# Vinton County, Ohio, Declares War on Common Sense, Bans Sidewalks Because They 'Encourage Walking'
VINTON COUNTY, OH — In a move that has absolutely no one surprised, the Vinton County Board of Commissioners voted 3-0 yesterday to ban the construction of new sidewalks in unincorporated areas, citing a chilling new report that sidewalks "encourage walking," which experts say is a gateway activity to "thinking," "loitering," and "having opinions."
I wish I was kidding. But this is Vinton County, Ohio, a place where the local government has apparently looked at the crumbling infrastructure, the opioid crisis, and the economic stagnation and thought, "You know what the real problem is? Pedestrians."
According to the official press release, which was written in Comic Sans on a printer that was clearly running out of magenta, the ban is a "proactive measure to preserve the rural character of the county and discourage vagrancy." The commissioners argued that sidewalks are "socialist infrastructure" that create "unrealistic expectations of connectivity" and "provide a direct pathway for government surveillance."
"A sidewalk is basically a red carpet for the government to walk right into your living room," said Commissioner Earl Tuggle, 73, a third-generation corn farmer who has never walked farther than from his truck to the McDonald's drive-thru window. "Back in my day, we walked in the goddamn mud. And we liked it. It built character. Now these kids want a level, paved surface? That's communism."
The meeting, which was held in a repurposed storage shed that also serves as the county's animal shelter, devolved into chaos when a local mother, Karen Johnson, asked how her children were supposed to get to the school bus stop without walking on the shoulder of State Route 93, a road where the speed limit is 55 mph but the actual speed of the lifted F-250s is "whatever the hell they want."
Commissioner Tuggle had a simple solution: "Mud. They'll figure it out. That's how we got the 'Greatest Generation.' Also, she should just drive them. If you don't have a car, that's a you problem. Get a better job."
When Johnson pointed out that not everyone can afford a car, Commissioner Tuggle suggested she "try pulling yourself up by your bootstraps" while simultaneously ignoring the fact that in order to have bootstraps, you need to have boots, which require money, which is hard to come by when you can't walk to a job because there are no sidewalks.
The article is a work of satire, but it's based on a real and painfully American phenomenon: the belief that public infrastructure is a personal luxury, not a collective necessity. Vinton County is one of the poorest in Ohio, with a median household income hovering around $40,000. It's a place where the local Walmart is both the social hub and the primary employer. But instead of investing in basic amenities that might actually improve quality of life — like, I don't know, a sidewalk so a kid doesn't have to dodge a coal truck on his way to school — the county has decided to double down on the idea that walking is somehow un-American.
The logic, if you can call it that, is a masterclass in circular reasoning. The commissioners argued that sidewalks "increase the risk of lawsuits" because "if you build a sidewalk, someone will trip on it and sue you." But if you don't build a sidewalk, people just trip on the uneven grass and gravel anyway, and then they sue the county for negligence. It's almost like the problem isn't the sidewalk, but the fact that the county is run by people who think insurance adjusters are "libs in suits."
The ban also explicitly mentions "vagrancy prevention." In the official language, the ban states that sidewalks "provide a smooth, unobstructed path for transient individuals to move freely through residential areas, which may lead to panhandling, public intoxication, and the formation of book clubs." Yes, book clubs. Because nothing says "threat to local values" like a bunch of people reading *The Midnight Library* and discussing their feelings in a public space.
Local resident and amateur philosopher Doug "Diesel" Patterson, 45, supported the ban. "I don't want no homeless guy walkin' past my trailer," he said, standing in front of a trailer that had a "No Trespassing" sign next to a "Live, Laugh, Love" decal. "I got a right to not have to look at poor people. That's why I moved to the country. If I wanted to see people walking, I'd move to Columbus. Or Hell."
Patterson's logic is shared by many in the county, who view any form of public transit or pedestrian infrastructure as a slippery slope to "urbanism." You build a sidewalk today, and tomorrow you'll have bike lanes. Then crosswalks. Then a bus stop. Next thing you know, you're paying taxes for a library that has books about *feelings*. It's a terrifying prospect for people who believe the only acceptable form of transportation is a V8 engine with a "Let's Go Brandon" sticker.
The irony is thick enough to choke a mule. Vinton County has one of the highest rates of obesity and diabetes in the state. The county is a food desert, where the nearest grocery store is a 20-minute drive from most homes. But instead of encouraging people to walk to a farmers market that doesn't exist, the government has decided to make sure they can't walk anywhere at all. It's the political equivalent of a doctor telling a patient with a broken leg to "stop falling down stairs" instead of fixing the stairs.
The ban has already inspired copycat legislation in neighboring counties. Meigs County is reportedly considering a ban on crosswalks because they "encourage crossing the street." Gallia County is debating a ban on streetlights because they "attract bugs." And Hocking County is said to be exploring a ban on the concept of "outside" entirely, because "it's where the transgenders are."
State Senator Tim Schaffer (R-20) released a statement praising the Vinton County commissioners for their "bold stand against
Final Thoughts
Having read through the local reporting and historical records on Vinton County, Ohio, my takeaway is that this is a region perpetually caught between the state’s industrial ghost and its rural future. The real story isn't just about the lingering economic scars from coal and timber booms; it’s about a resilient community quietly trying to pivot toward outdoor recreation and agribusiness while fighting a generational brain drain. Ultimately, Vinton County is a sobering reminder that in Appalachia's forgotten corners, the struggle for a sustainable identity is often more compelling—and more honest—than the boom-and-bust narratives that define it.