Chapter Eight B: Burns Ditch

Aaron stopped to think a moment. It was his fourth meeting with Pol Stamos and he was now officially her Campaign Press Manager. It certainly hadn’t been that quick with the Carter campaign, and he had only ever met the President once during his two years in the San Francisco office. Still, this felt right. He had listened for the full two hour ride out to Michigan City as Pol painted a vision for the State of Indiana that included a leadership position in natural resource conservation and tenancy.

He had to admit that some of her ideas seemed a little on the woo-woo side unless you dug into the strategies and numbers that lay underneath them. If nothing else, this was going to require careful positioning as he started writing press releases. It was curious that she was going so far out of her district to introduce him to an issue that she wanted to make central in her gubernatorial race in two years. She spoke frankly to him about her electoral strategy moving out ten years to the end of her second term as governor. What then, he asked. Wait and see, was her response. She was forthright about there being others involved in the decision. She would not go further than that, however, and reminded him that he was the only one who knew yet of her gubernatorial plans.

As they drove through Portage on the way to the harbor, Pol turned off the main route and drove back and forth through the town. It wasn’t much to look at.

“These people, or their parents, fought tooth and nail through the sixties to get the Port of Indiana dug out of a swampy wasteland in the middle of one of the most scenic spots in North America,” Pol said as if she were introducing him to them individually. “But little good it has done them. The Port employs very few people itself. It’s steel that drives the economy. But it makes no difference. Whether you are working at the Port or in the mills, it is hard, back-breaking work. There is no way to get ahead. You work for an hourly wage. Your union is afraid to go to bat for better working conditions because there are so many other places these mills could move their business to. Lake Michigan is bordered by Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, and Wisconsin, every one of which has a labor force that is under-utilized. The Port was supposed to insure their reliance on steel. It would keep the mills supplied with ore and provide a channel to ship refined steel to the world through the St. Lawrence Seaway.

“But a steel-based economy is no more dependable than the tourist-based economy provided by the National Seaside Reserve that surrounds it. And it is considerably more dangerous.” Pol pulled up opposite a small cottage and idled her hybrid car as she pointed. She nodded toward a ramp that ran from the driveway up to the front porch. “Amos Brown lost the use of his legs in an accident involving a crane and a loose load of steel bars being shipped to Japan. His worker’s compensation and Social Security together bring his total family income to $2200 per month. He has three children under the age of 10.” She pulled away from the curb and turned left at the next corner. In a block she pulled to the side again. Pointing across Aaron to the right side of the street he could see nothing strange about the house.

“Evan Graber lost his father in a steel mill accident twenty years ago. He was eighteen and the only life he knew was the steel mill. He found out last year that he has lung cancer, probable cause: breathing the coal dust used to fire the smelting furnaces. He’s been in chemo for the last 8 months. It doesn’t look good.” Pol pulled away from the curb again. It seemed that in every block she knew someone who had suffered a major loss from going to work at the port, the mills, or in some other supportive industry in the town. The oral historian in Aaron had mentally clicked on record as he heard the stories, one after another. This was something that he would have to start writing as soon as he could get to his computer. It was amazing. And yet, she said, the people defended the harbor and the mills against all who would bring change. It was all they knew. It was their life and it was killing them.

At last the arrived at the harbor itself. Port of Indiana was not all that impressive when seen in the light of the shipping traffic in San Francisco and Oakland, Portland, Tacoma, or any of the other west coast ports that Aaron had seen. As they stepped out of the car and moved toward the harbor house, Aaron could hear beyond the fence a high pitched whine of machinery straining against an obstacle.

“Damn!” Pol snarled and stormed into the office. Aaron was taken aback at the vehemence of her curse.

“May I help you?” asked a young woman behind the front desk. As far as Aaron could see she was the only one in the office.

“I’m here to see the harbormaster,” Pol said as she came in.

“He’s not avail…” The receptionists words were lost on the retreating back of Pol as she stepped purposefully past her desk and shoved open the door to the inner office. Aaron gave a startled look at the receptionist who was shocked to silence herself and quickly followed Pol.

“Representative Stamos,” said the balding man behind the desk. “What a surprise.” He wasn’t making any attempt at civility and it was clear that though the moment may not have been predicted, the visit was no surprise at all.

“Brian,” Pol charged right in, “what the hell are those dredgers doing out there? We had an agreement. Waiting to dredge until the Seaway opened would have been plenty of time to keep the channel clear. And soundings are reporting that you are close to 30 feet deep now. The channel was never supposed to be more than 27 feet. What is going on?”

“Look here, Representative,” the harbormaster rose, “you can’t point to any kind of agreement. Delaying dredging was only a course of action I was considering. And I put it off as long as I felt I could.”

“What could be so urgent to require them to break the ice in harbor and dredge?” Pol asked.

“I have no reason to tell you, Representative,” he said turning away, “but this is something you should be interested in seeing as you are such an environmentalist.” He lifted a tub of wet seaweed on set it on his desk. “You know what this is?” he asked lifting a handful of the soggy grass from the tub. “You’re a big environmentalist. You should know what this is.”

“It’s kudzu,” Pol said flatly. A little of the steam seemed to leave her. “What are you doing with that?”

“That is what we’re dredging out of our harbor,” the harbormaster declared. “Oh, you’re big on stopping shipping in the fresh water lakes, but you’re not doing a thing about the damn fresh water fishermen who are bringing their boats up from the south all summer long with this stuff stuck in their propellers and on the bottoms of their boats. Oh no, that’s recreation. And the fact that this weed is now infesting our lake is of no matter.”

“Infestations of kudzu take years to develop and we check constantly for it. There is no way you could suddenly have an overgrowth in the harbor,” Pol sounded just a little less certain than she had when she barged into the office.

“Right,” Brian challenged her. “And on your other hot issues list, you don’t seem to care that everyone at harbor was laid off when the seaway closed just before Christmas. That includes the ten men who are now employed to keep those two dredgers operating this month. The fact that I can provide an income for at least a dozen of my employees may not mean much to you, but for this community it means that a dozen families will have heat and won’t be requiring food stamps. It means that exactly two days after the seaway opens there will be a shipment of coke to unload for the mills and that six barges of steel will be moved out in the first two weeks.”

“There has got to be a different way than dredging. You’ve got a fish kill that is the largest we’ve ever seen out here,” Pol said trying to regain her higher ground. “And we’ve shown repeatedly that the human dangers to the dredging crew are tripled in winter. You won’t be doing those guys’ families any favors if you ship them home crippled or in a body bag.”

“You just don’t get it Miss Stamos.” Aaron noticed that the grudgingly given title of respect that the harbormaster had used at the beginning of the meeting was gone and the respect was following fast. “They will risk their lives in this industry because not having it would mean their entire livelihood and community would go to hell. You can get out of my office now and go back to Washington D.C. where you don’t have to see or hear about real problems. We have enough representatives who understand that we can vote down any piece of legislation you bring up.”

“On your payroll, you mean,” Pol shot back.

“If they were, there’s one thing that you can be sure of,” Brian glared at her. “You’ll never be employed there. Nor will you get any of the votes of this community when you try to replace Dick Lugar in the Senate. Now go. Get out of my office!” he fairly shouted at her.

Pol turned on her heel and stormed out of the office. Aaron glanced at the harbormaster who had now turned his gaze on Aaron. Aaron hurried to follow Pol. When they were in the car, Pol sighed.

“Well, that didn’t go all that well,” she said. “She started the car and pulled away from the docks. In the distance Aaron could still hear the whine of the dredgers’ engines.

Next

Previous

Table of Contents