"No, you can't get there from here!"
I moved to Circleville twenty-seven years ago to teach eighth graders and soon learned that the west side of town often smelled funny. Occasionally while driving down Scioto Street, I’d get a whiff.
My students filled me in: “It’s ‘Container!!’ ” they’d say.
Of course!!
I hadn’t noticed it before, but there - on the next street over –perpetually spewing its industrial pheromones, was a paper mill !!
“How sad,” I remember thinking. Here were these delightful, century-old, Scioto Street houses masquerading as low and decrepit rentals for the nasally impaired.
Oddly, every time I shared this thought with any established resident of the town, I was assured that the children and I were wrong!
No!! It wasn’t “Container”! No.
It was “the Mead”!
Now “the Mead” is a much larger paper mill in a town twenty miles to the south, and it seemed to me an unlikely explanation. My uncle runs a drugstore in the shadow of “the Mead”; so, I’ve smelled it, and it DOES fit the same stink-profile. But still!! Why would industrial flatulence from such a distance smell worse than cheese cut next door?
Furthermore, why would a stink wafted to Circleville from such a great distance always land ONLY on that small section of town near our OWN paper plant?
It was all very strange, but invariably those in the know – including patriarchs, celebrities, and officials – insisted: “No, no!! It ISN’T ‘Container’!! It’s ‘the Mead’ !”
For some time I didn’t know what to think.
* * * *
Now, the school where I taught is just a few blocks east of Scioto Street, and from the second story where I supervised the large study hall, “Container’s” stack is on prominent display.
On one very warm day with the windows wide, it happened that the breeze guiding the plant’s thick smoke to the west shifted and started it our way.
THAT jolted me out of any pedagogical considerations and filled me with dread. I felt as if transported through time into the trenches of Europe to gaze across no-man’s land as a menacing fog crawled toward us under a blazing sun and an azure sky.
I considered sounding the alarm, “Close the windows!” but didn’t. We would bravely meet our fate. Hadn’t those in authority given assurances; multiple, definitive, even vehement assurances; that No! It’s not “Container”! It’s “the Mead” ?
I tried to keep the children occupied. Fortunately, they were seated with their backs to the assault and blessedly oblivious. I, on the other hand, couldn’t take my eyes off the ominous worm.
Inexorably, it pushed itself forward. Close . . . closer . . . closer - until at last it poured over the sill and was upon us.
It WAS upon us! so was its stench! And it wreaked! BUT . . .
It WASN’T “the Mead”!
It was “CONTAINER”! By God, it WAS "Container"!
And that was that, plain and simple!
* * * *
Oddly enough, though, every time I shared my extraordinary experience with citizens, I was again assured that the children and I were wrong!
No!! It WASN’T Container! No!
It was “the Mead”!
It WAS “the Mead”!
and that was that!
* * * *
What can I say?
Such is life,
I guess.
* * * *
Epilogue:
In recent years, in accordance with the business slogan, “America, love it or leave it”; Container abandoned its smoke stack (and the town) for greater profit elsewhere. This caused the local economy some pain, but at least Scioto Street doesn’t smell anymore; it quit stinking when the plant shut down.
* * * *
Oddly though, even now -- whenever I get tipsy enough to forget myself and go to grinning and bragging about how, at last, it is so perfectly obvious that “Container” DID (for God’s sake!!) stink! And that when it left town, it took its stink with it – even now -- even now - I invariably hear:
“No!! no!! the smell isn’t gone because ‘Container’ left !! No!
‘the Mead’ just put in a taller smokestack!”
My students filled me in: “It’s ‘Container!!’ ” they’d say.
Of course!!
I hadn’t noticed it before, but there - on the next street over –perpetually spewing its industrial pheromones, was a paper mill !!
“How sad,” I remember thinking. Here were these delightful, century-old, Scioto Street houses masquerading as low and decrepit rentals for the nasally impaired.
Oddly, every time I shared this thought with any established resident of the town, I was assured that the children and I were wrong!
No!! It wasn’t “Container”! No.
It was “the Mead”!
Now “the Mead” is a much larger paper mill in a town twenty miles to the south, and it seemed to me an unlikely explanation. My uncle runs a drugstore in the shadow of “the Mead”; so, I’ve smelled it, and it DOES fit the same stink-profile. But still!! Why would industrial flatulence from such a distance smell worse than cheese cut next door?
Furthermore, why would a stink wafted to Circleville from such a great distance always land ONLY on that small section of town near our OWN paper plant?
It was all very strange, but invariably those in the know – including patriarchs, celebrities, and officials – insisted: “No, no!! It ISN’T ‘Container’!! It’s ‘the Mead’ !”
For some time I didn’t know what to think.
* * * *
Now, the school where I taught is just a few blocks east of Scioto Street, and from the second story where I supervised the large study hall, “Container’s” stack is on prominent display.
On one very warm day with the windows wide, it happened that the breeze guiding the plant’s thick smoke to the west shifted and started it our way.
THAT jolted me out of any pedagogical considerations and filled me with dread. I felt as if transported through time into the trenches of Europe to gaze across no-man’s land as a menacing fog crawled toward us under a blazing sun and an azure sky.
I considered sounding the alarm, “Close the windows!” but didn’t. We would bravely meet our fate. Hadn’t those in authority given assurances; multiple, definitive, even vehement assurances; that No! It’s not “Container”! It’s “the Mead” ?
I tried to keep the children occupied. Fortunately, they were seated with their backs to the assault and blessedly oblivious. I, on the other hand, couldn’t take my eyes off the ominous worm.
Inexorably, it pushed itself forward. Close . . . closer . . . closer - until at last it poured over the sill and was upon us.
It WAS upon us! so was its stench! And it wreaked! BUT . . .
It WASN’T “the Mead”!
It was “CONTAINER”! By God, it WAS "Container"!
And that was that, plain and simple!
* * * *
Oddly enough, though, every time I shared my extraordinary experience with citizens, I was again assured that the children and I were wrong!
No!! It WASN’T Container! No!
It was “the Mead”!
It WAS “the Mead”!
and that was that!
* * * *
What can I say?
Such is life,
I guess.
* * * *
Epilogue:
In recent years, in accordance with the business slogan, “America, love it or leave it”; Container abandoned its smoke stack (and the town) for greater profit elsewhere. This caused the local economy some pain, but at least Scioto Street doesn’t smell anymore; it quit stinking when the plant shut down.
* * * *
Oddly though, even now -- whenever I get tipsy enough to forget myself and go to grinning and bragging about how, at last, it is so perfectly obvious that “Container” DID (for God’s sake!!) stink! And that when it left town, it took its stink with it – even now -- even now - I invariably hear:
“No!! no!! the smell isn’t gone because ‘Container’ left !! No!
‘the Mead’ just put in a taller smokestack!”
2 Comments:
Uke man,
I do remeber it well, when I would visit mom in the school there was always that Container Smell. Now that I work at the Mead...MeadWestvaco...NewPage....Unknown..the smell has been absorbed and I no longer smell it. We hope that the smell can last and not leave like the Container. One can hope that the gastly smell lingers for generations to come. Hey whats that smell. Oh its just the paper mill.
Hi Tom,
It was fun reading your friend's post. Remember that I said my dad always called it "the paper mill." I really never heard him call it Mead. It was a good story and a true one. I did enjoy it. Sondra
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home