drive along the highway through gales of rain that became thicker with each yard that she approached Bedford. The Moose 105.1 blared classic rock through the speakers of her radio, and though she did not feel ambitious enough to sing along to Meat Loaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights,” she hummed.
As she neared Bedford, the long pipe of the mill came into view. Until it closed last month, it was run by a corporation that had serviced the office paper industry. Clott’s demise happened slowly, and at first hardly anyone had noticed. In the eighties Clott instituted a hiring freeze. In the mid-nineties the layoffs started in earnest. Each year before bonuses and raises at Christmastime, her father handed out pink slips to another ten percent of his staff. The men who stayed worked two and three jobs at once. They fixed machines, they sorted, and they worked the assembly line. Even her father moved out from his air-conditioned office and started working the floor.
They should have seen it coming. They should have noticed that the population of the town had dwindled from six to four thousand. Fewer people had gossiped over early-bird specials at Olsen’s Diner, eating biscuits, pancakes, eggs, and heavy meat. Fewer people had shopped at the stores on Main Street. But they had expected things to come around. A down cycle, they had thought, which would invariably lead to an up cycle. No one truly became alarmed until Paul Martin wrote an article for the Corpus Christi Sentinel pointing out the obvious: Clott was preparing to close its Bedford mill. But by then it was too late.
Last December, Paul had spearheaded a protest rally against the Clott Corporation. In the Sentinel article he’d explained that if enough people showed up for his rally, the company might be shamed into keeping the mill open for another year or so. The extra time would allow Bedford to invest in and attract new industries like tourism.
Georgia’s boss was sick on the day of the protest, so she had to work at the shop. But she watched what happened. The protest was to begin at noon along Main Street’s center. From there, people would march the half mile down the road to the paper mill. The local television news had agreed to cover the story, and rumor had it that Paul had gotten the go-ahead from the Boston Globe to write a follow-up piece for the cover of its Sunday business section.
At noon, WABI set up their cameras outside the Chop Mop Shop. About three hundred townspeople attended, all dressed in their Sunday best. Most of them had called in sick to their shifts at the mill or the hospital in Corpus Christi. Even Georgia wore pressed slacks and a lace blouse, just in case things ran over, and she had time to close the shop and join the festivities. But Paul never showed up. Two hours later, only a handful of people remained. WABI packed up its van and got back on the highway. She’d been disappointed in Paul, but more than that, she’d been disappointed in Bedford. They should have done it without him. Instead people had tossed their “Save the Mill” signs into the trash cans and spent the afternoon watching TBS reruns like it was just another day off.
That’s when Paul showed up. He pulled into the middle of the street, and stumbled out of his car. Then he started walking toward the mill, a one-man parade. She’d watched from her window as he’d looked from one corner to the next, searching for the people who had left hours before. Maybe he didn’t know he was five hours late. Maybe he’d had a drink or two for courage, and two drinks had turned into a bottle, so even then he wasn’t sure whether he was late, or early.
There was a handful of people sitting on benches or in the park. They watched, but nobody said anything. Then Bernard McMullen, whose family had worked at the mill for three generations, threw a rock. It sailed past the side of Paul’s head. Paul turned slightly, like he thought somebody might have
As she neared Bedford, the long pipe of the mill came into view. Until it closed last month, it was run by a corporation that had serviced the office paper industry. Clott’s demise happened slowly, and at first hardly anyone had noticed. In the eighties Clott instituted a hiring freeze. In the mid-nineties the layoffs started in earnest. Each year before bonuses and raises at Christmastime, her father handed out pink slips to another ten percent of his staff. The men who stayed worked two and three jobs at once. They fixed machines, they sorted, and they worked the assembly line. Even her father moved out from his air-conditioned office and started working the floor.
They should have seen it coming. They should have noticed that the population of the town had dwindled from six to four thousand. Fewer people had gossiped over early-bird specials at Olsen’s Diner, eating biscuits, pancakes, eggs, and heavy meat. Fewer people had shopped at the stores on Main Street. But they had expected things to come around. A down cycle, they had thought, which would invariably lead to an up cycle. No one truly became alarmed until Paul Martin wrote an article for the Corpus Christi Sentinel pointing out the obvious: Clott was preparing to close its Bedford mill. But by then it was too late.
Last December, Paul had spearheaded a protest rally against the Clott Corporation. In the Sentinel article he’d explained that if enough people showed up for his rally, the company might be shamed into keeping the mill open for another year or so. The extra time would allow Bedford to invest in and attract new industries like tourism.
Georgia’s boss was sick on the day of the protest, so she had to work at the shop. But she watched what happened. The protest was to begin at noon along Main Street’s center. From there, people would march the half mile down the road to the paper mill. The local television news had agreed to cover the story, and rumor had it that Paul had gotten the go-ahead from the Boston Globe to write a follow-up piece for the cover of its Sunday business section.
At noon, WABI set up their cameras outside the Chop Mop Shop. About three hundred townspeople attended, all dressed in their Sunday best. Most of them had called in sick to their shifts at the mill or the hospital in Corpus Christi. Even Georgia wore pressed slacks and a lace blouse, just in case things ran over, and she had time to close the shop and join the festivities. But Paul never showed up. Two hours later, only a handful of people remained. WABI packed up its van and got back on the highway. She’d been disappointed in Paul, but more than that, she’d been disappointed in Bedford. They should have done it without him. Instead people had tossed their “Save the Mill” signs into the trash cans and spent the afternoon watching TBS reruns like it was just another day off.
That’s when Paul showed up. He pulled into the middle of the street, and stumbled out of his car. Then he started walking toward the mill, a one-man parade. She’d watched from her window as he’d looked from one corner to the next, searching for the people who had left hours before. Maybe he didn’t know he was five hours late. Maybe he’d had a drink or two for courage, and two drinks had turned into a bottle, so even then he wasn’t sure whether he was late, or early.
There was a handful of people sitting on benches or in the park. They watched, but nobody said anything. Then Bernard McMullen, whose family had worked at the mill for three generations, threw a rock. It sailed past the side of Paul’s head. Paul turned slightly, like he thought somebody might have
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