It breaks my heart to see the beautiful old buildings crumbling and an institution being forgotten.

The industry put food on the tables and clothes on the backs of my family during some pretty tough times. My mother was born at home as the screaming noon whistle blew and her mechanic father came home on the trolley for lunch. He started at the then new factory, was there through 2 wars, retiring after the closure.
My great grandfather was doused with molasses when his emptied beet wagon was jerked by nervous horses while loading the sticky goo on beet pulp destined to feed the cattle at home. (I wondered if the young man in your photo of the beet wagon may have been a relative.)

When desperate for a job, I went to the factory and was hired only to commute with my co-workers striving to make a living for themselves and support families and extended families in Mexico. Often, men waited in lines at the time clock at shift change in order to be hired when openings occurred.

Early “campaigns” gave the workers 12 hour days for the season after the beets were harvested until the last beet was processed. The rest of the year they could work in the fields planting/thinning/weeding and harvesting the beets or, the lucky ones, stayed on to perform maintenance or complete the process of turning the juice into pallets of sugar. It was a dirty, tough, and risky business. Hard hats did not come into use until the 1960s. Hot steam, cold water or sticky juice was everywhere, especially on the metal steps. It took real guts and caution to climb the ladders on the tanks or look down from 300 feet while getting samples readings. Four AM was the turn of the night. If you could stay awake on the first night of a ‘graveyard’ shift, it was downhill from there.

But, there was work when the nation was in a depression. There were groceries during the dust bowl. There were scholarships for their children. There were opportunities for jobs and related industry for the community. I followed my grandfather’s example, putting sugar in his tomato juice and on cottage cheese as he told me we had to “keep Great Western running”. Even with my adult knowledge of the situation, I felt we had failed him when the company went bankrupt in 1985.

As he was getting on in years, on holiday evenings after our family dinners, I drove grandpa on his yearly Christmas or Thanksgiving visit to the men working. Sometimes he would take a pie or some plate of goodies to share with whom ever was on shift at the factory in a nearby town where the beets were still being processed. I heard the names and stories of those men (and women) that pioneered and powered the industry. All the time I thought I was doing him a favor, it was an education for me and experience I will treasure.

My grandson was born in the “shadow of the factory stack”. I took him to what has become of the Fort Collins office complex, now part of the City of Fort Collins. Photos of the old factory were all around. The original bricks could be seen as well as some of amazing architecture. Loveland boasts of a local Sugar Factory museum. Guess that is next on my list to visit. I wonder if grandpa’s picture is there. Maybe there is a shot of myself or of co-worker or friends as we toiled, shared dinner pail meals, or kept each other alert during the late shifts. Many of them are gone just as grandpa and the others from the many years.

Yes, I have no doubt their spirits roam the ruins and old buildings. Don’t worry. They are just those brave workers still on shift or waiting at the time clock. Wave hello or tip your hard hat, and maybe take them a piece of pie.

thanks in advance!