What does it mean when “home” becomes a luxury you can’t afford?

My generation is well past middle age (unless some of us plan to live to be 110), which means nostalgia with a side of yearning for what was. I see it on Facebook daily: those of us who moved away from our hometown of Butte, Montana, lamenting the fact that it has become too expensive. Many of us, even if we wanted to, couldn’t retire back where we started. Montana’s been colonized by California money and tech-worker remote dream homes, and the math no longer makes sense for the people who were born there.

I open every morning checking the weather, looking at my calendar, checking my reminders, and choosing a quote for the day. Today it was one from Maya Angelou: “I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” The question of “home” and what it means has been swirling around in my brain bucket for a while now. Especially since we are coming up on two years here in West Virginia. Is “home” the place you are born and raised, or is it something more profound? Maybe we aren’t so much yearning for a place, but a feeling. A feeling that unfortunately, is long gone. We are not the same people who were sitting around a fire in the woods blasting Guns N’ Roses, drinking cheap beer in a Solo cup. The world has moved on, and so have we.

For some context and history

Butte in 1989 (the year I graduated from Butte High School) was still licking wounds from decades of economic free-fall. The Anaconda copper mines had largely shut down through the 1970s and ‘80s, and the city had lost a third of its population. Homes were cheap because life in Butte was hard. The 1990 census recorded Montana’s statewide median home value at $56,600, but Butte consistently tracked below the state average, given its post-industrial depression. Local real estate records and historical estimates place the median single-family home in Butte-Silver Bow in the late 1980s somewhere in the range of $35,000 to $45,000. You could buy a three-bedroom house on a quiet street there for what a new car costs today. Solid bones, old wood, drafty windows; but yours.

Today: The Present Tally

The number has moved dramatically. The median sale price of a home in Butte was $300,000 as of late 2025, up 9.1% from the year prior.  Zillow pegs the typical home value at around $268,000, up 2.9% over the past year.  Depending on the source and methodology, the range runs roughly $268K–$300K for a median single-family home.

The Math

If that 1989 home was worth $40,000 then, and the same home is worth $280,000 now, that’s roughly a 600% increase, or about 7x the original value over 36 years. Adjusted for inflation, a $40,000 home in 1989 would be worth approximately $100,000 in today’s dollars, meaning real (inflation-adjusted) appreciation is still roughly 2.5x to 3x. In other words, Butte homeowners who bought before the millennium didn’t just keep pace with inflation; they built genuine wealth, even in a city the country largely forgot.

The Bigger Story

Butte’s run-up isn’t unique to it; it’s part of a Montana-wide reckoning. The median residential property in Montana was worth $378,000 as of early 2024, compared to $228,000 just four years before, a 66% increase driven largely by the pandemic-era migration surge.  Butte, historically one of the more affordable corners of the state, got swept up in that tide too.

The copper miners who built those houses in Butte’s hillside neighborhoods probably never imagined them cresting $300,000. But then again, they didn’t imagine a lot of what came after, either.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ Reality is, this isn’t simply a Montana issue. It is happening everywhere: mountain towns, coastal cities, rural places turned resort destinations. The drone of progress keeps moving forward and I suppose we can either keep moving forward as well or find ourselves left behind by those we love because they are our future. Not the pull of a past that is exactly that, the past.

This isn’t nostalgia. Nostalgia is soft-edged and voluntary, a choice to look backward with affection. This is something harder; economic exile. The place that made us has priced us out. We didn’t leave because we wanted to. We left because we had to, and now we can’t afford to return even if we tried. Home became a luxury good while we weren’t looking, and the door shut behind us without a sound. But is it a bad thing? Or, an opportunity like Maya Angelou said, to be at home wherever we find ourselves? Hmm…

The air is a little different here in West Virginia. It carries the scent of damp earth, woodsmoke, and a quiet, persistent kind of grit. Since moving here, I have spent my days navigating the winding trails of the New River Gorge and the equally winding complexities of running a community focused non-profit. Through it all, I have been reminded of a simple truth: Growth requires both deep roots and the courage to move.

In my work at the Mercer Street Bicycle Co-Op, I see people daily who are looking for a way to get from where they are to where they want to be. They need the right gears, a steady frame, and a bit of momentum. Business is no different. Whether you are running a boutique on a historic Main Street or a tech focused startup in the heart of Appalachia, the "chain grease" of daily operations can sometimes make you lose sight of the horizon.

That is why I founded Latchkey Connect, LLC.

Why "Latchkey"?

For many of us, being a "latchkey kid" meant independence, resourcefulness, and figuring out how to make a meal out of what was in the pantry. It taught us to be self-reliant, but as adults in business, we eventually learn that we cannot and should not do it all alone.

I do not offer "hustle culture" or hollow promises of overnight success. Instead, I offer gentle, strategic coaching rooted in real life textures. My approach is a blend of:

* Marketing with Heart: Tapping into the unique tourism and local markets that make our region special.

* Operational Grit: Cleaning up the systems that slow you down so you can focus on the work you love.

* Empathetic Growth: Leadership that values patience as a superpower and people as your greatest asset.

Let’s Find the Light Together

I believe in telling the truth without flinching. If your marketing feels stagnant or your operations feel like a tangled chain, we will look at it together, find the snag, and get you moving again.

West Virginia is on the verge of an incredible economic shift, particularly in the outdoor and tourism sectors. There is so much room for us all to grow, but we have to be intentional about how we build.

If you are a small business owner feeling the weight of the "dark spots" or simply looking for a steady hand to help you navigate the next climb, I would love to talk. Let’s turn those childhood scrapes into the wisdom that fuels your next big adventure.

Are you ready to find your momentum? I am currently accepting a limited number of new coaching clients for the upcoming season.

The new year has brought more than just cold air and fresh starts. It’s brought a new set of rules for how we give, and for the first time in a long time, the tax code is finally noticing the "everyday" donor—the ones who provide the kitchen-light hope our communities need to stay warm.

Starting this month, your personal "small" gifts now officially count toward lowering your taxable income, even if you don't itemize. It’s a gentle reminder that every bit of resilience matters.

But for our businesses, the trail has gotten a bit steeper. With new "floor" rules for itemizers and corporations, we have to be more strategic about how we document our grit.

I’ve written a steady-footed guide to help you navigate these changes. It’s plainspoken, poetic, and anchored in the real-life textures of business, the parts that don't always make it onto a spreadsheet.

Inside the Guide:

• How to use the Universal Deduction to your advantage.

• Navigating the 1% Floor for your corporation.

• A checklist for Grit-Tested Documentation to protect your peace of mind.

I’m offering this as a resource for the Latchkey Connect community because I believe that when we share the light, the whole trail gets easier to walk.

Download Guide

Thank you for being part of this journey. Keep moving toward the light.

Jamie

Some days, running a small Appalachian business feels like trying to get someone’s attention across a holler. Your voice echoing off the ridge, hoping it lands in the right ears. Facebook can feel the same way. There’s just so much noise. So many polished posts sliding by like rain on a windshield.

That’s why Facebook Live hits differently. It’s the crack in the door that lets people see the real light inside your shop. The porch-swing version of marketing: slow, unpolished, honest, human. Folks don’t come for perfection. They come for connection.

And in mountain towns, connection is the currency that keeps us all going.

I remember the first time I saw a local maker go live. She didn’t wait for the backdrop to be perfect or for her hair to behave. She clicked “Start Live Video” right there in her workshop with sawdust in her bangs and a fresh mug of coffee steaming at her elbow. People showed up in the comments like neighbors wandering into the yard.

“Morning!”
“That cutting board is gorgeous!”
“Is that the walnut from down in Greenbrier?”

Within ten minutes she’d sold three pieces and had six custom requests lined up. Not because she had a sales script, but because she was present. Real. Unfiltered as creek water.

That’s the magic of Live.

It’s the closest thing to inviting someone into your space without them needing to find parking on Mercer Street or climb your porch steps.

If you’re a maker, a shopkeeper, or someone managing a little dream tucked between the hills, think of Facebook Live like turning on your “Open” sign in a digital world.

You can use it to:

• Let folks peek behind the curtain: the stitching, the sanding, the roasting, the prepping.
• Show new arrivals the minute they hit the counter.
• Sell in real time the way people used to at flea markets and church bazaars.
• Tell the stories that make your products worth more than their price tag.

And people want those stories. They want to hear how the maple was salvaged from an old barn in Summers County or how your grandmother taught you to make that pepper jelly recipe. They want to know why the shop smells like cedar and coffee and a little bit of hope.

We forget how hungry folks are for real.

A good Live isn’t about polish. It’s about presence.

Talk like you would talk to someone standing right in front of you. Move the camera closer when you want to show detail. Step back when you want to give the room context. Laugh when you forget what you were saying. People love that.

If you stumble on your words, shrug and keep going. If your dog wanders into frame and steals the show, let him. That’s Appalachia. That’s real life. That’s you.

And the truth is, Live videos build trust faster than any ad or boosted post ever could. They show your hands. Your pace. Your heartbeat. They remind your customers that you’re not some faceless business. You’re a neighbor trying to make a living in a place that has seen its fair share of boom, bust, and brave rebuilding.

If you decide to try it, here’s a little rhythm that works more often than not:

Start with a wave, even if only two people are there.
Share what you’re doing today and why.
Show the product.
Tell the story behind it.
Drop the price without apologizing.
Answer questions like you’re chatting across a counter.
Invite folks to message you to claim something.
And end the Live the same way you’d send someone off from your shop: kindly, warmly, with thanks.

That’s it. Nothing complicated. No fancy gear. Just you and your work and the courage to be seen doing it.

In these hills, we’ve always traded on relationships more than algorithms. Facebook Live just gives us a wider front porch. A way to gather without needing to be in the same zip code.

When you go Live, you aren’t shouting you’re lighting a lantern. And people, by nature, drift toward what feels warm and real.

Your business has that warmth in spades. Let them see it.

Last week, I completed the West Virginia Tourism Office’s Certified Destination Specialist program through Blue Ridge Community and Technical College. It wasn’t just another course to check off. It felt like being handed a set of keys — keys to unlock a deeper understanding of the state I now call home.

West Virginia is often branded by outsiders as wild, beautiful, and almost mythic, but what I took away from the program was more grounded: tourism isn’t just about trails, rivers, and overlooks. It’s about people. It’s about small businesses, family-owned shops, roadside cafés, artists, and makers who turn a visit into a memory.

As a Gen Xer, I grew up in a world where we were told to entertain ourselves—the latchkey kids, raised on microwaves, mixtapes, and the art of independence. That spirit is what I carry into my company, Latchkey Connect, LLC. We know how to bridge worlds, how to connect dots that don’t seem to line up at first glance. We’ve been doing it since we were left alone after school with MTV and Tang.

The course gave me something new to bring to the table when I sit down with small business owners in southern West Virginia. It sharpened the lens on what I already believed: that local businesses can and should tap into the tourism market, because travelers aren’t just buying coffee or renting a bike—they’re buying a piece of West Virginia’s story.

Branding, marketing, advertising—these aren’t abstract strategies. They’re storytelling tools. And when used well, they help an innkeeper in Mercer County, a bike shop in Princeton, or a craftsperson in Bluefield not just sell a product, but invite someone into the experience of Appalachia.

Tourism is no longer something that just “happens” around us. It’s something we can actively shape. And with this certification in hand, I feel more equipped to help local businesses write themselves into that story.

It’s the same Gen X lesson I’ve carried all along: no one is going to hand you the script. You make your own. And in doing so, you help others see the value that’s always been here, waiting to be noticed.

For me, the problems in West Virginia are ones I have experienced in the few places I have lived, and frankly, my dears pale to the one BIG reason this place appealed to me: KINDNESS and RESPECT.

I thought I might have imagined it when we visited. But, from the moment we rolled into town, sweaty and very tired of being in our vehicles, it was still there. People apologized for being in my path at the grocery store; the most significant thing was that they even noticed they were. Stopping to let you cross the street at unmarked intersections, stopping to let you out during high traffic times when you are trying to turn from a parking lot, and being enthusiastic about seeing you even though they have no idea who you are.

Now not everyone is Mary Poppins and Sunshine, but I have a sneaky suspicion they may be transplants from somewhere else (the no accent is what gives them and myself away), or they are having a crappy day. But, when the feel-good interactions outnumber the bad, you are on to something.

There is also something about going from a place where almost everyone knows your name to a place where literally only two people know who you are. I find myself not worrying so much if someone will see me out in the front yard with Ollie (if you are joining us for the first time, he is our ten-year-old Chihuahua Jack Russell mix fur baby), with bedhead hair and my Star Wars communicator emblem pajama pants.

I do admit that I still can't get myself to go out to shop, eat, or play without at least some makeup and bedhead tucked under a ball cap, and I will NEVER be "out" in my pajama pants, but I am seeing the appeal of not having to be put together. My beautiful husband said he prefers seeing me without all my makeup and looking a bit grubby. So there is that.

My dress pants have moved further back on the clothing rack, and my new daily uniform has become blue jeans, t-shirts, and tennis shoes. The one thing I won't give up is my sparkle and array of jackets and blazers. I don't always have to look like I am out camping, LOL! There is a benefit to the new look, though; we have a lot of cleaning and repairs to do, and it works better to be in jeans and T's. I mean, how many file folder holders does an eye doctor need to be screwed to the walls?! (An eye doctor once owned the commercial building we purchased in downtown Princeton on Mercer Street).

We are finally settling into our "new" daily routines now that the oldest and the youngest are set up (mostly) over at the Church Street house with their two cats. We have everything except a few things, like a desk for me, a BBQ, and a few other things at the Hill Street house for Tom, Thomas, and me, and the work has begun to clean up and turn the Mercer Street building into what its next life will be. The kids have finally figured out their new jobs are helping to fix, repair, and remodel so we can get some income coming in, and we are taking some time to explore our new home.

Tom's birthday was on Thursday, and we celebrated with cake and ice cream with all the kids. I found a camouflage cake, which seemed appropriate. There is a running joke between Tom and me that he will get me to start wearing camo, to which I keep telling him no way unless it is full of sequins.

We spent the last couple of nights outside watching the lightning bugs put on a show in the backyard, and last night, we went to see "Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga" at the local theater here in Bluefield, the Raleigh Street Cinema. I can't remember when our entire family could see a movie together for less than $100, but it happened yesterday. Next time we go, I will make everyone walk to the theater since it is only a mile and a half from where we live. Who doesn't like exercise and entertainment rolled into one!

There is so much more to explore, but we also have to get some work done, so updates about the area will be mixed in with progress reports on our projects.

Our next big personal project is getting all our licenses, IDs, and vehicles switched from Idaho to West Virginia. Doing that will help make us all feel like this isn't simply an extended vacation; we are home. But, for now, we are going to enjoy the long weekend.

As the title suggests, and so many people asked when we said we were making this cross-country move, this will explain why. Or, maybe not explain, instead paint a picture as it unfolded in my head.

Let's fade out and start where this next great adventure began. Now, bear with me; this will sound like missing marbles to some. My entire life, I have felt like a square peg trying to shove myself into a round hole (using that phrase in honor of my husband; he likes to use it often).

I grew up in Montana, where we did many "Montana" things: camping, fishing, huckleberry picking, backwoods keg parties, and horseback riding. I even went on a cattle drive (granted, it was only from the upper field to the lower field for branding, but it was an all-day affair) and occasionally learned how to shoot.

There were things I loved and things that I didn't. I loved horseback riding, camping, and huckleberry picking; occasionally, the backwoods parties could be amusing. The other stuff bored me or seemed like a colossal waste of my time. I was not a great white hunter or a pro fisher person. After one of my best friends, Jenny, and I shot each other with the BB Gun to see how it felt, guns of any kind became a form of protection if needed, not something I was going to be using for sport or rodent control. By the way, I don't recommend letting your best friend shoot you in the ass with a BB gun because she may miss and hit you in the back, and that shit really, really hurts! Square peg - Round hole.

From a young age, I always said I would not get married; children were definitely out of the picture. Fast forward past high school graduation, a move to Los Angeles (a story for another time), move back to Montana, then to Idaho in 1991, where I would get married and have three beautiful children. For 31 years, I called Idaho home (there were two years in between when we lived in Kent, WA, another story for another time). For a time, this square peg felt like a round peg, a bit rough around the edges, but it fit.

My roller-coaster marriage finally found its stride as I grew, and my children blossomed into adults. Then, something in the world shifted. People want to blame the pandemic; it started long before that. The events during COVID only seemed to add more coal to the fire to send the train careening downhill. Our small town was becoming something I didn't recognize, making my rough edges look square, which started the search for some sandpaper.

My husband, Tom, had found his stride in Lake City Bicycle Co-Op, the non-profit we started that provides bikes to kids who otherwise wouldn't have the means to have one. I had finally landed in a position with the Post Falls Chamber of Commerce; my dream job rolled into one fabulous package. Our children appeared happy and healthy. I felt my edges smoothing. But, alas, it would not last.

Many people had moved to our community who claimed they did for our way of life. Still, they quickly tried to force their ideologies onto everyone around them, picking up the outliers who had always been in our community. Rhetoric started to become mainstream. A movement began to ban books, a group of knuckleheads were bankrupting and causing the potential loss of our community college, the hate of the Aryan Nations that was gone from our community resurfaced in a more sinister way, and kindness seemed to drain away except in the corners where those of us kept stoking the fire.

Our slice of Idaho, where a family could earn a living and buy a house, evaporated for over 75% of the local population, including my family. Rent became insane, but luckily, we found a place in Post Falls where all my adult children could live with us and share the burden of the monthly rent. It would mean we would be living paycheck to paycheck, saving a bit for minor emergencies, but if rent went up any higher or one of us couldn't work for whatever reason, we would have to make some tough decisions.

Then something unexpected happened. Every year for the five years I worked at the North Idaho Small Business Development Center (where I was before the Post Falls Chamber), I bought a raffle ticket for the North Idaho College house giveaway. Well, I won. Yes, an entire house valued at $590,000. Now, it sounds fabulous, but there are some things like Federal taxes that you pay before you get the title, as it is considered income. Luckily, we could borrow over $114,000 to pay those and take possession of the house.

Should we move into the house, use it as an income property, or sell it? Those were the questions, but there was only one answer. A $30,000 plus state tax bill would still be due in April; we needed to pay back the borrowed money, and what opportunities would be available if we had the cash. We sold it and paid off all our credit card debt. Tom fixed up a vintage truck he had been working on for a year, and I had a lot of dental work that was now possible (broken teeth are no picnic, but you learn to deal). The rest of the money we put into CDs and high-yield savings accounts that, at the time, were earning 5% interest while we looked locally for a house to buy that would accommodate the entire family, but unless we used all the cash, purchasing something locally without still having a monthly mortgage payment was not possible. It would only change our situation a little.

It did get us thinking about actually moving to another state. Can we purchase something for cash that still leaves us some money as a safety net? Where would that even be? The research started, and ultimately, life events turned us in a direction my husband hadn't considered. The youngest and I had already been looking at East Coast states as there were still places where you could find something to buy under 200,000.

West Virginia came onto the radar when Tom's dad passed away. He grew up in Welch, WV, but he and his family moved to Idaho when he was around 11. Neither of us had been to West Virginia, but after his father's passing, we thought it might be a good time to check out where he ultimately came from. Find the family cemetery where his grandfather and other relatives reside and place some of his father's ashes there. Before we went, we looked at home prices, the economy, climate, and all the things because you never know; maybe we will find something to buy where we could ultimately retire.

The universe had other plans for us. What we discovered was a depressed economy that was making a comeback, much like where we come from once had been. Friendly people outnumbered the angry, a far cry from what we had been experiencing. Now, this will sound ridiculous, but I felt like I was home. We contacted an agent and started to look at homes while we were here. Before we left, we had put in offers. Ultimately, after some deals didn't go through for half our cash, we purchased two homes in Bluefield and a commercial building in Princeton. They all need work, but we have cash left to fix them and still money to live on while we work on income.

Our entire family was moving to West Virginia to start on our next (and probably last) GREAT adventure. We could leave something to our kids that would provide them with future income, create a family business as we fixed up the properties, and finally slow down to take a breather. Don't get me wrong; I still feel like a square peg, and the world is a round hole, but for some reason, here, I don't care.

So, back to the original question: Why West Virginia? My answer to that is, Why NOT?!

**Stay tuned as I plan on writing more about this new grand adventure, and for more daily updates, follow me over on the socials. See ya'all later!**

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