The morning star was out. The moon but a finger nail on the eastern horizon. I was up early in route to Butte to meet old friends and chat with locals about homeowner taxes and why getting qualified for reappraisal relief would really matter come next year.
The drive was longer than I recalled months ago when I agreed. What a big gorgeous place we live in, I remind myself, hardly leaving the farm these days. It’s spring and farm work is big this time of year. Gonna have to drive the state more, I say to myself, visit more state parks past the Flathead.
As I entered the Flathead Indian Reservation, home to Bitterroot Salish, Upper Pend d’Oreille, and the Kootenai, the snow-capped peaks were jagged, jutting with the early morning sunshine.
I recalled the book by Abe Streep, Brothers of Three, and how the Arlee Warriors basketball team had brought home pride after winning the state championship with their fast-paced and thrilling game that left competitors scrambling to keep pace. What a proud time.
Entering Polson, down the steep grade of U.S. Highway 93, Mount Calowahcan and Goat Peak stared back in the morning light. People and cars where everywhere now, folks were headed to work.
An elderly lady in a construction vest hobbling while running a weed whacker on state highway. I thought about how hard most Montanans work and what it takes to survive living in a suddenly very expensive time that seems to be climbing more expensive each month while retirements sink.
On the Interstate the oil cans and rail cars full of coal were roaring westward. Tractor trailers full of equipment and supplies hustled down the road. People were working, had all their lives. Working people is what makes stuff happen. You can see it.
I followed the Clark Fork as far as I could listening to Amy Gamerman’s book The Crazies that takes place near Big Timber, a story of billionaires, Apsaalooke Crow, and an Olympic athlete turned lawyer by the name of Monica Tranel.
I drove to Butte the back way, wanting to visit The Pit to see how what was happening on the stark mountain sides. People were working everywhere. The tenacity and perseverance was impressive.
I met Evan at the M&M, hadn’t seen him in person in a long time. We routinely heard the other’s voice on our computers as we’ve offered remote testimony numerous times to a Republican Legislature in an attempt to get anyone to listen that the revenue department had calculated a 0.76 residential tax rate so homeowners and the state would be even. Why Republicans – who run the joint – are forcing many locals to apply to get our money back is just ass backwards.
We sat, smiled, I thought about how Evan and I started offering 0.76 testimony to lawmakers back in November of last year. It took both hands to count the number of times we said 0.76 all over the Legislature, from House side to Senate side, in and out of committee while contacting lawmakers of any persuasion.
But at the M&M, Evan and I talked about what was going on. Hadn’t seen my friend in person for a very long time. Evan explained that the reason the mine was so active is because certain metals were up bigtime and there was good money to be made. That made sense to me as a farmer, when the conditions are right on the land, we work.
I walked into the Butte Burros meeting to see that Evan had gathered a retired crowd together to eat burgers and talk property taxes. The 2023 Legislature had really messed things up, it was up to the current set of lawmakers to fix things, to make sure homeowners got a square deal.
People were nervous about the upcoming state property tax bills having been hosed earlier by lawmakers who now promised to fix their self-created mess. It would be mostly OK for locals, I said, but with lots and lots of hiccups and some outright anger.
The fixed income crowd looked concerned about the paperwork, the applications, the cabin in the forest, the house grandma lives in, and mainly of not getting qualified. The non-qualified tax penalty was steep
Yes, they rigged reappraisal but most locals would get some or much relief, I believed. And yet many would be quite mad. Leave it to Republicans to totally blow it the first go and the come up with a solution that’s sure to make many mad come 2026. Glad I don’t have to explain the new application process to local property taxpayers.
Gladys and Agnus should never be forced to apply to get their reappraised money back. 60,000 eligible locals missed the last go of rebates. This rigged reappraisal felt more like being forced to figure out how to use a digital coupon on my phone to get $6 eggs, a deal marked down from $8 a dozen, then remembering that eggs were $3 a bit ago. Heck, we sold them off the farm for a buck a dozen back in the day.
After a couple hours, it was time to head home. I shook as many hands as willing and assured the crowd that Democrats like Rep. Donavan Hawk had gotten much good into an otherwise onerous bill. Butte always seems to know how to deliver for locals.
I turned on The Crazies and drove. The car tricked me into taking the frontage road. It wanted me to see more downtowns. Sun Mountain Timber seemed packed full of logs, workers doing their thing. In downtown, the Old Montana Prison looked as great as ever. Deer Lodge was a working town full of tradition and people.
I stopped at Flathead Lake to appreciate the water and where we live. The Rockies radiated in the background. There really is no place like Montana. We gotta make sure working people can keep affording to live here. It’s home and it’s not like we can afford to purchase a home elsewhere anyways. And no one wants to leave.
Back on the farm, the sun was deep in the west. It’d been another 12-hour day. But most farmers work sunrise to sunset, so this was nothing new. Plus, I met good people, and the drive is always stunning. It was time for evening farm chores.