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rise of flat-screen LED TVs without the old vacuum picture tubes, never even saw it coming. Wages fell, and then the jobs went away altogether as we became part of the Rust Belt. That nameeven became a short-hand way to sum up the loss of an entire way of life—oh, he got caught up in the Rust Belt.
    The factory was then bought by some hedge fund owned by someone, who used the factory’s physical assets to issue junk bonds defaulted on as the hedge fund moved its reserves offshore to wherever the hell the Cayman Islands are to take advantage of tax breaks created by a president most people in Reeve never voted for. In return, that president never asked us what that tax law decision might do to Reeve. Last I heard, the old factory area was owned by a European consortium more interested in the land for retail development. Ain’t nothing made in factories no more, least not in Ohio. There ain’t no jobs for anyone coming home either, though we have had several new wars during all these times for men to come home from. A thousand people a day used to walk into that factory to make a living. Now those streets could just be stage sets for some end-of-the-world germ virus movie. Hard to build a town, a life, when the best business is done at the Bowl America, $2.25 a bottle for Lite beer. Rock bottom ain’t a foundation.
    Reeve then worked according to certain principles. And this ain’t nostalgia, it’s history. A steak should be one inch thick or more. You figure out how to mind your own business and help your neighbor at the same time. A good potluck can solve most problems. Vegetables were boiled. Faith was rewarded. Things’ll look better in the morning. Three channels of broadcast TV defined the cultural high water mark. It was a big deal the first Fourth of July when your dad let you set off fireworks on your own. You were allowed to let a younger brother burn his fingers once by encouraging him to hold a burning sparkler too long,like had been done to you. We still had parades, every Memorial Day and every July Fourth, but Labor Day was just for barbecues because school began the next day and Dad had to get up for work. “I’ve got to get up for work” was the way most social events broke up, as committal a goodbye as pulling the plug on the music and putting the rugs back down on the floor. On holidays, time was measured more by “just had lunch” or “getting toward supper.” We were neither a small town nor a suburb, we were what was a common thing in this part of Ohio. We had a Dairy Queen, a Catholic school and four Protestant churches. Bowl America was the body heat of Reeve, where the men all got together to drink after telling their wives they were going bowling. The older guys didn’t even bother to leave the house with a ball, it was such a pattern of their lives. Once upon a time in this town you could ask someone the time, and they’d say “Why?” Work was controlled by the factory whistle and the sun, and both were controlled by God and equally vital. You did work from one to the other.
    Reeve could be reduced down to this: I was a boiler operator. So was my dad. Went to work every day but Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, and two weeks of summer. Bought a car. Bought a house. Sent one son to college, gave one to the Marine Corps. Have a decent pension. Living quietly now in that same house. Own it.
    That is how it was in 1977. Now, grassroots is Astroturf and I’m unemployed and unskilled and riding a bus all day. I am part of the one third of all working Americans who are “contingent.” We are part-timers or day laborers or freelancers or franchisees or temps or independent contractors or on call. I clean floorsand stock warehouse shelves and deliver things you buy on-line and serve you food. I don’t have health insurance. I get sick, I don’t work, a bull whose balls have given out. I don’t get paid extra