Category: Uncategorized

Homelessness as a kick in the pants

(Reading time: 13 minutes)

The calendar may insist that winter won’t arrive for another six weeks or so, but anyone who ventured outside Tuesday morning knew otherwise—not when the temperature hit a bone-chilling 24 degrees Fahrenheit.  Tuesday was a good day, in other words, to be bundled up in a cozy bed or snuggled with a good book under a comforter in an easy chair. If you were that lucky.

It’s ironic, then, that just 12 hours earlier the city had held the third of three public workshops addressing proposed revisions to its comprehensive plan. Dozens of goals and draft strategies were outlined on multiple easels for Staunton residents to ponder and evaluate, spanning everything from land use, housing and economic development to transportation, public infrastructure and education. A section on health and human services stressed “active living, healthy food access and a clean environment.” Public safety, environmental resources, art and recreation all received due consideration.

But nowhere in all this planning and verbiage was there any mention of Staunton’s homeless population, or its needs and how those needs might be met. True, the section on housing gave a vague nod to promoting “affordable housing options for people of all incomes, needs and abilities,” but it remained silent regarding those unable to take advantage of such promotions. Nor did the draft comprehensive plan set a goal of eliminating homelessness by any particular date, and at no point did it acknowledge, much less prescribe, the kinds of services a homeless population requires. As far as the comprehensive plan is concerned, Staunton residents without permanent shelter simply don’t exist.

Winter’s advent will make that fiction harder to maintain.

Let’s take stock. A long-promised day shelter, offering homeless people refuge from extreme weather, remains as elusive as ever, in part because of a crumbling commitment by First Presbyterian Church to allow the use of its premises, but also because of a lack of financial and leadership backing from city council. Meanwhile, the Waynesboro Area Refuge Ministry (WARM), which was to operate the day shelter and which already provides emergency overnight shelters from late November through March, just published its schedule of participating churches for the upcoming season. Two of the week-long slots remain unfilled, at an exceptionally late date in the planning cycle, and there are reports that a third also may fall vacant because one of the congregations got cold feet and is backing out. Meanwhile, eight of the 18 overflow slots, for when the primary host churches receive more than 40 people, likewise remain unclaimed.

The Valley Mission, the area’s transitional shelter for homeless people working on reentry into the workforce and established housing, has 89 residents and is at full capacity—as it has been for several years—and is as far as ever from meeting its goal of a six-month turnover. “Yes, the average length of stay has been much longer than a year,” concedes director Sue Richardson. “In fact, we had two different women who were here four years each,” which puts a whole new meaning on “transitional.”

Then there’s Valley Supportive Housing, which provides affordable housing for clients diagnosed with mental illness, intellectual disabilities or addiction—people, in other words, who otherwise would be prime candidates for living on the streets. It also is at capacity, with 68 tenants, and has a waiting list of 43—the biggest it has been in at least a decade. “Two years ago it would have been half of that,” says director Lou Siegel, who says some of those on the waiting list are at Valley Mission, some are in temporary accommodations with family members, and some are living in their cars.

Both Valley Mission and Valley Supportive Housing are in a perpetual scramble for adequate financial backing, which comes in bits and drabs from local sources such as the city’s Community Development Block Grant (CDBG), the Community Fund and the Community Action Partnership of Staunton, Augusta and Waynesboro (CAPSAW). CDBG is all federal money, while CAPSAW receives nearly half of its funding from the federal government—which means both revenue streams are threatened by the current political climate.

Meanwhile, the area’s homeless population, while always difficult to assess accurately, is almost certainly not diminishing. WARM director Alec Gunn estimated this summer that the SAW region has 250 homeless people.  And while this year’s Point in Time (PIT) count—a one-night snapshot—found fewer unsheltered homeless people than last year, bitterly cold weather the night of the census may have driven them deeper underground. Moreover, as a surprised Lydia Campbell of the Valley Homeless Connection observed, of the 157 sheltered and unsheltered people who were counted by the 2025 PIT census, 71 reported they were homeless for the first time, up from 51 in 2024.

All of which is to say, the Staunton Comprehensive Plan as it’s currently coming together has a gaping hole big enough to push a shopping cart through.

FAILING TO SEE THE CITY’S HOMELESS population means the comprehensive planners also fail to ask why the homeless exist in the first place. If you don’t see a problem, you can’t solve it.

Homelessness, with some rare exceptions, is a signal that the system itself is failing. At its most basic doh! level, homelessness results from an inadequate supply of housing that people can afford. With rental vacancies at or around 2% and housing costs far outstripping the affordability provided by median incomes, the inevitable outcome has been compared to a game of musical chairs, in which the number of available chairs is always less than the number of people circling them. When the music stops, someone always ends up on the floor.

The obvious question: why is that? Why, in a market economy, isn’t more affordable housing being built? The law of supply and demand suggests that when demand exceeds supply, market forces will step up production until the imbalance is corrected. You want to end homelessness? Simple: build more housing at a price that people can afford. So . . . why isn’t that happening in Staunton?

The Staunton Housing Strategy Group spent a year purportedly wrestling with this very issue, ultimately producing this past summer what it optimistically called “Staunton’s Pathway to Affordable Housing and Housing for Working Families.”  Yet it’s notable that of the 19 members of the workgroup, only one, Stu Armstrong, could be categorized as a builder or developer—that is, as someone from the supply side of the supply-demand equation. And Armstrong, as it turned out, didn’t attend a single one of the group’s four meetings.

What that left was an assortment of political leaders, planners and heads of non-profit social agencies holding a one-sided conversation about how best to plug the city’s housing deficits. The result was a set of 11 strategies that, while not entirely without merit, only tangentially address the critical question of how to increase the city’s stock of affordable housing, and do so on a less than urgent timetable. For example, completion of a “strategy” to allow accessory dwelling units (ADUs) in the city is expected to take 18 months, a process that won’t add any new homes but will create the possibility of some down the road.

Foot-dragging over ADUs, which have been given the go-ahead in many municipalities in Virginia and other states, is emblematic of a more fundamental problem that the housing strategy group didn’t address: the city’s zoning code. The main reason Staunton doesn’t have tiny homes or converted garages that can provide additional housing on established home lots is that its rules don’t allow it. Allowing ADUs therefore requires yet another amendment to the zoning code—the default response to every fresh demand for land use, such as creating exceptions to minimum lot size in Uniontown. And just like computer operating systems that over many years become an unwieldy morass of work-arounds, patches and buggy over-writes, zoning codes tend toward increased complexity with every change. What the city’s “pathway to affordable housing” proposes is more tinkering with the underlying code. What the city needs is a new operating system.

It’s not just ADUs that are at issue. Ask developers—as the housing strategy group did not—why they’re not building more affordable homes in Staunton, and the answer you’ll get is a) that the permitting process is too onerous, and b) that they can’t afford to do so. Answer b) to some extent is a consequence of a), because it costs money and time (which is money) to comply with zoning and permitting regulations. But the bigger reason is the zoning itself, which not only limits how a specific piece of land can be used, but which arbitrarily dictates so many other construction variables that the only homes that pencil-out for a builder are expensive ones.

Zoning codes, as the name suggests, create “zones”—a zone for housing, a zone for shopping, a zone for manufacturing, and so on. That made sense when used to keep foundries or slaughterhouses away from residential areas, but it also created artificial divides that segregated functions—stores, homes, offices, apartment buildings, schools, cultural centers—that were all mixed together before zoning codes were created. That mixture, still found and now treasured in downtown Staunton, created a lively, walkable and rich urban environment. The imposition of zones, on the other hand, created land-use monocultures—predominantly large areas of all homes, but also of all mercantile and other activities, as in shopping centers and office parks—that then necessitated a car culture for most people to get to work, do their shopping and go to church or school.

It should be noted that there is nothing intuitively logical about a zoning code’s specific requirements. Staunton’s R-1 residential zoning, for example, is distinguished from R-2 zoning primarily by its minimum lot size, of 15,000 square feet versus 8,750 square feet. But the R-1 lot also must have a minimum lot width of 75 feet at the front and any home built on it must have a minimum 30-foot front set-back, a rear yard at least 35 feet deep and maximum lot coverage of 30%. The same requirements for R-2 homes, meanwhile, are a 70-foot minimum lot width, a 25-foot front setback, a rear yard at least 30 feet deep and maximum lot coverage of, yes, 30%. Why? Why a 25-foot setback for one but a 30-foot setback for the other, or a lot width of at least 70 feet for R-2 but an extra five feet for R-1? What compelling urban mathematics produced these arbitrary requirements?

For builders and developers looking at a lot of 45,000 square feet (just a bit over an acre) zoned R-1, the maximum they can build is three homes. They can’t build cottage courts, fourplexes, townhomes or any number of other configurations increasingly known as “missing middle” housing—housing more dense than single-family homes but smaller than apartment buildings. Instead of 10 or 12 homes they can build just three, so those three are going to be built at a level where they can fetch top dollar, not at a density that would allow at least some affordable homes to be part of the mix.  And in Staunton, the great majority of land is zoned R-1 or R-2, leaving scant room for more modest dwellings.

Zoning’s arbitrary guidelines do preserve a uniformity of appearance that appeals to some people, but which others find stultifying—or as summarized by city planning critic Jane Jacobs, more like taxidermy. Yet their very persistence creates an aura of inevitability, as if the only (unthinkable) alternative is anarchy. And so, even as local feedback to Staunton’s comprehensive plan repeatedly stresses walkability, community, and an integration of work, play and housing, the main obstacle to realizing that vision has gone largely untouched. Despite a proposal to reduce the total number of zoning sub-categories, the comprehensive plan promises to preserve the overall zoning approach. The builders’ dilemma will go unaddressed.

WITHOUT A SERIOUS EVALUATION of how zoning got us into the housing crunch we’re now struggling to overcome, there seems little hope for improvement.

Defenders of the status quo will point to the equivalent of a techie’s work-arounds and system upgrades, including district overlays, special use permits and other ways to game the system while leaving the underlying code untouched. But there’s a reason DOS-based systems have been left behind, not least because they became too expensive to maintain in terms of talent and manpower.

Nor does junking zoning codes mean descending into anarchy. Just as DOS-based systems were replaced by GUI ones—the graphical user interfaces we use without a second thought because they’re so intuitive and user-friendly—so traditional zoning codes are giving way elsewhere to form-based zoning. Traditional zoning codes are a top-down approach that segregates land uses. Form-based zoning is less concerned with regulating land use and instead prioritizes the physical form, scale and character of buildings and public spaces.  Because form-based zoning is a bottom-up approach that regulates how buildings interact with the street and with each other but not what use they’re put to, they tend to encourage infill and the development of walkable, mixed-use neighborhoods and high-quality public spaces.

That doesn’t mean truly disruptive or dangerous industries or businesses can’t be relegated to specific buffered areas, but the landscape is otherwise opened up to a free market constrained primarily by the same kind of rules that apply to coloring books: use whatever color you want but stay within the lines. Observe the regulations we’ve adopted about building height, scale, massing and relationship to the street, but otherwise put your land to the most productive use you can envision.

That may sound radical at first blush, but it is in fact what occurred in what are now the most treasured parts of Staunton—before the zoning code was adopted. It’s also what a growing number of municipalities around the country are adopting, from Mesa, Arizona to Cincinnati, Ohio to parts of Gaithersburg, Maryland. Form-based zoning deserves, at the very least, a serious examination and consideration by those who are revising a comprehensive plan for Staunton that has a 20-year outlook.

Here’s the bottom line: developers aren’t building affordable housing because our zoning code makes it prohibitively expensive to do so. The real-world consequences of sticking with that creaky form of land-use regulation are, quite predictably, more people without homes. And because as a society we apparently have neither the money nor the political will to minister to those people’s most basic needs, every homeless person we see on the streets, huddled in doorways, or sleeping in uninsulated tents or cars, should be a reminder that we’re not addressing root causes of a social disease.

The Staunton Housing Strategy Group failed to do so. The comprehensive plan’s designers are likewise missing the mark. Who’s left?

RV myth denies housing realities

(Reading time:5 minutes)

It’s no secret that RVs have become the default home of last resort for people who can no longer afford a “normal” place to live. Photos of battered trailers and motorhomes lining West Coast streets have become a cliché, but a less visible version of the same trend can be found in RV parks all across the country, where “full-timers” and “seasonals” have put down roots. Once meant as recreational facilities for weekenders and as overnight stops for travelers, with only a sprinkling of longer-term traveling nurses, construction workers and other itinerants, RV parks these days increasingly look like wheeled subdivisions, thanks to the growing shortage of affordable sticks-and-bricks housing.

But as I’ve written before, in a blog I no longer update that focused on campgrounds and RV parks, the RV industry is deeply conflicted about this state of affairs. On the one hand, encouraging people to live—rather than merely recreate—in RVs is a money-maker, assuring park owners of more consistent cash flow and less work than is required for a campground full of overnighters. On the other hand, RVs are built to a far less rigorous standard than their bigger cousins, variously known as house trailers, mobile homes or manufactured housing, which are subject to rules set by the federal department of Housing and Urban Development. RVs, after all, are recreational vehicles, not homes.

Or at least that’s the prevailing fiction.

The problem is that the more people choose—or are forced—to live in RVs full-time, and the more RV park owners either encourage or turn a blind eye to this practice, the more this fiction becomes unsustainable. And as the proliferation of such substandard housing becomes more widely recognized, there’s always the risk of an official crackdown by politicians and rule-makers. Why, after all, should it be acceptable for people to live in homes that don’t meet electrical, fire and other housing codes simply because they sit on wheels? The possibility that Washington or Richmond might suddenly wake up to their responsibility for ensuring that people’s homes are not death traps, thereby strangling the golden goose, has grown big enough to cause industry palpitations, even as the overall trend continues to grow unchecked.

Case in point: the November issue of Woodall’s Campground Magazine, in which an editorial concedes that a severe housing shortage of 4.7 million homes has made RVs an attractive alternative. Yet industry manufacturers “have spent years highlighting the fact that PMRVs are for temporary stays only. . . . For park owners, operators and developer, that means they can approach local officials and highlight the fact that PMRVs are not like permanent trailers or homes, and that they aren’t meant for long-term housing, something many local officials are concerned about when a new RV park, campground or glamping park is proposed.”

As, indeed, they (local officials) should be, and not just when new parks are proposed.

PMRVs is an acronym for Park Model Recreational Vehicles, which is to say, RVs on steroids. Technically bound by RV construction rules that limit their footprint to 400 square feet, they nevertheless can be up to 14-feet wide, which makes them quite unlike any “vehicle” most people would recognize. And while they’re supposedly limited to a single main floor, an exception that manufacturers carved out for “small lofts” has grown over the years to allow secondary spaces up to five feet high. The resulting behemoths are as unlikely to be moved with any frequency as their even larger “mobile home” cousins.

Nor are they furnished in a way that speaks to a transient or recreational lifestyle, as the same Woodall’s issue amply illustrates in a lengthy article under the telling headline, “Rise of the Destination Trailer: Drawbacks of Travel Persuade Some to Put Down Semi-Permanent Roots.” As the article makes clear, it’s not just the hassles of traveling that are doing the persuading, nor are those roots merely semi-permanent—not with trailers “that trade traditional RV mobility for an otherwise unattainable level of residential living.”

Leading off this rhapsodic account is the Benchmark 44LFT: “It’s taller, it’s longer and you’ll typically find that it has equipment that wouldn’t take the pounding of the road—things like wide patio doors, larger and better appliances,” a manufacturer’s representative told the magazine. Indeed, at 44 feet and 11 inches in length, the Benchmark is as long a trailer as can be found on the market but also has two slide-outs—one of which runs the full length of the main cabin—and two loft bedrooms in addition to a master bedroom suite and two bathrooms. The whole thing weighs in at 18,000 pounds GWVR, which requires more towing chops than even the beefiest pick-up can provide.

In other words, there is nothing about the Benchmark, or other PMRVs, that suggests it’s “for temporary stays only.” Nor is there anything about these behemoths that highlights “the fact” that they “are not like permanent trailers or homes, and that they aren’t meant for long-term housing,” no matter how much Woodall’s editor may protest to the contrary. Indeed, a more stark example of how an industry can talk out of both sides of its mouth simultaneously would be hard to find.

It wasn’t all that long ago that industry spokespeople were a bit more honest about things, perhaps because they weren’t feeling as much regulatory heat. Talking to Woodall’s in August of 2023, Dick Grymonprez, longtime director of park model sales at a major manufacturer, was far more philosophical. “If you think about it, a person’s going to live wherever they want to live,” he told the magazine. “The RV business doesn’t want to admit this, but there are people that live in RVs year-round, full-time. There are people that live in park models year-round.”

He’s absolutely right, and the responsible thing for the industry would be to acknowledge as much—and to accept the implications of that acknowledgment.

Paper or cell phone? No contest.

(Reading time: 5 minutes)

Maybe this comes as no surprise to anyone but me. Maybe it’s become a commonplace too obvious to prompt comment—but when did it become a given that you are no longer an accepted member of society if you don’t have a cell phone?

One reminder of this was driven home at this past week’s session of Staunton Citizens University, which included a couple of representatives of the Central Shenandoah Planning District Commission (CSPDC) extolling the virtues of the BRITE Bus public transportation network . There is, indeed, much to praise about this shuttle system, especially given the largely rural nature of our region, which is not particularly suitable for mass transit. And the CSPDC has done a masterful job of building up the system, most recently spending almost $2 million rebuilding the Hub in downtown Staunton to make it more rider-friendly. Benches, shelters, landscaping, lighting, abundant parking—it’s all there. All except those most basic tools for anyone who wants to take a bus, i.e. a schedule and a route map.

Virtually any mass transit system you can think of posts schedules and large maps behind glass at its sheltered stops. The lack of these essential clues for accessing the bus system is so obvious that the same CSPDC reps, asked about their absence at the Hub this past winter at a Staunton City Council meeting, assured council members they would get right on it. Ten months later, still no maps and still no schedules—but those apparently weren’t in the cards, anyway. Rather, the CSPDC folks said they had intended to post QR codes at the bus shelters, so that passengers could use their cell phones to scan the codes and thus get the information they wanted.

Which assumed, of course, that those passengers had cell phones. And that the cell phones were charged and had QR-code reading capability. And that the QR codes actually got posted, which to date they have not. . . .

More recently, Augusta County alerted the citizenry that it is changing its emergency notification system, going from “Code Red” to “Augusta Alerts” on Nov. 15, and that anyone signed up for Code Red needs to switch to the new system. Augusta Alerts, the county proclaims, “gives users flexibility to choose how they receive alerts—by phone, text, or email,” which may indeed be the case, but first people need to re-register. And the new registration form, in addition to requesting a preferred language and an address, insists that registrants provide a cell phone number. No cell phone, no sign-up. Got a tornado heading your way? Too bad you didn’t have a cell phone to register for that life-saving phone call or email!

This is not the first time I’ve encountered a survey, order form or other screen-based interrogation that won’t permit me to proceed to what I really want without entering a valid cell phone number. There’s no skipping the blank box. No opportunity to write “no cell phone.” And entering my home phone, which is a valid phone number but not a cell phone, just means someone somewhere will be sending me text messages that will never arrive but will leave that person smugly confident that I have received . . . whatever.

It’s not just the expectation that everyone has a cell phone that’s a problem; it’s the assumption that any phone number you provide is for a cell phone. Nobody asks; they just assume. There have been countless times I’ve been assured that someone sent me a text message—not realizing that it’s floating somewhere in cell phone purgatory. But the lack of a response from me seems not to trouble anyone, since apparently it’s inconceivable that I wouldn’t have received a message that was sent, so I’m either ghosting the message sender or just plain rude. Or it doesn’t matter, which is weird no matter how you look at it.

Cell phone networks, unlike the largely abandoned system of wired telephony, are far more precarious than most people realize, making them most vulnerable precisely when they’re most needed. I was working in downtown Washington D.C. when the Pentagon was targeted by al-Quaeda terrorists in 2001, and again a decade later when Virginia was rattled by a 5.7 earthquake. In each case, cell phone networks were overwhelmed almost instantly, transforming those handheld devices into electronic paperweights. Trying to call home, or indeed anywhere, was futile, but that didn’t keep people from trying, growing increasingly frantic with each rebuffed effort.

None of that should signify that I’m opposed to cell phones, just that I recognize their limitations and refuse to build my life around them. I actually have a cell phone but rarely carry it—nor should I have to!— and then chiefly so I can call my wife when I’m away from home. My home phone is more reliable and has better sound clarity, and when I give out that number I’ve now learned to say it’s not a cell so please don’t try texting. My desk top computer, meanwhile, is far more versatile and useful, especially when it comes to looking at a screen dense with information that would overwhelm a hand-held device—like a map. Or a bus schedule.

Neither of those electronic devices can read a QR code, and neither lends itself to being carted around town. And neither is as task-specific as a map or a printed schedule, posted at the site where it’s most needed.

Staunton Crossing dissonance

(Reading time: 4 minutes)

When it comes to its plans for Staunton Crossing, the city is being less than forthright. Coy, even.

Making this evident was session six of Staunton Citizen University, held last week and focused on all things economic. That, of course, meant paying special attention to Staunton Crossing, the hugely ambitious but largely vacant crown jewel in the city’s efforts to gin up economic development.  With its roots dating back to 2009, when the Staunton Economic Development Authority (EDA) shelled out $15 million in a land swap with Western State Hospital, Staunton Crossing now represents an investment of roughly twice that amount. The number of jobs attributed to Staunton Crossing over the past 16 years? Perhaps 200—and some unknown number of those aren’t new to Staunton, since they merely involved a move from one city location to another.

At its best, then, the money sunk into Staunton Crossing currently works out to a per-job cost of approximately $150,000. That’s hardly a bargain, and even less so considering that most of those jobs are on the low end of the wage scale: desk clerks and housekeepers at two hotels, food servers and salesclerks at a handful of fast-food franchises and retail outlets. But to be fair, the Crossing still has another 275 empty acres just waiting for someone to move in. And city officials say that could mean more than 3,000 additional jobs coming to Staunton, resulting in an enormous shift in any cost-benefit analysis, so perhaps it’s still early days when it comes to doing the math.

But that’s where the coyness comes in. What new businesses is the city trying to recruit, and at what additional cost?

Among the six types of industries advertised on Staunton Crossing’s internet pitch is “logistics and transportation,” which sounds an awful lot like a warehouse distribution center. That’s low-hanging fruit, one might imagine, given the Crossing’s touted “easy access to the East Coast and Midwest” because of interstate and railroad proximity. But apparently it’s also forbidden fruit, at least for now. Asked when a large tenant for the Crossing might be recruited, economic development director Amanda DiMeo responded that a warehouse operation could have been landed “yesterday” if that’s all the city was after. Clearly, there’s hope that there are bigger fish to fry.

Which brings us to the second questionable industry on the Crossing wish list: Data Centers & IT. When it comes to recruiting this latest “must have” industry, the EDA marketing push goes all out in playing the environmental hazards card without any apparent irony. Staunton Crossing, declares its website, “is a prime location for data centers due to its low risk of natural disasters. The area is not prone to earthquakes, hurricanes, or severe weather events, which can disrupt data center operations. This provides peace of mind to organizations that rely on the secure and continuous operation of their data centers.”

And that’s not all! Staunton Crossing has an irresistible supply of low-cost and reliable electrical service, according to its website. It has state-of-the-art fiber internet infrastructure. It has “a large pool of highly educated and experienced IT professionals,” which might be expected to raise  quizzical eyebrows among the relatively sparse IT workforce currently in the city. But notably lacking in this recitation of virtues is any mention of the copious amounts of water that data centers require, although the website does give assurances elsewhere that the city can provide 2 million gallons a day.

And that’s a problem.

Two million gallons a day represents the entire output of one of the city’s two major water sources, drawn from the headwaters of the North River in the George Washington National Forest.  The possibility of such an outsized claim on a critical natural resource, in an age of global warming and greater weather instability, including droughts, has not gone down well with community residents with a less boosterish outlook. There have been rumbles of discontent—which may explain a curious comment about the matter by Rodney Rhodes, the city’s director of community development.

Speaking immediately following DiMeo’s presentation, Rhodes led off with the observation that Staunton’s zoning ordinance does not permit data centers. Any attempt to bring in such a center therefore would require that the zoning code be amended—and that, he assured the class, would be “a hard slog.” Not impossible, of course. But hard, so nothing to get excited about.

Nothing to see here!

And yet, why would Staunton keep chasing after a substantial capital investment that its own rules do not permit? Does the question answer itself? A substantial capital investment of the sort represented by a data center wouldn’t provide much in terms of permanent employment, but it would add handsomely to the tax base. And given the many millions already spent on the Crossing with remarkably little return to date, the promise of a big chunk of tax revenue might be expected to transform a hard slog into a greased done-deal.

As I said: coy.

Housing advocates: it’s all a dream

(Reading time: 7 minutes)

There was something forlorn about the forum earlier this past week, sponsored by Building Bridges for the Greater Good, which was intended to spotlight teenage homelessness. The microphones offered frequent bursts of loud, jarring static. The stage of the Kate Collin Middle School in Waynesboro, where a similar forum was held a year ago, was more sparsely inhabited this time around—and looked it. The youngest person to take a mic was no longer a teenager, although finding someone of school age to bare his or her soul to several dozen onlookers might have been too much to expect.

Still, without the first-hand testimony of young lives wounded by the uncertainties and instability of homelessness, all that was left were the same old arid statistics that shock but often fail to move: 52 unhoused students in Waynesboro as of Oct. 13, 28 of them living in hotels and motels. Another 26 Waynesboro students living in foster homes, which Ryan Barber, the district’s assistant superintendent, described as “homeless adjacent.” Nearly 200 families across three schools turning to local food pantries each Friday.

No one from Staunton spoke on behalf of that city’s homeless youths. A social worker from Augusta county schools had little to add, seemingly content to let Barber do most of the heavy lifting.

If there was any strong audience reaction to what was said at the forum, it came—twice, with hearty rounds of applause—in response to statements that the long-term solution to such problems is more affordable housing. It’s hard to argue otherwise, since it’s obvious that without affordable housing more people will end up in the streets, but it’s also a term that goes largely undefined and unexplored. The upshot locally has been at least two years of hand-wringing and unfocused discussion that rarely gets at the heart of the issue, which at its core is nothing more than the mismatch between household incomes and housing costs.

“Affordable” housing, including rent or mortgage plus utilities, is typically defined as housing that doesn’t exceed 30% of one’s income. More than that and other basic needs get strained or unmet, including food, clothing, medical expenses, transportation, child care and so on. The sad part is that we haven’t seen anything close to that 30% ratio since March, 2022, when affordability fell of a cliff (see chart below) to levels not seen since the Great Recession of 2008.

This and other illuminating graphs, compiled by the Federal Reserve Bank of Atlanta, illustrate in several ways how badly we as a society are dealing with our housing issues. For openers, observe that housing today is even more unaffordable than it was in the period leading up to and following a global financial crisis that was triggered by a collapsing U.S. housing market. Although the two crises have differing causes, it’s worth noting that the 2008 collapse resulted in massive government intervention and an all-out effort to stave off another Great Depression. There is nothing comparable today, which means that our housing recession has not only been completely uninterrupted—none of those blue spikes to interrupt a sea of orange—but with no hope that anything’s about to change.

Here’s another way of visualizing the same dynamic, charting the median household income needed to buy a median priced house:

Again, the current lack of affordability exceeds that of the Great Recession. Moreover, the reality is worse than depicted above, since the Atlanta Fed’s statistics include all the components of mortgaged home ownership but do not include utilities. But what is measured is bad enough. The most recent (August, 2025) share of median income going to housing is 39%, the same level reached in July of 2006. By comparison, the lowest share of median income going to housing was in April, 2015, when it dipped to 23%.

With only two statistics going into computing affordability, it’s worth drilling down a bit to see how much each has contributed to our unbalanced ratio. The median household income for our area was $42,819 in mid-2006, $46,661 in April of 2015 and $67,199 a couple of months ago. The median homeownership cost for those same months was $194,033, $164,533 and $308,900. In other words, the cost of homeownership in 2015 was 3.5 times household income, compared to 4.6 times today.

Looked at another way, household income rose 9% over the first near-decade of this comparison, even as homeownership costs dropped 15%. In the decade since? Household income went up 44%, but homeownership costs exploded at twice that rate, by 87.7%. No wonder home ownership has become unaffordable—or that rental rates are likewise skyrocketing, thanks to frustrated homebuyers turning to other shelter options. And just like a rolled-up toothpaste tube, those who can’t keep up get spit out at the other end, ending up couch-surfing or in short-term motel rooms or in their cars or a tent.

Since we’re not about to see a doubling of household income—indeed, given current economic and federal policy trends, we’ll be lucky to see any increase—the only alternative for lowering the affordability threshold is to decrease the cost of homeownership. One way for that to happen is through lower mortgage interest rates, but that’s beyond our meager capabilities, and interest rates are in any case only a secondary factor in housing costs. Even more on the margin are property taxes and home insurance, both of which have climbed over the years but still remain relatively minor components of a monthly mortgage payment. That leaves just one thing we might influence to promote affordable housing: the cost of home building itself. That’s where the conversation should be focused, and it’s also where the conversation has been most lacking.

Home construction is a numbers game that is most profitable when it enjoys economies of scale. As with interest rates, many of the costs that go into that equation—labor, materials, weather—are beyond our control except at the margins. But the one variable over which municipalities have a say is land use. The more housing units that can be built on a particular lot, the lower the per-unit cost of the finished homes. Build a $500,000 house on a half-acre because a lower-cost house won’t pencil out, or build a four-plex with each unit priced at $200,000 and make the same return on investment—and create four times as much housing, each at an affordable price.

That latter option, however, requires a wholesale reexamination of zoning codes and maps, and that’s something Staunton has avoided. The city’s 11-point housing “strategy,” conceived by a working group of housing advocates that not once discussed the role of zoning in driving up housing costs, nibbles around the edges of land-use policies by exploring the possibility of allowing accessory dwelling units. The bulk of the proposed housing strategies, however, merely advocate lots of talking and not so much action: legal services for renters, for instance, or landlord “education.” The nitty-gritty task of grappling with outdated notions of urban planning, meanwhile, apparently proved a step too far.

And so we have moments like Monday’s forum, offered under the hopeful tag line, “I am homeless and still I dream.” Those of us who aren’t homeless are also dreaming—dreaming if we think we’re actually moving the needle on affordable housing, as even a quick look at the charts above should drive home. What’s that phrase, often mis-attributed to Einstein, about the definition of insanity. . . .?

Ambling toward a housing disaster

(Reading time: 9 minutes)

There’s never a good time to be homeless—but there’s bad, and then there’s infernally bad. We’re now well into Dante territory, hurtling past limbo, lust and gluttony to start ricocheting off greed’s boulders.

On a federal level, the gap between supply and demand for housing for the homeless was already skyrocketing before the Trump administration took office (graphed above) but exploded in the past year, thanks to a combination of funding rescissions and deep staffing cuts in departments serving the poor and unhoused. That notably includes the departments of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) and of Health and Human Services, which just in the past couple of days have been whacked with further unprecedented layoffs, shredding what little remains of an already tattered social safety net. If there’s any doubt about the local implications of all this, see the Blue Ridge Area Food Bank and its increasingly alarmed appeals for community support.

But there’s also a deeper, more profound shift in housing policy underway that will have the perverse effect of pouring gasoline on the fire. That shift dates back to a July executive order, issued by Donald Trump under the provocative title “Ending Crime and Disorder on America’s Streets,” that ends support for the “Housing First” approach to a growing unsheltered population. While Housing First advocates contend (often with references to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs) that people’s basic needs for food, warmth and shelter must be met before they can effectively address addictions, psychological ills or lack of job training, the executive order claims Housing First policies “deprioritize accountability” and fail to “promote treatment, recovery and self-sufficiency.” The better approach, according to the executive order, is to slash funding for such assistance while instituting sobriety requirements for people living in federally funded housing. Can’t stay straight? It’s back on the street with you, where the physical struggle for survival will take all your energy.

Meanwhile, the current trend toward criminalizing homelessness only adds to the problem. A U.S. Supreme Court decision last year empowered municipal officials to fine, ticket, displace or arrest people sleeping in public spaces, and more than 200 localities around the country have since criminalized homelessness. But other jurisdictions—including Staunton, Waynesboro and Augusta County—already had similar laws on their books. And while our local law enforcement agencies thus far have taken a restrained approach to people camping on public property, acting mostly in response to complaints by directing the offenders to move elsewhere, that could change with any pronounced shift in the political climate.

Homeless people who get jailed for failing to have a sanctioned place to sleep become, ironically, ineligible for certain housing programs. No surprise, then, that once they’ve been incarcerated for not having shelter, many end up in a cycle that perpetuates their homelessness. More than 50,000 people who are released from prison or jail each year go straight into homeless shelters and then into the streets, according to the National Alliance to End Homelessness, which reports that formerly incarcerated people are ten times more likely to become homeless than the general public due to a lack of financial and social support.

What little support for the homeless that still exists is being chopped away almost on a weekly basis. As reported by Politico a couple of weeks ago, the Trump administration is looking to move as much as two-thirds of HUD’s funds designated for permanent housing projects to transitional housing assistance “with some work or service requirements.” Those who can’t meet the requirements—such as a mother with young children, or someone who’s disabled—may end up on the street again, but as explained by a HUD spokesperson, “HUD is no longer in the business of permanently funding homelessness without measuring program success at promoting recovery and self-sufficiency.” That’s consistent with the administration’s overall “suck-it-up-buttercup” approach to social services but does nothing to address root causes, leaving it up to overwhelmed and unfunded local agencies to deal with the fallout.

Some of these issues may be addressed Monday evening at Kate Collins Middle School in Waynesboro, when Building Bridges for the Greater Good will host a forum on teenage homelessness. That’s because homeless teens are supposed to be served by the McKinney-Vento Homeless Assistance Act, which created the Continuum of Care (CoC) program that Politico reports is under attack—indeed, as Politico also noted, Trump’s budget for the next fiscal year proposes cutting all CoC funding. Loss of those funds will mean dozens of students in the SAW region who currently receive emergency housing, transportation and other necessities of life, including food, clothing and personal care supplies, will be at risk of losing their ability to stay in school.

CoC funding also assists 22 households in a program of permanent supportive housing administered by the Valley Community Services Board (VCSB), but their future is equally uncertain. The current funding runs out in December, and while a larger successor grant has been approved, there’s no certainty that money will be released. “If the Politico article is correct, this program would certainly be in jeopardy, but I am not sure what calendar year we will actually feel the impact,” said Lydia Campbell, assistant director of community services at VCSB. “It’s terrible that our community members with the most significant barriers to housing that are finally in their own places could be at risk.”

In the face of this onslaught, local efforts to cope with homelessness and a severe shortage of affordable housing have been lame, at best. That’s partly due to a lack of money, of course, but being cash-poor is insufficient excuse for a city that spends big bucks on a new pool house, golf carts and 50-gallon trash cans for everyone—all welcomed expenditures contributing to Staunton’s quality of life, but at the cost of letting internal sores fester. With only so many tax dollars to go around, expenditures in one area mean belt-tightening in another. In the end, it all comes down to the choices we’re willing to make—or ignore.

Take, for example, the request to city council by Alec Gunn, director of the Waynesboro Area Refuge Ministries (WARM), for financial support for a day center for the homeless at First Presbyterian Church. As initially conceived, this would have been a warm day-refuge in the winter and a cool one in summer for an unsheltered population that otherwise resorts to camping out in the library or in fast food restaurants to escape the weather. Talk of the city providing some modest start-up money for such an effort, perhaps $30,000, has been kicking around since the start of the year, with little to show for it and with ambitions for the day center’s scope of services diminishing with each passing month. More recently, rumblings of resistance from the church’s neighbors have been heard, and Gunn did himself no favors with the skimpy “budget” he presented to city council in early September—but neither has anyone on city council stepped up to press for a resolution. And so. . . still no day center.

As much—or little—can be said of the city’s pursuit of affordable housing, a critical component of any serious effort to eliminate homelessness. A key to this somnolent exercise has been creation of a housing commission that could “provide expertise and guidance regarding the amount and quality of affordable and workforce housing in the City,” an initiative first proposed by Councilor Brad Arrowood in March. That’s March of 2023. This past Thursday the city council finally received a resolution to do just that—but it won’t actually vote on the measure until an unspecified “later date.”

Not that there’s anything to be lost in this slow-walk to another grouping of chin strokers. Six of the proposed nine commission members are to be drawn from the ranks of the housing strategy working group that labored for a whole eight hours spread over 12 months to produce the city’s “housing strategy.” That group served mainly as a sounding board for city planners to present their ideas, and for the most part it resonated in tune; this was not a group brimming with ideas. The new commission will likewise meet only four times a year and, under the influence of its carry-over members, presumably will serve a similar role, with similarly minimal results. If there is to be any hope for the housing commission to provide meaningful input, it will have to come from the three non-working group members, ideally including representatives from the building and development sector and at least one person who has been homeless.

But first, of course, there actually has to be a city council vote to ratify the resolution. Assuming it does so in the next few weeks, and that the housing commission holds its first meeting in January, that will mark nearly three years since Arrowood’s initial proposal.

All this foot-dragging might be tolerable in a slower age, but that’s not where we are today. Instead, we’re hurtling toward a precipice with preternatural speed, the economy teetering toward recession, our political machinery seized up and normal middle-class people growing angry, suspicious and resentful under the weight of a disintegrating social order. How else to explain recent events in Waynesboro, where local residents circulated a letter deploring “the homeless problem” and criticizing St. John’s Episcopal Church for allowing a man to sleep in its bushes and a homeless couple to stay on an empty church lot. The letter expressed concern that mental illness, drug addiction and increased crime rates would put the neighborhood at risk, albeit without linking any of those problems to the three specific people prompting the writers’ angst.

Not all local residents shared that view, and in a couple of meetings pushed back vigorously against such stereotyping. But as the homelessness problem deepens and more people are forced to live in their cars and on the streets, similarly charitable responses may become more strained. We’re in a race against time that community leaders have not yet recognized, for money, effort, planning and initiative, and it would be reassuring to get even a whiff of urgency over what needs to be done.

A ‘Failure to Act,’ a 28% water loss

(Reading time: 4 minutes)

I was fast enough to secure one of 25 slots at this year’s Staunton Citizen University, which are parceled out on a first come-first serve basis and are in surprisingly high demand. Last year I waited until the early afternoon on the first day of registration, and by then all 25 had been snatched up. This time I called at 8:05 a.m. and was glad I did, as this is a really great opportunity for city residents to look behind the curtain and see what makes Staunton tick .

A 10-week program that meets for two hours (and sometimes longer!) once a week, Staunton U trots out a parade of elected officials and city employees and a welter of statistics and budget figures to explain how the various components of city government mesh together. Field trips take class participants to the water treatment plant, city parks, a fire house, the landfill and other key facilities. Questions are encouraged.

Revelations abound.

One of the most disturbing, especially in the context of the recent water main break, is the D-minus rating that municipal water infrastructures have received from the American Society of Civil Engineers (ASCE)—not just this year, but every year since at least 2009. That’s much more than a decade of being graded just a hair above failing, a track record succinctly summarized in the report’s title, “Failure to Act.” Any child with that kind of track record would be attending remedial classes, working with tutors and mourning the loss of their cellphone and internet access, but America’s cities have been blithely rolling along as if nothing is amiss.

Staunton is no exception—indeed, it may be worse than average, given the age of its system. The Aug. 14 water main break, which resulted in a multi-day “boil-water advisory,” a two-day public school closure and untold economic impact on local businesses, should have been a wake-up call. But any appropriate sense of alarm was undercut by self-congratulatory relief over the swiftness with which the rupture was repaired, which was understandable; and by the widely accepted explanation that this was, in essence, an act of God, which it wasn’t. As explained to city council members by public works director Dave Irvin, “It would be great if we could predict breaks like this. We can’t.” And with that, everyone seems to have moved on.

But as I wrote a few weeks ago, that dismissal of predictability is accurate only in the most technically narrow sense: whether a water main will break in this spot or that, on this date or another, is indeed unknowable. What is known, with a high degree of certainty, is that there will be more breaks—indeed, there already are, on average, 40 a year somewhere in the 160 miles of the city’s water distribution system. Most simply aren’t on the same scale as the Aug. 14 rupture, but that doesn’t mean we’ll avoid “the big one,” as the ASCE report should underscore.

Nor should we be oblivious to the cumulative impact of smaller losses. Staunton overall is experiencing an ongoing 28% loss in its distribution system, day in and day out, as measured by the difference between the amount pumped out of the water treatment plant and the total amount recorded by customers’ meters. The lowest loss he’s ever seen in Staunton, Irvin said, was 12%, and that was quite a few years ago. The national average loss is 15%. In other words, more than a quarter of all the water Staunton pulls out of its reservoir and pumps from Gardner Springs, an average total of 4 million gallons a day, simply disappears, at nearly double the national rate. That’s more than a million gallons a day that just goes poof.

To put that in perspective, the Aug. 14 break spilled perhaps a million gallons before the supply was cut off.

Where do those millions of gallons of water go? Some of it is legitimately unmetered use, as when firefighters hook up to a hydrant or the city waters its golf course. Some of it is stolen—often from those same fire hydrants, by unscrupulous developers or others, but also by people rigging systems to bypass their meters. But most of it spurts out undetected from a rotting distribution network considerably past its “sell by” date, then quickly disappears into a karst topography without leaving a surface clue to the loss.

This is the month in which the city begins its annual budget planning—a month in which, it should be noted, we also are under drought watch. Again. It remains to be seen if more than a decade of near-failing grades for our water system, a major pipeline break and an ongoing loss of 28% of our treated water will be enough to jolt city planners and political leadership into paying pertinent attention to the way they raise and allocate funds. That includes not just taxes but also water and sewer rates, which by all accounts are comparable to or lower than those set by similarly sized Virginia municipalities.

Nobody wants to pay higher prices for life’s essentials, but as any homeowner knows, deferred maintenance saves money only in the short-term and always, always exacts a higher price down the road.

Housing pathway full of potholes

(Reading time: 7 minutes)

Bureaucrats do love their studies and surveys. A cynic might conclude that’s because searching for information is a heckuva lot easier than actually doing something with information that might already be at hand. “We’re looking into it” is at least an answer, if not a particularly satisfying one, to complaints about one thing or another.

Take Staunton’s ongoing fumbling of the housing situation. More than a year ago, the city announced the creation of the grandly named “Staunton Housing Strategy Workgroup,” a meandering exercise that culminated, this past July, in the optimistically titled “Pathway to Affordable Housing and Housing for Working Families.” But that pathway, it turns out, is littered with potholes.

One of the tripping hazards is the action plan’s repeated references to the City Housing Commission as the lead organization for developing nearly a dozen initiatives. Unfortunately, the city doesn’t have a housing commission. It may eventually get around to creating one, as soon as someone figures out what it should look like and what its responsibilities would be, but that hasn’t happened yet. Meanwhile, the implementation clock for those initiatives, divided into six neat segments of three months each, started running July 1—which means the first quarterly period is now ending and a second is beginning, all without a housing commission to lead the way.

Then there’s the plan’s section titled “Redevelopment Strategies,” which projected that the second quarter—the one that starts Wednesday—would see the results of a “windshield survey” of the city’s housing stock. Such an inventory sounds like a good idea, a necessary baseline to inform housing policy and action. But as with the nonexistent housing commission, there is no windshield survey of the sort envisioned by the plan. Nor is there going to be one before next spring, at the earliest, because the city has yet to prepare its grant application to underwrite such a project.

If all this conveys a certain lassitude and lack of urgency about addressing a problem that is only getting worse with each passing month—well, you might understand why nothing much seems to change. Consider, as another example, that the “action plan matrix” describes an 18-month process just to formulate a “strategy” (that term really should be retired) for amending the zoning code to allow Accessory Dwelling Units (ADUs) as one approach to increased housing density.

ADUs may be an exotic addition to Staunton’s housing mix, but they’ve been around for quite a few years elsewhere, and researching best practices shouldn’t take a year or more. Nor does anyone have to look far for examples. Lexington, just a few miles down I-81, adopted its ADU ordinance this past winter, and just for good measure added a cottage-court provision in March. Staunton’s city planners, on the other hand, apparently felt they had to secure Planning Commission approval merely to research the cottage-court concept, never mind coming up with a specific zoning proposal. They got the go-ahead last week to start looking around, but are making no predictions of when their exploration will be finished.

“Research” is, however, a superficially defensible way to excuse inaction. After all, how can one make informed decisions about complex matters without having all the relevant facts? And even if other municipalities already have implemented “strategies” that Staunton is only beginning to contemplate, how much of that experience is transferable to our own situation? Lexington may be two or more years ahead of Staunton in adopting innovative approaches to housing, but it also has less than a third of Staunton’s population and a fraction of its surface area. What could such a pipsqueak of a city have to teach us?

I’d argue that while there obviously are differences of scale, our qualitative similarities far outweigh matters of size—that there’s much that Staunton could learn not just from Lexington, but from numerous other Virginia cities that have forged ahead while we dither. We don’t have to reinvent the wheel each time we want to build a wagon. But it’s not just that Staunton seems incapable of learning from others. It seems that it can’t learn from itself, apparently overlooking or dismissing the information it already has at its municipal fingertips.

Consider again the example of the windshield survey, on whose completion rests the pursuit of “redevelopment strategies for underutilized properties.” That’s high falutin’ language for identifying homes so run-down they should be demolished, in the worst case, or significantly upgraded to prevent further deterioration. How many such homes are there in Staunton? Where are they located? What kind of condition are they in, and how much would it cost for their remediation?

Staunton planners say they don’t have this most basic information, which is why they want a  windshield survey, which is pretty much what the name suggests: a drive-by of every residential property in the city to visually assess its soundness. Or as Lexington’s finished survey explained, dispersed throughout the city “are homes that are in poor condition hidden on many residential streets,” including those that are “vacant or are inhabited by older individuals who no longer have the physical capability or the financial means to perform the maintenance needed for their homes.” We really should know more about that—right?

Lexington therefore applied for, and received, a $50,000 grant from the federal government to assess its housing stock. The findings, released this past spring, consist primarily of a ranking system in which homes rated 1 are sound and those rated 5 are “dilapidated,” suffering from severe damage or decay “with defects requiring clearance.”  “Clearance” is a gentle way of saying “demolition.” The ratings are based on three categories, assessing a home’s foundation, roof and exterior walls. Just 72 of the city’s homes were rated 3, 4 or 5, representing 3.5% of Lexington’s overall housing stock.

That’s essential information to have. The problem is that Staunton already has it—it’s just not in the planning department. It’s in the assessor’s office, which every two years recalculates the taxable value of every property in the city, using several metrics and assessment methods that include its own visual appraisal. As assessor Douglas Flinn explains, his staff will “take a neighborhood at a time and ride up and down the streets to look at each property,” averaging “about 100 to 120 homes per day during a concentrated five-month period”—which is to say, the staff conducts its own windshield survey of all 11,695 parcels in the city.

And as with Lexington’s $50,000 windshield survey, the Staunton assessor’s biannual survey includes “a rating system that incorporates the aggregate condition of the home [that] would include the roof, siding, doors and windows and the general overall condition of the home.”  Which is to say, yet again, pretty much what Lexington’s federally funded survey accomplished.

So how does the assessor’s data differ from the data that Staunton’s planners hope to gain from their own windshield survey? Good question.  Asked what information he expects to gather that isn’t already available, community development director Rodney Rhodes could say only that his department will work closely with the assessor’s office to figure that out before submitting a grant application. “We expect the windshield survey to gather more detailed information than what is currently on hand,” he added, without getting any more specific.

Well, one should hope so. But as seems quite clear, the many months of wheel-spinning by the Staunton Housing Strategy Workgroup might have found some traction had anyone walked from one part of city hall to another to obtain basic housing data that was there all along. Because that didn’t happen, and because the city now will be chasing that same information with yet another study, the pathway to affordable housing just gets longer and longer.

Why a day center is not a shelter

(Reading time: 4 minutes)

The story in the Augusta Free Press last week was buoyantly misleading. “The City of Staunton will open a day shelter for unhoused persons in the fall,” it announced.

Would that it were so.

Prompting the article’s optimistic declaration was a presentation to city council Sept. 11 by Alec Gunn, director of the Waynesboro Area Refuge Ministry (WARM), who had been invited to outline WARM’s plans for a “day center” for unsheltered homeless people. Gunn’s presence followed a reminder to city council a couple of weeks earlier that that it still had $50,000 in a discretionary fund that needed spending. As I wrote Aug. 24, city manager Leslie Beauregard noted that the council had discussed possibly appropriating $30,000 of that amount for a WARM day shelter for the homeless—perhaps the subject could be revisited? Yes, yes, good idea, council members responded. But first, let’s hear a concrete proposal and budget.

And so Gunn spoke, and from the outset illuminated several problems. Staunton city council’s interest in a day shelter had been triggered most recently by the severe cold we experienced last winter, with homeless people who had been housed overnight by WARM’s network of church-based emergency shelters typically turned out at 7 a.m. the following morning. With nowhere else to go, they resorted to frequenting area libraries, fast-food restaurants, Brite buses and any other accessible public place where they could get out of the wind and cold—frequently to the discomfort of other patrons. Could they not be provided with a refuge of their own?

Yet as Gunn repeatedly stressed—although council members did not obviously pick up on the distinction—WARM was looking to create something different. What he envisioned, Gunn said, specifically was not a “homeless shelter” but rather a place in which people could “work themselves out of” homelessness, through some unspecified combination of classes and workshops. Indeed, “shelter” seemed a word better left unsaid, with all the negative baggage it carries. It was all “center” and “day center” and “welcoming environment.”

Definitions or goals aside, Gunn’s sketchy outline—calling it a “proposal” is too generous—seemingly was aimed more at securing the $30,000 that had been bandied about than at detailing just what the day center would do.  As if by coincidence, $30,000 was exactly the amount WARM envisioned for “support staff,” although how many staff members would be employed or what they would be doing was left unsaid. An additional $18,500 would be needed for utilities, supplies, transportation, insurance and so on, including $1,500 for those undefined classes and workshops. Where would the additional money be found? Unknown.

Meanwhile, although Gunn said this would be a year-round program, he conceded under questioning that at least initially the center would be open only two or three days a week, so definitely not a “shelter” as that term is generally understood. Eventually, he added, WARM hopes to expand operating hours to five days a week—so still not a shelter, which should be accessible every day. And while discussions earlier this year about a day shelter had included proposals for building showers and a laundry facility at the First Presbyterian Church, where all this supposedly is happening, Gunn said last week that he “hopes” Habitat for Humanity will make available a mobile shower system it sometimes uses.

Creating a program to help homeless people get out of their unsheltered circumstances is admirable and necessary, but it’s not at all clear that WARM’s unfocused efforts will accomplish that. Worse yet, there’s a real danger that an uncritical acceptance of WARM’s proposal will convince city council members that if they approve the $30,000 Gunn is seeking they’re actually providing a day shelter that can get homeless people off the streets, just as the Augusta Free Press assumed in its reporting. So far the city council hasn’t done that, but the broadly approving comments from council members after Gunn’s presentation suggest such an appropriation may be in the works.

What the unsheltered homeless population in Staunton, and the SAW region generally, lacks is not complicated: a readily accessible place they can go seven days a week, from 7 a.m. to 5 p.m., in the heat of summer and the freeze of winter. A shelter without preconditions, such as having to participate in a well-intentioned program of one kind or another, and without any expectation that those seeking such shelter will spend their time working themselves into or out of anything. A refuge.

That would be something. Don’t hold your breath.

‘Unknown causes?’ Give me a break!

(Reading time: 4 minutes)

It took me a while to check out the explanation given to Staunton City Council about the August 14 water-main break (viewable here), but it’s still worth watching, if only to see a notable example of a kicking-the-can-down-the-road approach to municipal governance.

The presentation August 28 by public works director Dave Irvin included a detailed timeline, lots of numbers and appropriate praise for his department’s “all hands on deck” rapid response and hard work. The 16-inch cast-iron pipe that ruptured was at least 80 years old, shattering with such force that it blew itself apart and “self-excavated,” with water rushing out of the trench it created at a rate of 16 million gallons a day—four times its normal flow. Thanks to the department’s quick action, with valve closures starting within an hour of the estimated break, perhaps a million gallons were discharged into the surrounding neighborhood.

But what caused the break? “We don’t know,” Irvin said, contending that “the possible causes are many.”  The extensive damage, he added, made a postmortem impossible. A council member chimed in with a helpful metaphor: drive a car long enough, and sooner or later you can expect a flat tire—you just won’t know when, or which tire will go, until it happens.

It all was, the consensus appeared to be, an act of God. Something you just have to roll with.

But here’s the thing: the August 14 incident was Staunton’s second flat tire over the past couple of decades. A 2007 break in Cherry Hill also ruptured a 16-inch main, also one of cast iron, and also described as the result of “unknown causes.” That break took more than 12 hours to shut off and resulted in a slew of state-issued regulatory changes, directly contributing to the quick resolution this time around. That’s the good outcome. The bad outcome is that we’re still accepting the excuse that such breaks are because of “unknown causes.”

We know the cause. Cast-iron pipes, which were standard issue when much of Staunton’s water works were built, are brittle. The industry standard is a 100-year life span. Nearly half of the city’s water is supplied by the North River Reservoir, which is tapped by a 20-inch cast-iron pipe threaded through a 6-foot tunnel burrowed through Lookout Mountain, then connected to a 14-mile cast-iron pipeline that runs to the city. Next year will mark the centennial of that project—100 years since a system with a 100-year life span was completed.  Miles more of cast-iron pipes of varying vintage and various diameters, including 16- 14- and 12-inch, run throughout the city.

Moreover, the karst topography that underlies our region is not kind to brittle systems. The 6-foot tunnel that once buffered the 20-inch main is no more, gradually settling around the pipe over the past 10 decades. That much was publicly known at least a decade ago, when Nancy Sorrells wrote about it in an apparent response to proposed fracking in the George Washington National Forest that alarmed city officials because of its threat to a crucial water supply. The fracking threat retreated, but the land continues to shift and settle nonetheless, putting more stress on a water distribution system that is hurtling toward its past-due date.

The flat-tire metaphor may be reassuring when all four tires are brand-new. In this case, that’s hardly the case. These tires have been hitting the road for many, many decades, and we’ve now had two flats. Every bit of Lincoln’s head—and then some—rides above a non-existent tread on the other two.

Why do people drive on bald tires? Usually because they can’t afford new ones, which may be why Staunton’s city council has been unwilling to take a closer look at an increasingly untenable situation. Although a city council member asked Irvin how much cast-iron pipe is out there, he didn’t get an answer—quite possibly because an exact number is unknown. But what is known is that replacing cast-iron mains with more flexible ductile-iron pipe is expensive. Hugely expensive. The Richmond Avenue project, for example, will replace less than two miles of a 6-inch cast-iron main and a 10-inch cast-iron main—because of their frequent breaks—with a single 16-inch ductile-iron main; that project is budgeted at $13 million. The city overall has more than 150 miles of pipeline.

Faced with such an imponderable financial overhang, council members have been only too willing to avoid asking the hard questions. And Irvin made it easier for them, announcing at the outset, “It would be great if we could predict breaks like this. We can’t.” Narrowly speaking, he’s correct.

But what we can predict, as we drive down the road on our well-worn slicks, is that more breaks are coming. They’ll come more frequently and sooner than we expect. And we really won’t be able to continue insisting that their causes are unknown.