Story Time: Willow Creek Road District- The Lament of the Law-Abiding
Months had passed since the Open Meetings Commission hearing in Pierre, where the commissioners had laid down the law like a fresh layer of asphalt. The Willow Creek Road District trustees—Harlan “Harley” Whitaker, Vernon “Vern” Pritchard, and Lyle “Ledger” Swanson—had made the changes, albeit with the enthusiasm of a mule pulling a plow uphill. Emails now flew out with clear agendas a week in advance. Minutes were typed, detailed, and dull as dishwater. Votes from the floor? Banned. Closed sessions? Rarer than rain in August. And quorum chats over coffee? Strictly weather and football
But oh, how the mighty had grumbled. After their latest meeting in the community hall (the shed days were over—too “ministerial” for comfort), the three trustees lingered in the parking lot, leaning on their trucks under a star-studded sky. The meeting had dragged on for two hours—twice as long as the old days—because half a dozen residents had shown up, armed with questions.
Harley kicked at a pebble, his boots scuffing the gravel. “Remember when meetings were fun? Grab a coffee, vote on a quick fix for Vern’s pothole—er, the main thoroughfare—and done by sundown. Now it’s like running a dang courtroom.”
Vern nodded, crossing his arms over his belly. “Yeah, all these folks showing up, asking ‘Why this road first?’ or ‘Where’s the bid for that gravel?’ It’s exhausting. Used to be just us three, making decisions like grown men. Now it’s a town hall circus.”
Lyle sighed, folding his arms. “Blame that Voss woman. Her complaints opened the floodgates. More eyes on us means more questions. Ain’t as much… flexibility anymore.”
They chuckled ruefully, but the laughter faded when Harley pulled out his phone. “Speaking of which, look at this. Public records request from Marla. Wants copies of our financials from the last two years—receipts, assessments, the works.”
Vern’s eyes widened. “No way. If we hand that over, she’ll pick it apart like a crow on roadkill. Find some nitpicky violation and file another report.”
Lyle leaned in. “We gotta refuse. But how? Say it’s ‘confidential district business’?”
Harley shook his head. “Nah, she’ll quote some open records law saying it ain’t.”
Vern tried: “What about ‘undue burden’? We’re volunteers; digging through files is too much work.”
Lyle snorted. “She’ll say it’s our duty—SDCL 1-27 or whatever.”
Harley rubbed his chin. “How about ‘privacy concerns’? Some receipts might have personal info.”
Vern grinned. “Yeah! Like that barbecue—er, community outreach event. Protect the attendees’ privacy.”
But Lyle frowned. “She’ll point out it’s public funds, no privacy shield. Everything we come up with, she’ll pick apart.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the night wind whispering through the cottonwoods.
Harley finally shrugged. “Screw it. Let’s just ignore it. Pretend it got lost in the spam folder. What’s she gonna do—sue three old coots over some spreadsheets?”
Vern laughed. “Yeah! Stonewall strategy. Worked for us before.”
Lyle nodded. “Agreed. Ignore.”
They climbed into their trucks, but the conversation lingered like exhaust fumes.
Harley started his engine but rolled down the window. “You know, she’s making it harder to improve our—er, the district’s property values. All these rules… assessments gotta be fair now, no quick fixes for the spots that matter most.”
Vern leaned out his window. “Exactly. Used to slip in a little extra gravel for the good folks—boost everyone’s land worth. Now it’s all by the book. Feels like actual work.”
Lyle chimed in from his cab. “Voluntary position, my foot. If we have to follow every law, who’d want this gig? Meetings drag on, no shortcuts, and heaven forbid you pave your own driveway without a petition.”
They drove off into the night, lamenting the good old days when “efficiency” meant doing what they wanted. But deep down, they knew: the “fun” had vanished because the laws were finally catching up. And Marla? She was just the messenger they loved to ignore.