By Jim Hunt for the News and Journal
A LinkedIn post by my friend Chris Gilbert, a township manager in Ohio, sparked today’s column. He wrote: “It was just a weed in the sidewalk, but it said a lot.
Not a wildflower. Not something inspiring or beautiful. Just a weed… scraggly, overgrown, left there long enough to feel like nobody noticed or cared.
News and Journal
That’s the thing about aesthetics. It’s not just about how a place looks. It’s about whether someone cares. Because when a space looks neglected, people start to feel that way too. And when that happens in a community or in a workplace, it’s not just weeds that show up. It’s apathy. It’s ‘why bother.’ It’s that slow, quiet message that no one’s really paying attention.”
-Chris Gilbert, LinkedIn, August 2025
Recently, I was showing my granddaughter the soon-to-be-open terminal at the North Central West Virginia Airport, just off I-279. I wanted her to see it because I believe it will be one of the most pivotal economic development projects in my lifetime—connecting Central West Virginia to the world and bringing visitors from around the globe to our community.
Her eyes lit up when she spotted a large plane flying low, preparing to land. We talked about one day flying to Charlotte to visit her cousins. She insisted she wanted an aisle seat because she didn’t want the window to open and risk falling out. I promised her I’d take the window seat and keep her safe.
It was a sweet moment, but as we drove away, my attention shifted to the interstate itself. The median looked like something from a horror movie—tall weeds sprouting between cracks, car parts scattered, and even a single abandoned tennis shoe. As we merged onto I-79, the picturedidn’t improve. Bridges had drains clogged with grass and debris that looked untouched for months, maybe years.
I couldn’t help but think about the thousands of travelers who stop for gas, a meal, or a hotel room in our area. What do they see? Do they judge our community by the state of our highways?
Years ago, the interstates were regularly mowed, the bridges swept, and accident debris cleared.
Today, even when tractors mow, they leave patches of overgrowth around guardrails and trees where crews once cut carefully with weed eaters. Add to that the all-too-common sight of deaddeer left to rot along the roadside, sometimes dusted with lime, and the image isn’t one ofpride—it’s one of neglect.
We’re spending millions on new roads and bridges, but how long will they last if clogged drains trap water, salt, and chemicals that eat away at our infrastructure? How long before visitors equate our inattention to weeds and debris with a lack of care for the community itself?
Chris Gilbert said it best: “It’s a slow, quiet message that no one’s really paying attention.” If we want to attract visitors, investment, and pride in our state, maybe we should start by pulling the weeds.
