In his book on the decline of the American steel industry, And the Wolf Finally Came, John Hoerr says, “It takes a curious empathy for smoke, fire, dirt, roaring machines, and the people who tend them to become fond of a steel mill.” I never worked in the mills, my family wasn’t part of the mills; but the mills were a part of me. The mills were mystical places, sitting like castles along the rivers, looming over the little towns that huddled at their gates; or they were facts of life, dominating the surrounding towns like mountains or an ocean would. At night the mills twinkled with galaxies of lights, the furnaces glowed as if the world had split open to show its molten core. The mills were unrelenting, demanding as a dream.

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