The Ark-La-Miss is a strange corner of the universe. In the part that is Northeast Louisiana stands mostly tall trees. Lots of Lolbolly, Slash and Longleaf pines. Loads of Live and Water Oak and Magnolia and Bald Cypress. Pecan and Sweetgum, with its balls that look like spiked proteins. An area lousy with trees is a boon for Paper Companies.
There are three in West Monroe alone, which is a town of 13,ooo people. I grew up in a town called Bastrop, about thirty miles north and about four thousand less people. But when the paper mill was still open, at its zenith in the 1980’s, 15,000 people lived there, and most of them worked for International Paper. My grandfather, my mother and a wayward stepfather all worked at some time or another at the mill.
My grandfather was born in in 1929. My dad liked to joke my grandfather caused The Great Depression. I’m not sure what year he and his family moved to Louisiana, but I think he was around eight years old. Fifteen years later he would be working at the paper mill in Bastrop. My father and aunt were born in the 50’s. Grandfather would work at the paper mill for the next forty-five years.
He worked in the paper mill part of the mill. There were two parts of the mill; the paper mill and the pulp mill. One side was cleaner than the other. If you worked the pulp side, you came home smelling of Sulphur, formaldehyde, and bleach. My grandfather never came home smelling like a dumpster fire. But everyone in town knew that smell.
The mill was in the center of town. Well, just north of the town square. Its smokestack spewed a heavy white plume twenty-four hours a day. At night it worked an especially sinister brand upon the mind. The halogen lamps suffused a ghoulish, green glow which haunts me even today. Combined with the smell, the mill created its own gravity—a kind of black hole in the center of town.
Yes, it is a strange corner of the world, a paper mill town.
Josh Mayhall 