October 18, 2009 in Business

Strikers discover a changed world

Workers at instrument company return to a new workplace reality
Adam Geller Associated Press
 
Associated Press photo

Brothers John, left, and Brad Milliken in Bristol, Ind., went to work at the Vincent Bach factory before leaving high school, and both went on strike, but a year later Brad crossed the picket line to return to work.
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ELKHART, Ind. – By 10:30 a.m., the lot at Disabled American Veterans Post 19 is nearly full, and a table spread with potato salad and chicken beckons.

The only thing missing is a banner, mutters one of the workers inside the rental hall: “Welcome to Our Last Supper.”

The gathering marks the end of a 40-month fight over who owns the craftsmanship that gives life to a factory floor. These men and women logged decades pressing, soldering and buffing, making trombones and trumpets of such sinuous precision they are called the Stradivarius of brass.

In the end, there is no music.

This is the story of a decision – of 234 workers, one company and countless consequences.

When workers at the Vincent Bach factory walked out on strike, they had no get-rich-quick illusions. They thought if they stuck together they’d keep hold of their prized rung on the economic ladder.

They bet their jobs on it. Today that bet is being called, and the men and women of Bach return to a vastly different landscape than the one they left behind.

There’s a good chance you’ve heard of Elkhart. Over the last year, the city of 52,000 along the St. Joseph River became a poster child for the recession. Elkhart was slammed by the nation’s largest jump in unemployment. By this spring, one in five workers was out of a paycheck. Many of the factories that made it the capital of recreational vehicle manufacturing shut down. Twice during his campaign and twice since, Barack Obama came to Elkhart County to spotlight the nation’s economic despair.

But this story begins in a very different Elkhart, one that can be hard to remember.

Back in 2006, the town was singled out by a Federal Reserve economist as one of the Midwest’s “jewels in the rust.” Unemployment hovered just above 4 percent. The RV plants were hiring and the money was good.

But on the floor of the Bach factory there was little, if any, talk of going elsewhere for a paycheck. Two things made it a special place to work – the interlocking relationships of the people inside and the nearly timeless craft they practiced. The place was like a big family, workers say, and it’s no exaggeration.

Stacy Curtis followed her dad to Bach, where she met husband, Steve, one of the buffers blanketed in red dust her father supervised. Brad Milliken hired in as a janitor and night watchman at 17 when his dad put the good word in, then did the same for younger brother, John, after he got a promotion.

Job openings at Bach were guarded like secrets, not least because of the pay. In a town where 45 percent of all jobs were in factories, Bach paid near the top. By 2006, the average worker made $21 an hour.

But the family sensibility went beyond the paychecks.

On Fridays, workers circled around covered-dish lunches on the shop floor. On birthdays, they serenaded each other on whatever instrument was within reach. They took up collections for retiring workers, who were presented with bud vases made from a trombone mouthpiece.

Bach was equally bound by pride. Others factories could build cars or computers to spec. But how many of those workers could call themselves craftsmen?

In the music world, Vincent Bach is synonymous with cornets, trombones and, especially, trumpets. Bach made horns for all wallets, but the showpieces were its Stradivarius trumpets: gleaming, curvaceous beauties commanding $2,500 or more from orchestral professionals.

“Once you got done with an instrument,” Jeff Hoogenboom says, “it was like a jewel.”

That pride reached back to the 1920s when the original Bach, an Austrian immigrant, set up shop in New York. He was so certain of his trumpets’ superiority he named them for the world’s most legendary instrument.

Bach sold his company in 1961. The new owner moved it to Elkhart, the center of the trumpet and tuba trade long before it became the RV capital. By the 1970s, Elkhart factories supplied 40 percent of the world’s band instruments.

At the new plant, work went on much as it always had – sheets of brass pressed one at a time, bells shaped on mandrills inherited from Bach himself.

But the company and the world around it began to change.

In 1993, two investment bankers who’d previously worked for junk bond king Michael Milken acquired Bach’s parent firm in a leveraged buyout. Two years later, they bought famed piano maker Steinway & Sons and merged the businesses under the Steinway name, creating the nation’s largest musical instrument manufacturer.

The new owners pushed to speed production. They eliminated the plant’s saxophone line, cutting the union work force from 450 to 234. The company was making money, earning $13.8 million in 2005. But executives were wary of Chinese producers, whose $200 trumpets targeted the large student market.

The message was clear in meetings company president John Stoner called on one of the plant’s loading docks: Change was not a choice. Stoner infuriated some workers, telling them: “We have the equipment. We own your skills.”

The company would not comment for this story, but its demands were clear. On the final day of their contract in March 2006, every worker returned home to find a letter from Stoner.

Bach was losing money on its student instruments. An Asian manufacturer was offering to take over for a fraction of the cost.

“This opportunity for dramatic savings has created a dilemma – for me personally and the Company,” Stoner wrote. “If we outsource the student line instruments, it will only be a matter of time before the step up and pro lines are similarly affected. So while I would prefer to keep work and jobs at Bach, we cannot and will not do so if it means we produce instruments at a loss.”

The company demanded cuts that would drop average pay $6 an hour. Workers would pay more for health insurance and overtime would be mandatory, a requirement some called a “family killer.”

On a Saturday morning – April 1, 2006 – workers gathered to respond. The vote was 185-37. The strike was on.

The first night on the picket line an icy wind whipped down Industrial Parkway. Strikers huddled around burn barrels. But the mood was upbeat and more than a little ornery.

In a shop where even the youngest had 10 or 15 years in, most recalled the only other recent strike – a walkout in the early 1990s that lasted just eight days. This time would be different, they knew. Friends in management had warned workers to be prepared, to salt away their cash.

“We know exactly where the pressure points are on the union. They know where they are on us,” Steinway CEO Dana Messina told Wall Street analysts soon after the strike began.

Many jobs in the plant took months to learn and left supervisors struggling. Without them, workers joked, the company would be reduced to selling inferior “musically shaped objects.” If the company didn’t value them, they’d take their skills somewhere else.

“We were craftsmen,” says Jerry Stayton, then the president of United Auto Workers Local 364, which represented the workers.

A few days after the strike began, the company flag went missing from atop the pole and a Chinese flag flapped in its place. The company dialed the police – the first of 314 times they’d be called in.

But police would not resolve the strike. Workers built plywood sheds along the right of way. They rotated in for picket duty around the clock, bringing along children in their pickups, gathering around TVs powered off generators, holding fish fries.

After 32 years at the plant, John Milliken felt almost giddy. Now the trumpet assembler had mornings to savor breakfast with his wife and daughter. He joked with his brother on the picket line. Co-workers kidded him when he showed up on a bike. But Milliken marveled at the smell of the lilacs along the route and the weight he was taking off from the exercise.

In early June, negotiators came back with an offer including buyouts, but it was rejected by all but four workers.

Ten days later, the company announced it was hiring replacements. A fight broke out between strikers and a car full of men coming to claim their jobs. Then, with tensions rising, the two sides grasped at compromise – one many workers now say was probably the best chance to end the strike. The offer called for workers to return at wages capped at $21 an hour, along with pricier insurance and mandatory overtime.

“We should accept this and live to fight another day,” Stayton, the union president, told workers from a microphone at the front of the DAV hall.

The sticking point was the workers who had taken their place. Company negotiators said they’d be let go, but few believed them.

“Get it in writing! Get it in writing!” strikers shouted. A few minutes later, they voted the contract down. Midway through its fifth month, the strike was no closer to resolution than the day it had begun.

Criticism of the strike was growing and it wasn’t confined to the letters to the editor in the paper.

Tim Heminger, an instrument assembler with more than 18 years at the plant, drove in from a conservative Michigan farming community. He was caught off guard when his minister began lecturing him on the wrongness of the union.

“My blood pressure rose up,” Heminger says. “I finally said you know we need to change the subject or I’m going to say something I’m going to regret saying.”

At weekly meetings, the union handed out $200 strike pay checks. It also picked up workers’ health insurance – a critical safety net on Labor Day when Steve Curtis’ heart gave out on the picket line.

But for workers who’d expected the walkout to last weeks, money was growing tight.

Stayton, who’d long worked a second job, took on more hours at Star Tire. Brad Milliken found a job sweeping floors at a cargo trailer factory.

The strike was a year old and John Milliken could see his brother was unhappy. He had no idea. On April 10, the brothers – longtime fans of Notre Dame women’s basketball – joined a crowd of 400 for the team’s annual banquet and took their seats. Brad turned to John.

“I don’t want to make you get sick here,” he said.

John looked at his brother, confused, waiting for an explanation.

“I’m going back in,” Brad said.

Brad Milliken was hardly the first. For months a small but steady trickle of workers had been crossing the picket line and returning to their jobs, winning scorn from strikers left behind. Milliken was “Scab No. 37.”

John understood Brad’s reasons. He still loved his brother. But that didn’t make the decision easy to stomach. Brad had long enjoyed a friendship with Stoner, the company president. The younger Milliken, though, was increasingly furious at management for ruining the plant and the lives of its workers. “Thugs,” he called them. He’d never go back.

Brad returned to find parts for 1,200 Stradivarius trumpets stacked up, waiting to be assembled.

Meanwhile, at the Curtis house, Stacy and Steve examined their expenses. NASCAR tickets would have to go. So would vacations and dinners out. They canceled rental of their weekend spot on a Michigan lake, sold the golf cart and the camper.

“The running joke was that we were all going to live in strike sheds,” Stacy Curtis says.

Thanks to a judge’s injunction, workers were restricted in the numbers they could deploy to the picket lines. The strike settled into a holding pattern. The peace didn’t last.

Replacement workers called the National Labor Relations Board. With the strike entering its 19th month, a vote was set on whether the union would continue to represent plant workers. But the calculus had shifted.

Strikers lined up to vote. But so did replacement workers, inside the plant. When some strikers reached the table they were told their vote might not count because their jobs had been taken.

Workers’ anger was also finding another target – the union itself, which they blamed for poor representation and counsel.

Early on, work after Bach was relatively easy to come by. But by the summer of 2008, Elkhart’s strength – the RV factories – was turning in to a painful weakness.

The recession was taking hold and as consumers cut back, they crossed RVs off their lists. Lenders cut credit to manufacturers. Dealers slashed orders. Plant after plant – sent workers home and shut down lines.

In months, unemployment doubled. By this spring, the area jobless rate reached 18.9 percent. Within Elkhart, it neared 21 percent.

John Milliken was certain: The strike was long beyond resolving. When he got an offer to be a custodian at Northridge High School, he was grateful. At $13 an hour, it paid much less than Bach. But benefits were generous. After the plant’s swelter, the school’s air conditioning was wonderful. For the first time in years, he felt like the people he worked for accorded him respect.

Steve Curtis, laid off from another horn maker, grabbed a friend’s offer for 20 hours a week in his instrument repair shop.

On the strike’s third anniversary, workers gathered at the pavilion in Elkhart’s McNaughton Park. Too much time had passed for a rally. They called it a reunion. But between the speeches, talk at the tables was full of apprehension.

The battle would be decided by the vote. After months of lawyers’ arguments, federal inspectors tallied up ballots – 113 to get rid of the union, 107 to keep it. But eight ballots – enough to swing it either way – were still contested and uncounted.

On Monday, Aug. 4, strikers were back on the picket line when cell phones began to ring. The ruling was in. The ballots of two strikers – James Klein and William Seigler – would not be counted because they had been replaced.

After three years, four months and four days, there was nowhere to go but home.

Before the last meal is served, buffers and bellmakers cluster anxiously around a health insurance salesman’s table in one corner of the veterans hall. Workers with gray hair pull chairs alongside one another and concede they were only a few years from retirement anyway.

But for workers in their 40s and 50s, it’s not nearly so clear.

A few call Brad Milliken: “Hey, can you get me in?” Even that wouldn’t turn back the clock. Two weeks after the strike ended, managers summoned workers who crossed the line and cut their pay. Brad, who made $24.50 an hour before the strike, is down to $17.

By noon, workers are filtering out, carrying leftover chicken in foam boxes. Stacy Curtis has heard a warehouse down the street is getting ready to open. Maybe they need a worker with experience. She might as well ask.

© Copyright 2009 Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.


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