By Rodger Morrow, Editor & Publisher, Beaver County Business
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In 1968—an excellent year for protests, polyester, and ill-considered social experiments—a scientist named John B. Calhoun built what he believed was a rodent paradise.
It was called Universe 25. The mice had unlimited food, unlimited water, and no predators. There were no bills to pay, no hawks overhead, and no PennDOT detours. If mice could write real estate listings, this place would have been described as move-in ready, walkable, with great amenities.
Within four years, every last mouse was dead.
Calhoun’s experiment has been making the rounds again, usually accompanied by ominous YouTube thumbnails and the phrase “This predicts our future.” Normally, I greet such claims the way a Beaver Countian greets a national trend piece explaining small towns: with one eyebrow raised and a hand still firmly on my wallet.
But this time, the analogy sticks uncomfortably well.
The Death of Spirit (With Free Snacks)
The collapse of Universe 25 didn’t come from famine or violence. It came from something worse: meaninglessness.
As the mouse population grew, social roles filled up. There were no new niches to occupy, no responsibilities to assume, no need to struggle, build, or contribute. Mice born into this world inherited comfort—but not purpose.
Out of this abundance emerged a group Calhoun called “the Beautiful Ones.” They didn’t fight. They didn’t mate. They didn’t defend territory or raise young. They ate, slept, and groomed themselves obsessively. They were flawless on the outside and empty on the inside.
Calhoun called what followed “the first death”—the death of spirit. Physical extinction came later, but by then, it was just paperwork.
Welcome to Phase Three
The uncomfortable suggestion floating around today is that we’re running our own version of Universe 25, only with better lighting and Wi-Fi.
We live in the most materially abundant society in human history, yet loneliness is everywhere. Teenagers—armed with smartphones that can reach anyone on Earth—report being the loneliest demographic. The U.S. Surgeon General has compared chronic loneliness to smoking fifteen cigarettes a day, which is impressive considering cigarettes at least invite you outside.
Birth rates in wealthy nations are collapsing. South Korea’s fertility rate has dropped to 0.72—below the level needed to keep the lights on, let alone the culture. Across the globe, we see new vocabulary emerge for quiet withdrawal: hikikomori, lying flat, quiet quitting. These aren’t rebellions. They’re retreats.
No pitchforks. No barricades. Just… opting out.
The pattern is eerily familiar. Not chaos. Stagnation. Not rage. A shrug.
Why Beaver County Still Matters
Now, before we declare ourselves a doomed mouse colony and adjourn to the grooming lounge, it’s worth noting something Calhoun understood—and many modern planners forget. The problem wasn’t density alone. It was the collapse of social structure.
Which brings us, conveniently, to Beaver County.
For all our arguments over school boards, bridges, pipelines, and whether the Shell cracker plant is a blessing or an aesthetic crime, this county still possesses something Universe 25 never did: convivial tools.
That phrase comes from the late philosopher Ivan Illich, who argued that societies thrive when people have tools that encourage participation rather than passive consumption—things that help us do together, not merely exist near one another.
Church suppers. Volunteer fire halls. Rotary meetings. Youth sports run by parents who can’t find the whistle. Neighborhood bars where someone will notice if you don’t show up for a week. Local businesses where your name is still attached to your face.
These aren’t sentimental relics. They’re survival technology.
The Point of the Point
The lesson of Universe 25 isn’t that comfort is bad. It’s that comfort without responsibility is lethal.
A society can survive hardship. It can even survive inequality. What it cannot survive is a population that no longer believes it is needed.
Beaver County’s quiet advantage—often invisible to consultants and completely absent from glossy economic forecasts—is that many of us are still needed. By our churches. Our neighbors. Our schools. Our towns. Sometimes just by the guy who expects to see us every morning at the coffee counter.
The mice had everything except each other.
We should try not to make the same mistake—especially since, unlike them, we’ve already seen how the experiment ends.
And besides, grooming yourself all day sounds exhausting.
