Land of the Free

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It's in Kansas, though, that land giveaways are sprouting faster than wheat. The state has at least 11 locally run programs and is the most organized, with a website kansasfreeland.com that spells out details. Others are playing catch-up. In Whiting, Iowa, ground has been set aside while a decision is awaited about whether to charge people who take land for utilities. "There will be new houses on that land no matter what," promises Mayor Nancy Brenden. In Chugwater--aptly named, considering its place on the long, dry Oregon Trail traveled by early settlers--the first taker has just signed up. "We have all this new energy in town," says Mayor Krista West. "People are excited."

Be clear about this: no one is giving away choice property. The typical tract runs one-third of an acre in a new subdivision in which streets and utility lines have been laid. The parcels range in value from $2,000 to $20,000, depending on the town. But it will still cost $80,000 to $130,000 to build. Some folks come for the free land but see those numbers and decide instead to buy an existing home, which typically goes for considerably less. Towns aren't cutting any sweetheart deals for doctors or lawyers or other professionals needed in a thriving community. "One guy told us he wanted to build a bed and breakfast, so we were trying to figure out how to give him a bigger lot," says Steve Piper, mayor of Marquette and owner of its only grocery store. "After all our work, he never followed up. Now we just treat everybody the same."

By attracting new blood, these towns hope to avoid the fate of hundreds of hamlets across the Plains that have passed the point of no return--even if they don't know it. Kansas State's Darling says that once a town is down to its post office and silos, the decay is fatal. He estimates that 20% of Kansas' 627 incorporated communities are on the slippery slope to extinction.

Consider Paradise, Kans., which is just about lost. "We buried 12 here last year," says Garnett Angel, whose husband of 60 years, John, was one of the latest. That's a major hit in a tiny town, where the eroding school building hasn't been used in more than 10 years and a forest of mature trees sprouts within four walls of what used to be a bank on the main strip. Paradise was never big. But it bustled. Now its storefronts are shuttered, and the only action other than the, yes, tumbleweeds that roll through town is at the grain elevator, where the occasional farmer weighs and deposits wheat. Lucille Shearer, 58, who went to school here, works alone in the post office. Ask her how many folks live in Paradise, and she starts counting from a two-page phone book. "These days, about 50," she replies.

In Gem, Kans., where the three-story, hollowed-out brick Public School 21 looms over rows of abandoned homes, about all that's left functioning in the business district is, again, a grain elevator and a severely weathered tiny wooden post office with the ever present wind whipping an American flag out front. A rusting sign recalls better times: RESERVED FOR U.S. MAIL VEHICLES--as if there's any competition for a parking spot.