A parable

Imagine a place not unlike this one—resplendent with natural beauty, hundreds of kilometres of freshwater shoreline and a tranquil population—unfussed by the busy making at the shire hall.

While most everyone suspected something was wrong inside those walls—there seemed nothing to be gained by looking closer. There was too much positive, enchanting and distracting about this land to spend time turning over rocks or peering into dark corners.

But even a casual observer knew, on some level, this was going to end badly. The chief magistrate and his band of collaborators seemed lacking of the traits needed to govern the shire. The people had elected a group of folks who appeared unable to listen, to comprehend the written word or tally a simple list of numbers. Not all mind you, but enough to set the land on a perilous course.

It was a tragic set of circumstances that propelled this land into bankruptcy.

When it was all over, forensic investigators found plenty of smoking guns—unfunded liabilities and a mountain of debt. But when the final report was written, it was determined that it was the shire’s towns and bridges that brought its governing council crashing to its knees—now beholden to the dictates of the region’s governor.

This land simply had too many roads and too few people to pay for them. This mismatch had been known years earlier, but few of the elected folk wished to hear that kind of negativity. Nor did they wish to explain it to the folks who had elected them.

They carried on as if they had never heard it—as if they had never seen the numbers.

Indeed, in a bizarre misunderstanding of the shire’s financial circumstances, the shire’s chief magistrate brought forth grand plans to rebuild one of the most expensive roads in the land—a mega project that would have swallowed up the shire’s entire treasury several times over. Meanwhile other roads—lacking the showcase status or legacy potential— decayed into near impassability.

For a while the shire’s managers had tried to make sense of the impossibility of problem. Year after year they produced charts and diagrams showing the land had neither the taxing or borrowing ability to keep up with the decay of its roads and bridges. They explained that a day would come when the shire would have to walk away from its responsibilities—voluntarily or otherwise.

Yet the shire’s elected folks would not listen. Or chose not to. They saw the numbers but failed to understand their significance. They soothed themselves with the lie that if they just fixed a little bit each year they might eventually catch up. But the roads were falling apart much faster than the meagre funds they collected could pay to fix them.

Others calculated that the house of cards they were constructing was unlikely to topple for years. It would be somebody else’s mess to clean up. So, they commissioned new studies and reports to show movement on their pet megaprojects—knowing there would never be enough money to erect the legacy they believed they richly deserved.

Meanwhile residents began to organize— to press for improvements to roads and bridges they no longer considered safe. They demanded that the shire fix their roads. And for a time, council resisted—constrained by empty coffers and the reasoned arguments of their road’s employees.

Still more residents pressed.

Eventually the shire council buckled. They stopped listening to their roads manager. Yet he continued to caution, “You have more needs than you have funding resources.” To no avail.

Council foolishly threw money at one road. That quieted one set of residents. Then another group came forward. Soon a queue formed. A long line of residents, children, parents, old folks—all of whom had paid a large share of their income on shire taxes yet risked damage to their lives and vehicles simply travelling to work, school or church each day.

Once they started there was no turning back. They spent and spent. All of it borrowed money. Yet the more they spent—the more residents who came forward demanding equal roads. They too, after all, paid taxes.

Soon enough all the money was gone. The shire had borrowed more than its limit and the regional governors shut it down.

Today, the shire’s roads are much worse. But the illusion that things will get better is gone. In rural areas, the pavement has mostly been replaced by gravel. Several bridges have been closed and permanent barriers erected. Culverts are plugged full. Flooding is a perennial hazard—accelerating the decay of the surrounding roadbed.

Residents now look after the roads. Filling potholes. Grading it smooth. Shoveling out the muck. Wealthier neighbourhoods have contracted out maintenance and repairs. Less well-to-do manage as best they can. Some are content that few people venture down their road anymore.

The shire’s council has been replaced by a provincial ombudsman’s office. Inside a man sits behind a desk receiving official complaints from residents. Nothing ever comes of these petitions.

Meanwhile taxes are now much higher than most cities—after all, the shire still has generations of debt to pay back.

rick@wellingtontimes.ca