For more than 50 years, life in Lordstown, Ohio, has revolved around the G.M. plant at the edge of town. In March, the plant ceased production. These were the last cars off the line. This is the story of what happens to a factory town when the factory shuts down.

The End of the Line For more than 50 years, life in Lordstown, Ohio, revolved around the G.M. plant at the edge of town. In March, the plant ceased production. This is what their crisis looks like.

Early in the morning on Nov. 26, 2018, Dave Green, the president of Local 1112 of the United Auto Workers, which represents workers at a General Motors plant in Lordstown, Ohio, received a call from the plant’s personnel director. Green needed to be at the plant at 9 a.m. for a meeting. The personnel director rarely called Green, and when he did, it was almost always bad news. Green got into his car — a silver Chevy Cruze — and sped toward the hulking 6.2-million-square-foot factory, which had manufactured nearly two million Cruzes since the car was introduced in 2011.

“Management walks in 15 minutes late,” Green recalled, “and they say, ‘Hey, we’re going to unallocate the plant’ — that was it.”

Green had never heard the term before, but he soon found out that it meant his members would no longer have a car to build. The Cruze was finished, and G.M. had no plans to make anything else at Lordstown. Green followed the managers to the production floor, where they shut down the assembly line before repeating the same brief message to more than a thousand workers. “Some people started crying, and some people turned white as a ghost and looked like they were going to throw up,” Green said. “It felt like, ‘Oh, the end is coming.’ ”

On that same day, Mary Barra, the chief executive of G.M., announced that the company would unallocate four other North American plants and cut roughly 6,000 unionized hourly positions and 8,000 salaried positions. The largest affected plants manufactured sedans, and sedans would no longer be a major part of G.M.’s domestic production; instead, the company would focus on building S.U.V.s and trucks, which generate much higher profits. Manufacturing trade publications like IndustryWeek heralded Barra’s “willingness to wield the ax,” while Wall Street investors cheered the shedding of the “legacy” costs — pensions, health insurance — associated with G.M.’s American workers. On the day of Barra’s announcement, the company’s stock closed nearly 5 percent higher.

Barra’s decision reflected many trends: declining small-car sales, an increasingly overvalued dollar that makes American exports more expensive and the continuing rise of American automobile manufacturing in Mexico, where autoworkers make an average of $2.30 an hour (last year, G.M. became that country’s largest vehicle manufacturer). It was yet more evidence of G.M.’s retrenchment from American manufacturing; since 2005, the number of states with active G.M. assembly plants has fallen to seven from 16. With the idling of Lordstown’s plant, Ohio became the latest casualty on that list.

Though Lordstown was already operating far below capacity — it had eliminated its second and third shifts in the previous two years — the news still came as a shock. The company had received a $50 billion bailout from American taxpayers only a decade ago, and now it was making near-record-breaking profits.

For the residents of Lordstown and the surrounding area, Barra’s decision promised disaster. A recent study by the Center for Economic Development at Cleveland State University estimated that the elimination of all three shifts at the plant would ultimately cause the loss of nearly 8,000 jobs and more than $8 billion in economic activity in the regional economy. And since the 2008 financial crisis, wages in the area have fallen by 6 percent, even as they have risen nationally by 11 percent. “They’re scraping out what’s already been hollowed out,” Green said. “We need G.M. It’s the last thing standing around here.”

The sense of crisis was acute. Green, left, and other union leaders focused on how best to help their members. As the weeks went by, the workers agonized over their options at union meetings. Some decided to put in for a transfer to another G.M. plant far away. Workers at the union’s transition center helped with this process. Some joined in a demonstration to pressure G.M. to reallocate the plant. Many neighbors showed their support, one of them with a daily vigil.

The Lordstown plant has been a pillar of the regional economy since it was built in 1966. G.M. constructed the then-state-of-the-art facility (it included 26 robot welders) in the middle of a cornfield 15 miles northwest of Youngstown. It chose the site because of its distribution possibilities; half the population of the United States lived within 600 miles of it. Lordstown quickly became an important addition to the heavily industrialized Mahoning Valley, whose center was Youngstown (“Steeltown, U.S.A.”), which, after Pittsburgh, was the second-largest steel-manufacturing city in the United States.

After decades of industrial job losses, the valley’s fate has become a national political issue. Donald Trump’s 2016 presidential campaign relied heavily on the promise of restoring those jobs, a message that helped him win Ohio, Michigan, Wisconsin and Pennsylvania. Significant to his Ohio victory was flipping the Mahoning Valley from blue to red. In the summer of 2017, Trump visited Youngstown, signaling the importance of the region to his re-election prospects. “Don’t move; don’t sell your house,” he said. “We’re going to fill up those factories.” (In a sign of how concerned he may be about Lordstown’s closing, he recently took to Twitter to personally attack Dave Green, who had appeared on a Fox News segment about the plant, writing that Green “ought to get his act together and produce.”)

People in the valley take immense pride in their automaking heritage. Since 1966, the Lordstown plant has produced more than 16 million vehicles and more than a dozen different models, including the Chevy Impala, the Chevy Vega, the Pontiac Sunbird, the GMC conversion van and the Chevy Cavalier. G.M. cars and trucks are ubiquitous here, especially the fuel-efficient Cruze, which, at a time when gas prices were high, helped lift G.M. out of bankruptcy. Though profit margins are thin on the Cruze, it remained one of the company’s biggest sellers; last year, G.M. sold 143,000 Cruzes in the United States, the sixth-highest in volume out of the 38 models the company sold here.

The U.A.W. has made significant concessions to help G.M., most notably in 2007 when the union accepted a contract that created a two-tiered system, with new hires forgoing a pension and earning roughly half of what traditional workers made. Just two years ago, Lordstown’s U.A.W. bargaining committee agreed to a giveback worth $118 million in order to keep producing the Cruze in Lordstown.

Now the workers would be jobless. Some planned to go back to school or hunt for a new job nearby, while many feared the arrival of an “involuntary job offer” that would force them to relocate to a specific plant or lose their benefits. Some held out hope that the union leadership in Detroit would be able to undo the unallocation decision. In February, the U.A.W. filed suit against G.M. in federal court, arguing that “unallocating” the plants is a synonym for closing or idling them, both of which the union asserts are prohibited in the current four-year contract that expires this fall. As that suit moves forward, the U.A.W. has promised to fight hard to save Lordstown in contract negotiations planned for this summer.

In the meantime, G.M. announced that the final shift at Lordstown would be on March 8. In the union hall and around the valley, people dealt with the looming deadline in different ways.

Jonathan Achey Jr., 45

Body shop Body shop I think that today, a lot of the time people don’t appreciate what they have. I’ve never not appreciated my job at G.M. or what it could do — not just for me but for my son, for my wife, for my family. I get that from my father. He taught me not to take stuff for granted, and that’s what I tell my son, Michael. Thank God my dad was lucky enough to spend 35 years at Lordstown. He bought a house a couple of miles away from where he grew up, where my grandparents lived. And I loved the fact that, when I was a kid, it took us not even 10 minutes to go to the place where my dad grew up. I thought that was the coolest thing ever. And right now, Michael has that option: He can go to my mom’s house and say his dad was born and raised in that house. My whole life has been General Motors. I have 28 years invested in the company that is doing this to me. I understand it’s a business, and they have to make decisions when it comes to business. If this is what they feel they have to do, then I’ll have to accept it. But it’s hard when you see money going to other places, when you see C.E.O.s making the money they’re making. Do I feel like I got slapped in the face? Absolutely. It definitely feels like a smack in the face. But am I going to let that determine who I am after 45 years? No, I’m not. I’m not. I can’t, and I won’t. With his mother, Kathleen. With his mother, Kathleen. Jonathan Achey Jr., 45

Body shop Body shop I think that today, a lot of the time people don’t appreciate what they have. I’ve never not appreciated my job at G.M. or what it could do — not just for me but for my son, for my wife, for my family. I get that from my father. He taught me not to take stuff for granted, and that’s what I tell my son, Michael. Thank God my dad was lucky enough to spend 35 years at Lordstown. He bought a house a couple of miles away from where he grew up, where my grandparents lived. And I loved the fact that, when I was a kid, it took us not even 10 minutes to go to the place where my dad grew up. I thought that was the coolest thing ever. And right now, Michael has that option: He can go to my mom’s house and say his dad was born and raised in that house. My whole life has been General Motors. I have 28 years invested in the company that is doing this to me. I understand it’s a business, and they have to make decisions when it comes to business. If this is what they feel they have to do, then I’ll have to accept it. But it’s hard when you see money going to other places, when you see C.E.O.s making the money they’re making. Do I feel like I got slapped in the face? Absolutely. It definitely feels like a smack in the face. But am I going to let that determine who I am after 45 years? No, I’m not. I’m not. I can’t, and I won’t. With his mother, Kathleen. With his mother, Kathleen. Louis Robinson Jr., 77

Recording secretary for Local 1714 of the United Auto Workers from 1999 to 2018 Recording secretary for Local 1714 of the United Auto Workers from 1999 to 2018 One mistake the international unions in the United States made was when Ronald Reagan fired the air traffic controllers. When he did that, the unions could have brought this country to a standstill. All they had to do was shut down the truck drivers for a month, because then people would not have been able to get the goods they needed. So that was one of the mistakes they made. They didn’t come together as organized labor and say: “No. We aren’t going for this. Shut the country down.” That’s what made them weak. They let Reagan get away with what he did. A little while after that, I read an article that said labor is losing its clout, and I noticed over the years that it did. It happened. It doesn’t feel good. With the minutes from a meeting of his union’s retirees’ chapter. With the minutes from a meeting of his union’s retirees’ chapter. Louis Robinson Jr., 77

Recording secretary for Local 1714 of the United Auto Workers from 1999 to 2018 Recording secretary for Local 1714 of the United Auto Workers from 1999 to 2018 One mistake the international unions in the United States made was when Ronald Reagan fired the air traffic controllers. When he did that, the unions could have brought this country to a standstill. All they had to do was shut down the truck drivers for a month, because then people would not have been able to get the goods they needed. So that was one of the mistakes they made. They didn’t come together as organized labor and say: “No. We aren’t going for this. Shut the country down.” That’s what made them weak. They let Reagan get away with what he did. A little while after that, I read an article that said labor is losing its clout, and I noticed over the years that it did. It happened. It doesn’t feel good. With the minutes from a meeting of his union’s retirees’ chapter. With the minutes from a meeting of his union’s retirees’ chapter.

Kesha Scales, 46

Metal assembly Metal assembly I’m a little hardened because of the factory work. I know I am. When I got hired in, it was so loud in there that you had to wear earplugs; you couldn’t hear anything. It was dirty, and you smelled like oil. But you also smelled like something else — you smelled like production. You smelled like you made some money today. If you can make it working at G.M., you can make it working anywhere. The feeling in the plant my last day was eerie, because nobody knew what to say. That’s why I was so hellbent on trying to get out of there as fast as I could. I didn’t want to see that last Cruze — I just didn’t. I walked out, and I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to look back. I just kept saying to myself, “This is the last time you’re going to make this trip, from somewhere that you’ve been going for 22 years.” I was so loyal to G.M., but it’s just a game to them. With her friend and former co-worker Beverly Williams. With her friend and former co-worker Beverly Williams. LaToya Ruby Frazier for The New York Times Kesha Scales, 46

Metal assembly Metal assembly I’m a little hardened because of the factory work. I know I am. When I got hired in, it was so loud in there that you had to wear earplugs; you couldn’t hear anything. It was dirty, and you smelled like oil. But you also smelled like something else — you smelled like production. You smelled like you made some money today. If you can make it working at G.M., you can make it working anywhere. The feeling in the plant my last day was eerie, because nobody knew what to say. That’s why I was so hellbent on trying to get out of there as fast as I could. I didn’t want to see that last Cruze — I just didn’t. I walked out, and I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to look back. I just kept saying to myself, “This is the last time you’re going to make this trip, from somewhere that you’ve been going for 22 years.” I was so loyal to G.M., but it’s just a game to them. With her friend and former co-worker Beverly Williams. With her friend and former co-worker Beverly Williams. Dave Green, 49

President of Local 1112 of the United Auto Workers President of Local 1112 of the United Auto Workers Unions aren’t just about making more money. It’s about having a seat at the table. It’s about having the ability to talk to your employer and be respected, having some dignity in work, having some dignity and respect in what you do. People keep saying: “Well, I feel sorry for you. Your plant’s closed.” It ain’t closed! It’s unallocated! If the company would come out and tell us that the plant is closed, then I could process what I would think about my kids and where they’re going, and about my parents and how they’re feeling, and about what plant I could go to. But I can’t think that far ahead because I’m not in a position to leave. I can’t transfer out right now. I ran for this job 10 months ago, and I got elected. I’m going to leave now? I have to wait until all this plays out. What the hell does “unallocated” even mean? I don’t know. We have specific language in our national agreement that talks about a “closed” plant status and an “idled” plant status, but there’s not any language that talks about “unallocated.” So they’ve come up with this word to put us in a situation where: A, the contractual language doesn’t fit for this specific situation, and B, they’re kind of skirting their obligations, right? If we were in closed-plant status, there would actually be more benefits for our members right now. But we’re not. So I’m going to ride this out, and if the plant does close, I’ll figure it out then. If it doesn’t, then I’ll stay here and get to give good news to people. That’s the hope. With his daughters, Alison and Cate, and parents, Elaine and Roger. With his daughters, Alison and Cate, and parents, Elaine and Roger. Dave Green, 49

President of Local 1112 of the United Auto Workers President of Local 1112 of the United Auto Workers Unions aren’t just about making more money. It’s about having a seat at the table. It’s about having the ability to talk to your employer and be respected, having some dignity in work, having some dignity and respect in what you do. People keep saying: “Well, I feel sorry for you. Your plant’s closed.” It ain’t closed! It’s unallocated! If the company would come out and tell us that the plant is closed, then I could process what I would think about my kids and where they’re going, and about my parents and how they’re feeling, and about what plant I could go to. But I can’t think that far ahead because I’m not in a position to leave. I can’t transfer out right now. I ran for this job 10 months ago, and I got elected. I’m going to leave now? I have to wait until all this plays out. What the hell does “unallocated” even mean? I don’t know. We have specific language in our national agreement that talks about a “closed” plant status and an “idled” plant status, but there’s not any language that talks about “unallocated.” So they’ve come up with this word to put us in a situation where: A, the contractual language doesn’t fit for this specific situation, and B, they’re kind of skirting their obligations, right? If we were in closed-plant status, there would actually be more benefits for our members right now. But we’re not. So I’m going to ride this out, and if the plant does close, I’ll figure it out then. If it doesn’t, then I’ll stay here and get to give good news to people. That’s the hope. With his daughters, Alison and Cate, and parents, Elaine and Roger. With his daughters, Alison and Cate, and parents, Elaine and Roger.

As the March 8 stop date drew closer, union meetings grew more fraught. Members were fearful about the future and angry at G.M. and Mary Barra, who they noted received nearly $22 million in compensation last year. Some were frustrated over the union’s diminished leverage. A few members reflected on their fathers’ militancy in the early 1970s, when G.M. managers pushed to nearly double the speed of the line so it could produce 100 Chevy Vegas an hour, even as it cut the number of workers at the plant. The managers’ effort was met with strong resistance. Workers rebelled against the brutal pace of the line by staging wildcat strikes, using absenteeism and even sabotage. The uprising peaked with a three-week strike in 1972 that focused not on wages or benefits but on reclaiming the workers’ value as human beings. Reporters called the rebellion “Lordstown syndrome,” and it became a nationwide synonym for working-class disaffection. One article in Newsweek said the Lordstown strikers had created an “industrial Woodstock.”

But the early ’70s turned out to be a high-water mark of working-class leverage; in 1973, the weekly earnings, in real dollars, of nonmanagement private-sector workers reached its peak. The precipitous decline came soon after and can be marked by another local event: Black Monday. On Sept. 19, 1977, Youngstown Sheet & Tube announced without notice that it would be closing the larger of its two mills, laying off 5,000 workers. By the mid-1980s, virtually all the steel and steel-related industry — some 50,000 well-paying jobs — had vanished from the Mahoning Valley as a similar process of deindustrialization played out in the Rust Belt. Still, as recently as the early 1990s, the Lordstown plant employed close to 10,000 U.A.W. members.

Despite its weakened bargaining position, Local 1112 remains a lifeline for its workers. Dave Green spent many of the days leading up to March 8 fielding desperate calls from members seeking advice on whether to put in for a transfer to another plant or to stay put on the chance that G.M. would give Lordstown a new car to build. At the transition center, laid-off assembly-line workers help members obtain unemployment benefits, improve résumés, find job openings and apply for plant transfers, a speculative process that offers no guarantees. U.A.W. members can request a transfer to another G.M. plant if there is an opening; priority is given based on seniority. A U.A.W. worker who was hired before October 2007 receives a pension after 30 years of service. For someone who has worked full time at G.M. for, say, 24 or 25 years, it is difficult to throw away those years of investment.

This had already been happening for many years with other G.M. plants that have been idled or closed. One worker at the transition center, Christina Defelice, said she knew plant workers who arrived at Lordstown after four other transfers, or had been commuting from Pittsburgh or even from as far as Tennessee to keep their families on their health insurance or make their 30 years. She said she knew of a number of divorces, nervous breakdowns and even three suicides caused by such dislocation. Now those out-of-town transplants might have to move on again, joined by hundreds of Lordstown’s newly unallocated workers — people like Ernie Long, who had worked at the plant for 11 years.

Ernie Long, 41

Stamping department Stamping department Seven years ago, I bought my property. Ever since then, I’ve been preparing it, clearing the land, trees, stumps. As I progressed in wage and made more money, I thought about building a house, because General Motors was doing so well. We came out of bankruptcy, and the Cruze was our top-selling vehicle. We were supposed to build the Cruze through 2021, which would still be another two years. So in 2013, we thought about building a house. Now I’ve had my house for two years, and now Mary Barra thinks we don’t need to sell the Cruze anymore. If we have to move for work, I’ll have to go by myself. We’ve had the conversation. I wouldn’t say I’d be mentally prepared, but I know I’d have to leave. I would’ve liked to go to Toledo, or Parma, or Buffalo-Tonawanda. They’re all within about three hours — if I needed to come home that day, I could drive back. Whereas if I went to Spring Hill, that’s nine hours one way. Eydokia would still have her parents here to help her with the kids, and obviously I’d send money home. We would have to pay for rent there and a mortgage here; I’d have to move in with somebody. I still have work to do at my house; I still have a yard to put in. But how are you going to do that knowing you don’t have a job? With his wife, Eydokia; their children, Christian and Mia; and his sister, Brandie. With his wife, Eydokia; their children, Christian and Mia; and his sister, Brandie. Ernie Long, 41

Stamping department Stamping department Seven years ago, I bought my property. Ever since then, I’ve been preparing it, clearing the land, trees, stumps. As I progressed in wage and made more money, I thought about building a house, because General Motors was doing so well. We came out of bankruptcy, and the Cruze was our top-selling vehicle. We were supposed to build the Cruze through 2021, which would still be another two years. So in 2013, we thought about building a house. Now I’ve had my house for two years, and now Mary Barra thinks we don’t need to sell the Cruze anymore. If we have to move for work, I’ll have to go by myself. We’ve had the conversation. I wouldn’t say I’d be mentally prepared, but I know I’d have to leave. I would’ve liked to go to Toledo, or Parma, or Buffalo-Tonawanda. They’re all within about three hours — if I needed to come home that day, I could drive back. Whereas if I went to Spring Hill, that’s nine hours one way. Eydokia would still have her parents here to help her with the kids, and obviously I’d send money home. We would have to pay for rent there and a mortgage here; I’d have to move in with somebody. I still have work to do at my house; I still have a yard to put in. But how are you going to do that knowing you don’t have a job? With his wife, Eydokia; their children, Christian and Mia; and his sister, Brandie. With his wife, Eydokia; their children, Christian and Mia; and his sister, Brandie. Cindy Higinbotham, 13 (left)

Student Student I was kind of scared and sad when I found out about the plant. My father has lived next to Lordstown his entire life. We know everyone.

I’m scared about moving, but I’m trying to be brave about it. I know it’s going to be hard, because I’ll be going into a new school. I have to make new friends, and I’m not really social. I want other kids to just be brave. Be there for your parents. Give them moral support, give your family support and make sure they are O.K. I wasn’t O.K. at first. I don’t want to go. All my friends don’t want me to go, and I know it’s hard to leave friends. But if you have to leave something, you have to leave and go on with life. It just goes on. In the Lordstown High School band room with her friend Monet Hostutler. In the Lordstown High School band room with her friend Monet Hostutler. Cindy Higinbotham, 13 (left)

Student Student I was kind of scared and sad when I found out about the plant. My father has lived next to Lordstown his entire life. We know everyone.

I’m scared about moving, but I’m trying to be brave about it. I know it’s going to be hard, because I’ll be going into a new school. I have to make new friends, and I’m not really social. I want other kids to just be brave. Be there for your parents. Give them moral support, give your family support and make sure they are O.K. I wasn’t O.K. at first. I don’t want to go. All my friends don’t want me to go, and I know it’s hard to leave friends. But if you have to leave something, you have to leave and go on with life. It just goes on. In the Lordstown High School band room with her friend Monet Hostutler. In the Lordstown High School band room with her friend Monet Hostutler.

Sherria Duncan, 43 (second from right)

Paint shop Paint shop When I was hired, my mother took me to work with her and showed me the ropes. I was terrified, and my mom was like a mama bear looking over her cub. I didn’t find out until years later that she had so many friends at the plant who would say, “Your daughter went here for lunch” or “She was talking to that person” or “These guys were looking at her.” She was on the women’s committee and the election committee, so when she retired, I joined those committees. Family is important to us, and the possibility of having to leave the area is hard, because our family would probably be separated. Both of our mothers help a lot, and we really rely on our parents because we work separate shifts. A lot of times we have to work mandatory Saturdays, so we’re really left with one day each week for quality time. Jason and I would go days when we literally didn’t see each other. I felt lonely a lot, because he worked the afternoon shift so he could put Olivia on the school bus in the morning, when I was at work. Usually I get off at 3:30, but there are days that they’ll tell you at the last minute, “You have to stay until 4 o’clock.” Well, Olivia gets off the bus at 4, and Jason is already at work. My mom’s on standby, but I feel like a burden. They say “Family first” at G.M., but it isn’t true, because they don’t understand that a lot of people have children in school. So that’s very scary if we have to transfer plants, because we won’t have that safety net. At home with her daughter, Olivia; her mother, Waldine Arrington; and her husband, Jason Duncan. At home with her daughter, Olivia; her mother, Waldine Arrington; and her husband, Jason Duncan. Sherria Duncan, 43 (second from right)

Paint shop Paint shop When I was hired, my mother took me to work with her and showed me the ropes. I was terrified, and my mom was like a mama bear looking over her cub. I didn’t find out until years later that she had so many friends at the plant who would say, “Your daughter went here for lunch” or “She was talking to that person” or “These guys were looking at her.” She was on the women’s committee and the election committee, so when she retired, I joined those committees. Family is important to us, and the possibility of having to leave the area is hard, because our family would probably be separated. Both of our mothers help a lot, and we really rely on our parents because we work separate shifts. A lot of times we have to work mandatory Saturdays, so we’re really left with one day each week for quality time. Jason and I would go days when we literally didn’t see each other. I felt lonely a lot, because he worked the afternoon shift so he could put Olivia on the school bus in the morning, when I was at work. Usually I get off at 3:30, but there are days that they’ll tell you at the last minute, “You have to stay until 4 o’clock.” Well, Olivia gets off the bus at 4, and Jason is already at work. My mom’s on standby, but I feel like a burden. They say “Family first” at G.M., but it isn’t true, because they don’t understand that a lot of people have children in school. So that’s very scary if we have to transfer plants, because we won’t have that safety net. At home with her daughter, Olivia; her mother, Waldine Arrington; and her husband, Jason Duncan. At home with her daughter, Olivia; her mother, Waldine Arrington; and her husband, Jason Duncan. Vickie Raymond, 49

Paint shop Paint shop My father was a city kid in Cleveland; my mom was only 17 when they got married. We lived in Windham until I was 6, and then a guy my father worked with at the plant told him about a house in Hanoverton. They came out and looked at it, and they liked it because it had land and room, and it was quiet and safe. That’s where they lived for 43 years. It was just an old 1800s farmhouse with five acres, but we felt like we were on “Little House on the Prairie.” It had horsehair plaster with wood slats and no dry wall at all. It had newspapers in the walls as insulation; it was very cold in there. My dad and my mom did the majority of the remodeling themselves. They put vinyl siding on it and installed new windows, and they painted it yellow with light-green shutters. When my dad passed away in 2013, my mom wasn’t able to maintain the home. I would go over every day after work to clean it, vacuum it, dust it, whatever she needed. I’d do the outside maintenance, planting flowers and gardening, staining the deck, power washing. When my mom had cancer, one thing that bothered her most was worrying about what was going to happen to me because of G.M. idling. I don’t want to let our house go, but it has to be done. I made a promise to my mom before she passed. I promised her I wouldn’t let our place sit there without another family in it. You can’t let an old farmhouse sit there too long, because things start falling apart. At her parents’ home. At her parents’ home. Vickie Raymond, 49

Paint shop Paint shop My father was a city kid in Cleveland; my mom was only 17 when they got married. We lived in Windham until I was 6, and then a guy my father worked with at the plant told him about a house in Hanoverton. They came out and looked at it, and they liked it because it had land and room, and it was quiet and safe. That’s where they lived for 43 years. It was just an old 1800s farmhouse with five acres, but we felt like we were on “Little House on the Prairie.” It had horsehair plaster with wood slats and no dry wall at all. It had newspapers in the walls as insulation; it was very cold in there. My dad and my mom did the majority of the remodeling themselves. They put vinyl siding on it and installed new windows, and they painted it yellow with light-green shutters. When my dad passed away in 2013, my mom wasn’t able to maintain the home. I would go over every day after work to clean it, vacuum it, dust it, whatever she needed. I’d do the outside maintenance, planting flowers and gardening, staining the deck, power washing. When my mom had cancer, one thing that bothered her most was worrying about what was going to happen to me because of G.M. idling. I don’t want to let our house go, but it has to be done. I made a promise to my mom before she passed. I promised her I wouldn’t let our place sit there without another family in it. You can’t let an old farmhouse sit there too long, because things start falling apart. At her parents’ home. At her parents’ home.

The last Cruze came off the line on March 6, two days ahead of schedule. That afternoon, workers gathered on the shoulder of a turnpike exit next to the plant for a celebratory protest. Dave Green and a few others gave brief speeches, and a local folk singer played a version of Bruce Springsteen’s “Youngstown,” with revamped lyrics to reflect Lordstown’s struggles. Afterward, people ran into the road, whooping and hollering at the honking cars and tractor-trailers before dispersing in the bitter cold. The last Cruze remained inside the plant, awaiting a final inspection. By then, it had already come to be much more than a car. It was a token of the most coveted working-class possession: a secure, well-paying job with health insurance and a pension.