HUDSON, Wis. (AP) 鈥� A word -- 鈥淗ope鈥� -- is stitched onto a throw pillow in the little hilltop farmhouse. Photographs of children and grandchildren speckle the walls. In the kitchen, an envelope is decorated with a hand-drawn heart. 鈥淗appy Birthday, My Love,鈥� it reads.
Out front, past a pair of century-old cottonwoods, the neighbors鈥� cornfields reach into the distance.
John Kraft loves this place. He loves the quiet and the space. He loves that you can drive for miles without passing another car.
But out there? Out beyond the cornfields, to the little western Wisconsin towns turning into commuter suburbs, and to the cities growing ever larger?
Out there, he says, is a country that many Americans wouldn鈥檛 recognize.
It鈥檚 a dark place, dangerous, where freedom is under attack by a tyrannical government, few officials can be trusted and clans of neighbors might someday have to band together to protect one another. It鈥檚 a country where the most basic beliefs -- in faith, family, liberty -- are threatened.
And it鈥檚 not just about politics anymore.
鈥淚t鈥檚 no longer left versus right, Democrat versus Republican,鈥� says Kraft, a software architect and data analyst. 鈥淚t鈥檚 straight up good versus evil.鈥�
He knows how he sounds. He鈥檚 felt the contempt of people who see him as a fanatic, a conspiracy theorist.
But he鈥檚 a hero in a growing right-wing conservative movement that has rocketed to prominence here in St. Croix County.
Just a couple years ago, their talk of Marxism, government crackdowns and secret plans to destroy family values would have put them at the far fringes of the Republican Party.
But not anymore. Today, despite midterm elections that failed to see the sweeping Republican victories that many had predicted, they remain a cornerstone of the conservative electoral base. Across the country, victories went to candidates who believe in QAnon and candidates who believe the separation of church and state is a fallacy. In Wisconsin, a U.S. senator who dabbles in conspiracy theories and pseudoscience - crushing his opponent in St. Croix County.
They are farmers and business analysts. They are stay-at-home mothers, graphic designers and insurance salesmen.
They live in communities where crime is almost nonexistent and Cub Scouts hold $5 spaghetti-lunch fundraisers at American Legion halls.
And they live with something else.
Sometimes it鈥檚 anger. Sometimes sadness. Every once in a while it鈥檚 fear.
All of this can be hard to see, hidden behind the throw pillows and the gently rolling hills. But spend some time in this corner of Wisconsin. Have a drink or two in the small-town bars. Sit with parents cheering kids at the county rodeo. Attend Sunday services.
Try to see America through their eyes.
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There鈥檚 a joke people sometimes tell around here: Democrats take Exit 1 off I-94; Republicans go at least three exits farther.
The first exit off the freeway leads to Hudson, a onetime ragged-at-the-edges riverside town that has become a place of carefully tended 19th-century homes and tourists wandering main street boutiques. With 14,000 people, it鈥檚 the largest town in St. Croix County. It's also replete with Democrats.
The Republicans start at Exit 4, the joke says, beyond a neutral zone of generic sprawl: a Target, a Home Depot, a thicket of chain restaurants.
鈥淔or some people out here, Hudson might be (as far away as) South Dakota or California,鈥� says Mark Carlson, who lives off exit 16 in an old log cabin now covered in light blue siding. He doesn't go into Hudson often. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 meet many liberals.鈥�
Carlson is a friendly man who exudes gentleness, loves to cook, rarely leaves home without a pistol and believes despotism looms over America.
鈥淭here鈥檚 a plan to lead us from within toward socialism, Marxism, communism-type of government,鈥� says Carlson, a St. Croix County supervisor who recently retired after 20 years working at a juvenile detention facility and is now a part-time Uber driver.
He was swept into office earlier this year when insurgent right-wing conservatives created a powerful local voting bloc, energized by fury over COVID lockdowns, vaccination mandates and the unrest that shook the country after George Floyd was murdered by a policeman in Minneapolis, just 45 minutes away.
In early 2020 they took control of the county Republican Party, driving away leaders they deride as pawns of a weak-kneed establishment, and helped put well over a dozen people in elected positions across the county.
In their America, the U.S. government orchestrated COVID fears to cement its power, the IRS is buying up huge stocks of ammunition and former President Barack Obama may be the country鈥檚 most powerful person.
But they are not caricatures. Not even Carlson, a bearded, gun-owning white guy who voted for former President Donald Trump.
鈥淚鈥檓 just a normal person,鈥� he says, sitting on a sofa, next to a picture window overlooking the large garden that he and his wife tend. 鈥淭hey don鈥檛 realize that we mean well.鈥�
He's a complicated man. While even he admits he might accurately be called a right-wing extremist, he calls peaceful Black protesters 鈥渞ighteous鈥� for taking to the streets after Floyd鈥檚 murder. He doubts there was fraud in the midterm elections. He drives a Tesla. He loves AC/DC and makes his own organic yogurt. In an area where Islam is sometimes viewed with open hostility, he's a conservative Christian who says he鈥檇 back the area's small Muslim community if they wanted to open a mosque here.
鈥淏uild your mosque, of course! That鈥檚 the American way!鈥�
He believes, deeply, that America doesn't need to be bitterly divided.
鈥淟iberalism and conservatism aren鈥檛 that far apart. You can be pro-American, pro-constitutional. You just want bigger government programs. I want less.鈥�
鈥淲e can work together," he says. "We don't have to, like, hate each other.鈥�
Repeatedly, he and the county鈥檚 other right-wing conservatives insist they don鈥檛 want violence.
But violence often seems to be looming as they talk, hazy images of government thugs or antifa rioters or health officers seizing children from parents.
And weapons are a big part of their self-proclaimed 鈥減atriot鈥� movement. The Second Amendment and the belief that Americans have a right to overthrow tyrannical governments are foundational principles.
鈥淚鈥檓 not a big gun guy,鈥� says Carlson, whose weapons include pistols, a shotgun, an AR-15 rifle, 10 loaded magazines and about 1,000 additional rounds. 鈥淔or a lot of people that鈥檚 just a start.鈥�
That cocktail of weaponry and politics concerns plenty of people outside of their circles.
Liberal voters, along with many establishment Republicans, worry that men in tactical clothing can now occasionally be seen at public gatherings. They worry that some people are now too afraid to be campaign volunteers. They worry that many locals think twice about wearing Democratic T-shirts in public, even in Hudson.
Paul Hambleton, who lives in Hudson and works with the county Democratic Party, found comfort in the midterm election results, which even some Republicans say could signal a repudiation of Trump and his most extreme supporters.
"I don鈥檛 feel the menace like I was feeling it before" the vote, Hambleton says. 鈥淚 think this election showed that people can be brave, that they can stick their necks out.鈥�
He spent years teaching in small-town St. Croix County, where the population has grown from 43,000 in 1980 to about 95,000 today. He watched over the years as the student body shifted. Farmers鈥� children gave way to the children of people who commute to work in the Twin Cities. Racial minorities became a small but growing presence.
He understands why the changes might make some people nervous.
鈥淭here is a rural way of life that people feel is being threatened here, a small town way of life,鈥� he says.
But he鈥檚 also a hunter who saw how hard it was to buy ammunition after the 2020 protests, when firearm sales soared across America. For nearly two years, the shelves were almost bare.
鈥淚 found that menacing,鈥� says Hambleton. 鈥淏ecause no way is that deer hunters buying up so much ammunition.鈥�
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When the newly empowered conservatives get together it鈥檚 often at an Irish bar in a freeway strip mall. Next door is the little county GOP office where you can pick up Republican yard signs and $15 travel mugs that proclaim 鈥淣ormal Is Not Coming Back -- Jesus Is.鈥�
Paddy Ryan鈥檚 is the closest thing they have to a clubhouse. One afternoon in late summer, Matt Rust was there talking about the media.
鈥淚 think they鈥檙e an arm of a much larger global effort by very rich powerful people to control as much of the world as possible,鈥� says Rust, a designer and product developer who can quote large parts of the U.S. Constitution from memory. 鈥淎nd I don鈥檛 think that鈥檚 anything new. It鈥檚 always been that way,鈥� from ancient Persian rulers to Adolf Hitler.
鈥淚s that a conspiracy or is that just human nature?鈥� he asks. 鈥淚 think it鈥檚 just human nature.鈥�
Today, polls indicate that about 60% of Republicans don鈥檛 believe President Joe Biden was legitimately elected. Around a third refuse to get the COVID vaccine.
, the Georgia Republican known for her conspiratorial accusations and violent rhetoric, is a political star. and its universe of conspiracies. In Wisconsin, Sen. Ron Johnson, a fierce denier of the 2020 election who has suggested the dangers of COVID are overblown, won his third term on Nov. 8.
This seems impossible to many Americans. How can you dismiss the avalanche of evidence that voter fraud was nearly non-existent in 2020? How do you ignore thousands of scientists insisting vaccines are safe? How do you believe QAnon, a movement born from anonymous internet posts?
But news in this world doesn鈥檛 come from the Associated Press or CNN. It only rarely comes from major conservative media, like Fox News.
Where does it come from?
鈥淭he internet,鈥� said Scott Miller, a 40-year-old sales analyst and a prominent local gun-rights activist. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 where everybody gets their news these days.鈥�
Very often that means right-wing podcasts and videos that bounce around in social media feeds or on the encrypted messaging service Telegram.
It鈥檚 a media microcosm with its own vocabulary -- Event 201, the Regime, democide, the Parallel Economy -- that invites blank stares from outsiders.
While many reports are little more than angry recitations of right-wing talking points, some are sophisticated and believable.
Take 鈥淪election Code,鈥� a highly produced hour-long attack on the 2020 election underwritten by Trump ally Mike Lindell, the MyPillow CEO. It has the look of a 鈥�60 Minutes鈥� piece, tells a complex story and uses unexpected sources to make some of its main points.
Like Hillary Clinton.
鈥淎s we look at our election system, I think it鈥檚 fair to say there are many legitimate questions about its accuracy, about its integrity,鈥� the then-senator is shown saying in a 2005 Senate speech, questioning the reelection of former President George W. Bush.
Miller laughs.
鈥淚鈥檒l give the Democrats credit. At least they had the courage to stand up and point it out.鈥�
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Cornfields come right up to the country church, deep in rural St. Croix County and just down the road from a truck stop Denny鈥檚. The closest town, Wilson, is little more than a half-dozen streets, a post office and the Wingin鈥� It Bar and Grill.
From the pulpit of Calvary Assembly of God, Pastor Rick Mannon preaches a Christianity that resonates deeply among this type of conservatives, with strict lines of good and evil and little hesitation to wade into cultural and political issues. He pushed back hard against COVID restrictions.
It鈥檚 an outpost in the culture wars tearing at America, and a haven for people who feel shoved aside by a changing nation.
鈥淚f Christians don鈥檛 get involved in politics, then we shouldn鈥檛 have a say,鈥� Mannon says in an interview. 鈥淲e can鈥檛 just let evil win.鈥�
Religion, once one of America鈥檚 tightest social bonds, has changed dramatically over the past few decades, with the overall number of people who identify as Christian plunging from the early 1970s, even as membership in conservative Christian denominations surged.
From churches like Calvary Assembly, they鈥檝e watched as gay marriage was legalized, as trans rights became a national issue, as Christianity, at least in their eyes, came under attack by pronoun-proclaiming liberals.
It鈥檚 hard to overstate how much cultural changes have shaped the right wing of American conservatism.
Beliefs about family and sexuality that were commonplace when Kraft was growing up in a Milwaukee suburb in the late 1970s and early 1980s, tinkering with electronics with his father, now can mark people like him as outcasts in the wider world.
鈥淚f you say anything negative about trans people, or if you say 鈥橧 feel sorry for you. This is a clinical diagnosis鈥� ... Well, you are a bigot,鈥� says Kraft, 58, a member of Mannon鈥檚 congregation. 鈥淧eople with normal, mainstream family values- - churchgoing, believing in God -- suddenly it鈥檚 something they should be ostracized for.鈥�
But in today's world, words like 鈥渘ormal鈥� don鈥檛 mean what they once did.
That infuriates Kraft, who energized the Republican Party of St. Croix County as its leader but after a quote on the party's website - 鈥淚f you want peace, prepare for war鈥� - set off a public firestorm. He moved to a neighboring county earlier this year.
He ticks off the accusations leveled at people like him: sexist, homophobic, racist.
But such talk, he says, has lost its power.
鈥淣ow it鈥檚 just noise. It鈥檚 lost all its meaning.鈥�
___
The plans, if they are mentioned at all, are spoken of quietly.
But sit in enough small-town bars, drive enough small-town roads, and you鈥檒l occasionally hear people talk about what they intend to do if things go really bad for America.
There are the solar panels if the electricity grid fails. There鈥檚 extra gasoline for cars and diesel for generators. There are shelves of non-perishable food, sometimes enough to last for months.
There are the guns, though that is almost never discussed with outsiders.
鈥淚鈥檝e got enough,鈥� says one man, sitting in a Hudson coffee shop.
鈥淚 would rather not get into that with a reporter,鈥� says Kraft.
The fears here are mostly about crime and civil unrest. People still talk about the 2020 protests, when they say you could stand in Hudson and see the distant glow of fires in Minneapolis. That frightened many people, and not just conservative Republicans.
But there are other fears, too. About government crackdowns. About firearm seizures. About the possibility that people might have to take up arms against their own government.
Those prospects seem distant, murky, including to the self-declared patriots. The most dire possibilities are spoken about only theoretically.
Still, they are spoken about.
鈥淚 pray it will always be that the overthrow is at the ballot box,鈥� says Carlson, who seems genuinely pained at the idea of violence.
鈥淲e don鈥檛 want to use guns,鈥� he continues. 鈥淭hat would be just horrible.鈥�
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Follow Tim Sullivan on Twitter at @ByTimSullivan
Tim Sullivan, The Associated Press