Chapter 17 - A NEW NAME FOR BLACKWOOD
The announcement surprised everyone.
Blackwood Manufacturing would change its name.
Not completely.
The board wanted to preserve the company's history while separating the future from the behavior of the previous leadership.
The new name would be:
Blackwood Industries — Clara Division.
Maya laughed when she saw the announcement.
“You put Clara's name on a division?”
“She earned it.”
“I agree.”
The Clara Division would manage all protected intellectual-property assets and employee development programs.
It became the heart of the company.
Scholarships.
Research.
Apprenticeships.
Retirement support.
Technology innovation.
The first major project was an entirely new manufacturing facility.
The workers helped design it.
The engineers chose the technology.
Employees voted on several features.
There was a childcare center.
A medical clinic.
A training academy.
And a large garden in the middle of the property.
Joe stood beside me on opening day.
“You're really doing this.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I looked at the workers.
“Because my aunt believed businesses should leave people stronger than they found them.”
Joe smiled.
“Sounds simple.”
“It is.”
“Why did it take companies so long to figure it out?”
I laughed.
“Because simple things are often the hardest.”
The opening ceremony wasn't extravagant.
No celebrities.
No politicians.
No expensive champagne.
Instead, we invited the families of employees.
Children ran through the garden.
Parents took photographs.
Older workers watched younger employees learning new technology.
That mattered more to me than any headline.
Later that afternoon, a young woman approached me.
She couldn't have been more than twenty-three.
“Mrs. Vance?”
“Yes?”
“My father worked at Blackwood.”
“What's his name?”
“Thomas Reed.”
I recognized the name.
Thomas had been one of the workers who nearly lost his retirement.
“He died last year.”
I lowered my voice.
“I'm sorry.”
She smiled through tears.
“But he kept telling me the company was going to be okay.”
“He was right.”
She handed me a photograph.
Her father standing beside a machine.
Dirty hands.
Protective glasses.
A tired smile.
On the back was written:
Proud to work here.
I looked at the photograph.
Then at her.
“He would have liked this place.”
She nodded.
“Thank you.”
She walked away.
Maya came beside me.
“Your eyes are wet.”
“I know.”
She smiled.
“Clara would have been proud.”
May you like
I nodded.
“That's all I ever wanted.”
