coaching their ball teams, and telling them to study hard and make something of themselves. Then we send them off to a state or local college.

Four years later, they graduate, pack a U-Haul, and hit the highway—headed for anywhere but here.

Hello, college freshman. Goodbye, college graduate.

We’ve been doing this for years, and it’s catching up with us. Iowa is getting older. We’re running short of workers. Too many young Iowans leave and never come back.

In 2008, 47 percent of Iowa college students planned to stay after graduation. By 2024, it was down to 41 percent. Do that year after year, and the numbers add up.

Jobs are part of the problem. A software engineer will find more opportunities in Minneapolis than Fort Dodge. Someone interested in filmmaking or advertising has a bigger playing field in Chicago or Denver than Ottumwa.

But jobs are only one piece of the puzzle. Young people want more than a job. They want a life and people their age to share it with.

It’s like choosing between two restaurants. One is packed. The other has three cars out front, and one belongs to the cook.

Iowa's Rural Hospitals Aren't Closing, They're Slowly Disappearing

 

The hospital in Clinton isn’t closing. But something important is disappearing.

MercyOne Clinton Medical Center stopped scheduled labor and delivery services in May 2026. Women can still get prenatal care, see their doctors, and have tests done in Clinton. But when it’s time to have the baby, they’ll need to go somewhere else.

Hospital officials blamed rising costs, staffing shortages, and insurance payments that don’t cover the full cost of care.

Clinton isn’t alone. Rural hospitals are quietly losing services. Birthing centers are closing. Patients are forced to go to bigger hospitals farther from home.

It’s like a grocery store that stays open but stops carrying your favorite snacks. First, the bakery disappears. Then the meat counter. Then the pharmacy. The sign is still out front; the lights are on, but it’s not the same store anymore.

That’s increasingly what rural healthcare looks like in Iowa.

Iowa Has a Cancer Problem—and Nobody Can Explain Why

 

Iowa has a cancer problem.

The state has the second-highest cancer rate in the country. From 2018 through 2022, it averaged 499 new cases for every 100,000 people. The national average was 449.

If you packed 100,000 people into a football stadium, 50 more Iowans would get cancer than the average American crowd.

Only Kentucky has a higher rate.

Here’s what should really bother Iowans. Cancer rates have been dropping across much of the country, but Iowa is going the other way.

The 2026 Cancer in Iowa report estimates 21,700 Iowans will be diagnosed with invasive cancer this year—6,400 will die from it. Five years ago, the state estimated 18,900 new cases.

Iowa is getting older, and cancer is more common as people age. Researchers know that. That’s why cancer rates are adjusted for age, making it possible to compare Iowa fairly with younger states.

Even after that adjustment, Iowa is still near the bottom of the pack.

Researchers know which cancers are driving the numbers. Figuring out why is proving much harder.

Melanoma is one of the biggest problems.

Clinton’s $20 Million Data Center Deal: Gift, Bribe, or Just Business?

 

Twenty million dollars.

That’s the number getting everyone’s attention in Clinton.

A company wants to explore building a massive data center outside of town. In the middle of all the talk about electricity, farmland, noise, and water comes the sweetener: $20 million for a new athletic complex.

Basketball courts. Ball fields. Exercise facilities. Community rooms.

Clinton has talked about this project since 2017.

Just a few months ago, city leaders were discussing a $10 million to $16 million facility. Mayor Scott Maddasion said taxpayers might have to vote on a referendum to help pay for it.

Then QTS entered the picture. Suddenly, Clinton wasn’t talking about asking taxpayers for the money. Someone else might write the check.

Sounds pretty good. Maybe too good. Because companies don’t hand cities $20 million for the fun of it. QTS isn’t sitting around worrying about where Clinton kids are going to play basketball next winter.

They want something. The question is what?

Some Clinton residents are calling the $20 million a bribe. That’s a loaded word. Legally, there’s no evidence it’s a bribe. But you can understand why people say it.

Imagine your neighbor wants to build a giant factory next to your house. You complain about the noise, traffic, and what it might do to your property value. Then he says, “By the way, I’ll build the neighborhood a new swimming pool.” You might really want the pool. But you’d probably ask a few more questions before grabbing your swimsuit.

That’s where Clinton is right now.