In the beginning, no one noticed. No one cared. Somewhere in Iowa a farmer, burdened by debt, was being forced off the land that had been cultivated by his family for generations. Tough. For others, life went on. Then it happened again. And again. And yet again. People began to notice. And to care.

At first, the plague hit only the farmers. Then it strangled the towns. 

But acres lost and businesses shuttered fail to measure the human misery. Of wives pleading with husbands not to pull the trigger. Of marriages rent asunder by overwhelming burdens. Of folks like Pat and Elmer Steffes, above, forced out of farming and into a strange occupation, the dream shattered – yet daring to dream again. 

This photo essay documents the rural crisis, and especially to record its impact on Iowa’s people and towns. -- by Sherry Ricchiardi

To license the images in these stories contact David Peterson here.

It’s early February, 1986. 

Winters in Iowa are bleak and long … so it always seemed. The weather was matching my mood. I was driving through the state, mostly on blue highways, fulfilling assignments. This wasn’t unusual - we were a “state wide” newspaper, the newspaper that “Iowa depended on”. A slogan that I was often dubious of … and a notion that would soon be confirmed.

The farm crisis started in the late 70’s, and had now reached its apex. I had been involved in some of the stories, but always felt like an appendage to the written story, and a grip for reporters to drag along, drive the company car, and offer a picture or two to accompany 50 inches of copy. To make matters worse, newspapers were dropping into Iowa to do “farm crisis” stories, and running big spreads with both words and pictures … many lacking the depth to tell the whole story. I had a word for that - “parachute journalism”. These other reporters and photographers, despite their efforts, in my opinion had come up short. 

As I was driving on that February day looking at farm houses and dying small towns, I realized how invisible this story was and the only way to tell it was to put a face on it. But that would require an investment of time. 

I had come to a moral and professional crossroads. This crisis was quietly tearing my state apart - a state that was still defined by small family farms, and many agricultural businesses. So I had to ask myself the hard question. As a photojournalist, what was my responsibility? 

With all of this weighing on me, I set a meeting with the managing editor to discuss a farm crisis project with emphasis on telling this story visually … through the eyes and hearts of the people most affected by it. I asked for two months away from other assignments to do it.  His answer … "Dave, I think we’ve already done enough, and besides, the story is starting to wind down.” I wasn’t ready to give up. Time to pivot and throw the “Hail Mary”. 

The previous year the National Press Photographers and Nikon Cameras had established a sabbatical which allowed a photojournalist to work on an extended project fitting the theme “The Changing Face of America”. It required that the recipient take a three-month leave of absence from their newspaper (unpaid) and also receive a $10,000 grant to fund the project. The inaugural winner was April Saul from the Philadelphia Enquirer who did a story on the assimilation of the Hmong population in Philadelphia. It was very well done and a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize for Feature Photography that year. A tough act to follow. The deadline for entry proposals was coming up. 

Believe me, I had no aspirations to win a Pulitzer - just to submit my proposal and hope that fate was on my side to do the story. The chairman of the selection committee was Tom Hardin, the director of photography at the Louisville Courier Journal. When I decided to leave the Topeka Capital-Journal, Tom's newspaper was the only other one that I was interested in besides the Des Moines Register, and I had spent a couple of days their on a “recruiting” visit ten years ago. So I knew Tom … not that I felt that that gave me an advantage in this situation. 

So I entered the “contest” on a wing and a prayer and submitted my proposal. A few weeks passed, and I received a phone call from Tom. He said, “we need more specifics … give us a more detailed outline of your project and what you hope to accomplish.” He said that if I could do that convincingly, then the sabbatical was mine! So I followed up on his suggestion, and a week later he called me again and said “you got it”. I was thrilled, but also scared. Could I deliver the goods?

I worked out a plan with the Register to split the three months that I would be gone into three parts - one in the spring, one in the summer and one in the fall. That way, I could expand the time to include the planting/growing/harvest seasons, which would also hold some symbolism. It would also allow me to work on the project on my days off at the paper. The Register also agreed to let me use their film, and darkroom. A grand gesture, considering that they stiffed me on doing the project on their time and their dime. I swapped cars with my wife and drove her Ford Escort, which got better gas mileage than my Saab. She won on that exchange! 

So I was on my way, all alone with a Ford Escort, my cameras, a slew of ideas and no guarantees! Daunting! As I started to accumulate photos, I thought it wise to include the newspaper as a possible avenue for publishing the story. After all, it WAS an Iowa story. Every few weeks I would meet with the managing editor (the same one who turned me down) and spread photos on the floor of his office. He viewed them quietly and after a few sessions told me that he was wrong - the story was worth doing. 

The paper was gearing up to publish an ad-free 24-page supplement to run on December 7th. It would cost an extra $25,000 dollars to publish that had to be approved by the publisher. The word was spreading throughout Gannett (our owner) that this project “had Pulitzer written all over it.” I was not so confident. 

Just a few days before going to print, James Gannon, the editor of the newspaper, called me into his office to offer some advice. He thought that the tone of the story was “too sad” for our readers, and wondered if I could race out there again and find a young farm family, just starting out, that had purchased a foreclosed farm and was “making a go of it.” I said,"I’ll think about it,” then walked out of his office and dismissed it! I did the layout and editing myself and insisted on it being published that way. 

For the Pulitzer entry, I put the project together in a leather binder using 19 of my photos to tell the story, and also included the supplement. In late April of 1987, over five months after the project had been completed, I was driving back from Ottumwa, where I had done a freelance assignment for the National Geographic Kids Magazine. It was my day off from the newspaper. I had just gotten back into town, and had the radio on, tuned to a news station. It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon. 

As the news was being read I heard my name over the radio … “If Dave Peterson feels like a Pulitzer Prize winner today, it’s because he is.” I didn’t hear the rest of what he said, but suddenly turned into a parking lot and starting driving the car in circles. I was in a state of disbelief. I kept saying “no” to myself, thinking that it couldn’t be true! There was a phone booth (remember those) in the lot, and I called the newspaper. One of the staff photographers answered and said “WHERE ARE YOU!” I drove to the paper, entered the newsroom to a standing ovation. I may have been the last person in Iowa to know that I had won a Pulitzer! -- David Peterson