Glenfield, N.D. -- For the first time in five months, Janet Morgan was on her way to work -- a happy occasion diminished only by what now was required to get there. She packed 13 boxes into the bed of her rusted pickup, careful to include what she considered her "survival items." Family photographs would help her stave off loneliness. A 5,000-piece puzzle would prevent boredom. Instructional Spanish audiotapes would offer simulated conversation.
Morgan, 63, loaded all of it into the truck before dawn one recent Saturday and left her home in Zanesville, Ohio. She drove past the technology companies that had repeatedly denied her applications, continued out of Ohio and then through Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin and Minnesota. She traveled for 20 hours and 1,032 miles until finally she came upon a field of hay bales and prairie grass, a deserted horizon interrupted by one towering road sign: "Welcome to North Dakota -- Feel the Spirit!"
"Am I crazy?" Morgan said shortly after she crossed into the state. "There's nothing out here but open space."
Open space and open jobs, which is why Morgan and thousands of others have moved to North Dakota during the past year. The state, once known primarily for its remoteness, is enjoying a new reputation as a haven amid economic collapse. It has the country's lowest unemployment rate at 4.2 percent, a budget surplus of $1.2 billion and more than 9,000 unfilled jobs. North Dakotans, conservative by nature, avoided risky loans that elsewhere wreaked havoc on banks and real estate, and the state's agriculture and energy industries continued to grow at a record pace. Here, this is what passes for an economic problem: "We've been presented with the challenge of filling a wide array of open jobs," said Shane Goettle, the state's commerce commissioner.
North Dakota officials held a series of job fairs this year in states decimated by the recession and hired a talent recruiter to create a glitzy Web site to woo those looking for work. In June, Morgan stumbled upon the site and e-submitted a resume that listed interests in communications, banking and teaching piano. She received an e-mail reply within hours: "Hi Janet. Yes, there will be a job for you here."
That is how Morgan ended up driving across North Dakota last week, the contents of her life packed into a 1991 Nissan with 229,000 miles on it and no power steering. Usually, Morgan liked to keep her speed at less than 50 mph. But on straight, flat roads that sometimes stretched on for miles without sight of another car, the 75-mph speed limit suddenly felt restrictive. She flipped through the radio dial and heard only static. Then she pulled out her cell phone and called her mother.
"I'm here," Morgan said.
"How is it?" her mother said.
"I don't know yet, but it's different."
On her way home from seeking a job on the West Coast, she had swung through Bismarck, N.D. She had never visited the state before and was pleasantly surprised to find "some civilization, like an Olive Garden and a Best Buy." The local paper published articles about a thriving economy; dozens of businesses hung "Help Wanted" signs. Morgan collected a handful of job applications and drove back to Ohio. Maybe in North Dakota, she thought, there existed enough jobs to accommodate someone who was "short, fat and old." She applied for a low-wage position at a Bismarck area call center. A few days later, the company called to make an offer.
Morgan accepted immediately, desperate for the cash and open to adventure.
At 6:45 a.m. Monday, she arrived in Bismarck and parked her truck in front of a red brick building adjacent to a Super Wal-Mart. She changed into a fancy blouse and black sneakers and reported to work. In a training session, she learned how to answer phone calls from people who had dialed 1-800 numbers to complain about their cereal. At her cubicle, one of dozens set in identical rows, she found a sterilized phone that rang with calls from California, Michigan and Ohio.
A new life required a new home, so Morgan finished her first day of work and drove to see a house she had discovered on the Internet. The cheapest rental apartments in Bismarck cost $350 per month, and she figured she could save money by buying. She drove through cornfields for more than an hour before reaching Glenfield, a town of 75 bisected by two country roads. It sits 30 miles from the nearest restaurant and 45 miles from the closest grocery store. A few locals saw Morgan's unfamiliar truck and assumed she had lost her way en route to the local tourist attraction, an albino buffalo fenced in a few miles down the road.
The house from the Internet turned out to be a mobile home with an addition, unoccupied for three years and spotted with mildew. Water from the sink ran a murky brown, and Morgan worried about the presence of rats. But there were apple and apricot trees out front, plus a wishing well from where she could watch sunsets bathe the prairie in gold. She decided to buy it.
"I always thought that if I won the lottery I would buy a big piece of land in the middle of nowhere and put a fence around it," Morgan said. "Maybe this is as close as I'm going to get."
What happened next made Morgan realize just how different life would be in North Dakota. The purchase price: $7,500. The down payment: $100. The closing date: How about right now, if the local lawyer is still in his office? The paperwork: one short form, requiring one signature. The attorney's fee: $10.
Fabian Noack, the area's only lawyer for 48 years, was indeed in his office, sitting at a desk and listening to music on a record player. Morgan walked in with the father and son who had agreed to sell her the house, and Noack stood up to greet them.
"You must be the new woman," he said to Morgan. "Where are you from?"
"Ohio."
"Really? Ohio?"
"Yes. Ohio."
"That's a ways. What are you doing here?"
"I moved for a job."
"All the way from Ohio?"
"Yes."
"OK. Well then, welcome. I believe you'll find things a little simpler up here."
Fifteen minutes later, Morgan owned a home in Glenfield. She drove back into town, passing the post office and general store that formed Main Street. It was getting dark, so she carried a few of her boxes into the house. She placed her family photos and a college diploma on a shelf in the living room and then sat on a stool in her dark kitchen.
"It's so quiet in here," she said.
She wondered if there was a friend she could call, then remembered that her cell phone lacked a signal. She thought about turning on a television, then figured it would receive only a few channels.
Out of ideas, Morgan stood up to get ready for bed. She picked an outfit for the next day and set her alarm clock for 4:15 a.m. The ring would awaken her to a dark house, to an empty living room, to an unfamiliar town and a state filled with strangers -- to her second day with a job.