Underwritten by The Kroger Co.

Roads are practical things. Concrete and gravel. White lines and mile markers. They are built because businesses and communities are growing, because people demand a better way to get where they need to go.

Roads don’t move, but they are all about movement. About progress.

At least, they are supposed to be.

The Enquirer will spend this year traveling a road where progress has slowed, or even stopped, for thousands of men and women who are struggling despite an economic recovery that’s now almost a decade old.

The road runs 80 miles north to south through the heart of the region, from Middletown to Cincinnati to Falmouth. Farmers and factory workers, truck drivers and teachers, all live and work along the road.

Some never recovered from the Great Recession. They may find jobs, but they don’t earn the salaries and benefits they once did. They may pay their bills on time, but they’re one illness or broken-down car from financial crisis.

Their savings accounts are stretched. Their health and retirement benefits inadequate. They need more than they have.

They’re not outliers, either. Household income is lower today than before the recession in almost half the counties in Greater Cincinnati.

Poverty is worse in one-third of those counties.

Wages for the poorest workers have barely budged since the recovery began.

The recession ended years ago, and the economy is undeniably better. But for those still trying to find their way back, the road is long and hard.

The Long, Hard Road Turn Sound on. The Enquirer will spend 2019 traveling a road where progress has slowed, or even stopped, for thousands of men and women who are struggling despite an economic recovery that’s now almost a decade old. Enquirer Staff, Cincinnati Enquirer





HARD DRIVING

Tim Mathews is driving north in his silver Chevy truck, almost at the Montgomery County line. It's a Thursday night in late February. He’s headed home to Englewood after a 12-hour day at AK Steel doing a job he fears might go away.

He’s a truck driver. Loves that stuff. But his driving job requires him to stay on the grounds of the sprawling steel mill, not out on the road, where he longs to be, where the deer and the farmhouses and the miles comfort him.

Mathews, 60, is a subcontractor at AK Steel. His employer, Bowling Transportation, is re-negotiating its contract with the factory. Officials are going back-and-forth now. It could be settled tomorrow or next week or next month or in six months.

If the contract vanishes, someone will still do the work he does, but that’s about the only thing Mathews knows for sure. A new company might fire everyone and hire new drivers or decide to cut his pay – now at $18.50 an hour.

Timothy Mathews, an AK Steel truck driver, drives on Route 4 through Middletown towards his home in Englewood. It typically takes him about 50 minutes. Albert Cesare / The Enquirer

For more than a decade, he’s been hauling huge metal coils around the mill’s processing center, six days a week. Mathews moved a nice bit of coil today, about 50 in all. He drove his truck back-and-forth some eight times in a two-mile route around the factory.

This is already his second career. He was a machinist, working almost two decades at places like Panasonic’s now-closed television tube plant in Troy. In the 20 years since, he’s never brought home the kind of pay he made back then.

Mathews heard there were always jobs in trucking, so he got his license in 2001. There were jobs, but they didn’t pay well, and he delivered food to restaurants on the worst routes with the worst hours.

The Great Recession stole wealth, only the rich got it back Americans lost billions of dollars in net worth in the Great Recession. Homes. Cars. Retirement accounts. Here’s how wealth changed from 2007 to 2016 among all income levels, from the poorest 20 percent of Americans to the richest 10 percent.

He tried selling cars for a bit. He got salesman of the month once for selling five cars. It was 2007, and the Great Recession was just getting started, though not everyone knew it yet. Soon after, the collapsing stock market took his retirement fund down with it.

A decade later, he’s still rebuilding his savings. He can’t retire yet, so he’s started looking for other jobs should he lose his AK Steel position. He’s interviewed for a couple already. One would have been an 80-mile delivery around the region for $19.50 an hour.

He didn’t get that job, though. They told him he didn’t have enough experience on the highway. He needs more time on the road.

Tonight, it’s snowing as Mathews drives into the next county. He can’t see much beyond the lights of his pickup truck.

Story by Carol Motsinger, photos by Albert Cesare

A LEAKY FUTURE

The sun is setting, and there is a light above Elizabethtown First Church of God. The parking lot is empty.

Up on this hill, near acres and acres of farmland, the wind is gusting hard enough to shake cars. A blue tarp covering the church’s leaky roof has blown off, and it hangs above the bushes. Scraps of wood that held the tarp in place are now scattered across the lawn.

It’s Sunday evening, and the church’s sign is brightly lit. Service starts at 6 p.m., it says, and “everyone’s welcome.”

But there will be no service tonight. The pastor resigned this morning.

Before the recession, something like 150 people attended this church just north of Middletown. Churches, though, aren't exempt from hard times.

Charlie Rice, 62, stands in a body shop workroom at Middletown Ford. He's also the pastor at Elizabethtown First Church of God. Kareem Elgazzar

Charlie Rice, the pastor who will soon leave this church, saw only about 20 people on most Sundays in a sanctuary that could hold more than 250. He says there might only be three or four at the next service.

One of the few families that still goes to church here recently lost their home. The pastor laments that the church didn’t have enough money to do anything about it.

In some places in the region, big churches with big congregations can do a lot. But the difference between thriving and barely surviving can be found here on Chamberlain Road, where the people who still go to church joke about boarding up the doors because they can’t think of anything else to do.

A tarp covers the leaky roof of the Elizabethtown First Church of God. Later, wind will blow the covering off the structure. Meg Vogel/The Enquirer

Rice is a mechanic, and his wife works at McDonald’s. If there is such a thing as a typical pastor, he isn’t it.

Last year, he hurt his shoulder and went on disability. During this time, because of the restrictions on receiving disability payments, he wasn’t allowed to accept payment from the church but was told he could recoup the money after his shoulder healed. When he came to collect, the church couldn’t pay him back.

The money had already been spent.

Rice has been praying for a bigger congregation ever since he got here almost eight years ago.

He wanted to attend baby showers, not just funerals. And he didn't want to cancel service in the winter because church leaders couldn't pay for the parking lot to be plowed.

So he prayed, and he prayed.

On Monday, he will put on his uniform – the gray and blue overalls of a mechanic, not a pastor’s robe – and go to work. Soon, he will be looking for a new church.

He doesn’t know what will happen to his old one.

Story by Keith BieryGolick, photos by Meg Vogel and Kareem Elgazzar

HARD TO BREATHE

Roscoe Anthony sat on the couch and laughed as his 1-year-old grandson ate a quesadilla for the first time. It was a mess.

His wife recorded video on her phone, and there was more laughter. Until Anthony couldn’t breathe. His chest began to tighten, and he gasped for air.

He could barely speak, but he still found the words to tell his wife he didn’t want to go to the hospital. Not again.

Anthony’s asthma put him in an intensive care unit for several days. He has insurance, but these trips to the hospital keep him from his job – and a paycheck.

Roscoe and Megan Anthony play with their grandson, Alyx, while at a family friend's house. Roscoe Anthony suffers from asthma, and he struggles to find full-time work. Kareem Elgazzar

He was born with asthma. He worked at a steel mill for more than a decade. It was hard work, but it paid the bills.

When the economy collapsed in 2008, he lost his job at AK Steel. He tried not to worry. He would find something else. But Anthony would soon realize finding a job, or two, isn’t always enough.

After AK Steel, he landed three jobs – at a pizza place, a Chinese restaurant and White Castle. He still didn’t make as much money as before. That’s when dinner regularly became nothing more than Vienna sausage and crackers.

Anthony and his wife had just bought their grandparents’ home and were in the middle of rehabbing it. They finished the kitchen and bathroom. And they learned to live with torn up floors elsewhere in the house because there was no money left to fix them.

Without many options, Anthony went to Ohio Business College Trucking Academy. He paid for the program with government assistance and was certified to drive semis in just a few weeks. The work steadied them.

Jobs came back after the recession, financial security didn’t More Americans say they are “liquid-asset poor,” or without enough savings to make ends meet if their income was interrupted. The percentage of asset-poor households before and after the Great Recession:

But after years of relative comfort, Anthony has been in and out of the hospital for the last few months. That means his family doesn’t have a reliable paycheck. And it means their savings is gone.

They moved in with his wife’s mother to save money, but it wasn’t enough to save their car. They couldn't make the payments anymore.

They are raising their grandson, and they want to move out.

They don’t know if they can.

Story by Keith BieryGolick, photos by Kareem Elgazzar

HELP FROM HER FRIENDS

Kathy Stevens embraces a childhood friend near the front door of Hillbilly Heaven, a neighborhood bar tucked between a laundromat and car shops a few blocks from Ohio 4, in the shadow of International Paper.

“We can't stay, we got a grandson in the car,” her friend says as he wraps his arms around Stevens. “I wanted to stop by and help out."

He places folded-up bills into her palm.

Kathy Stevens listens to music while attending a benefit for her at Hillbilly Heaven in Middletown. Stevens has suffered from breast cancer and ovarian cancer. She now battles liver disease. Albert Cesare

It's one of many donations Stevens will receive this Sunday afternoon. They will come as dimes and dollars, in envelopes, placed in the donation jar near the stage, in exchange for raffle tickets.

This help arrives nearly four years after Stevens was diagnosed with what would be the first of two different kinds of cancer, and she was forced to quit her job in social work.

Two aggressive surgeries removed the cancers. They also left behind crippling medical bills.

Medicaid covered some of the tests and procedures, the hospital stays. But Stevens still owes thousands of dollars for her cancer treatment.

Show caption Hide caption Lori Shaffer, left, speaks with Kathy Stevens at the bar. The benefit was held for Stevens to help her pay off her medical debt and... Lori Shaffer, left, speaks with Kathy Stevens at the bar. The benefit was held for Stevens to help her pay off her medical debt and pay for more treatment. Folks also held a benefit for Shaffer here when she needed a kidney transplant. Albert Cesare

The debt took her car first. Then her home of 12 years.

Her mother, Joyce, covered Stevens' rent for a couple of months from her retirement fund, but that money wasn’t meant to last, and her parents had already spent thousands helping Stevens with the medical bills.

Stevens moved into daughter Kaleigh Brewer’s home for a few months. There, she shared a room with her now 4-year-old granddaughter, November. Now, Stevens lives in public housing.

At 54, her liver is failing. Doctors told her the two rounds of chemotherapy she underwent those years ago may be the culprit. She is having tests run to see if she can get a new liver.

Stevens wants to be able to drive herself to treatment this year. Maybe, if there is enough money raised today, she can buy a clunker, she says.

She wants to pay back her mother and father first, though. Her 75-year-old mother, now helping organize the potluck on the pool table in the back, needs eye surgery and new glasses.

Family medical expenses keep rising Costs are climbing at a slower rate than before the recession, but they’re still climbing. Over the past decade, a family of four has paid about $1,000 more per year, every year, for medical insurance and out-of-pocket expenses.

Stevens also needs new glasses. She can’t really read books anymore, and she has a list of classics that she wants to check off. J.D. Salinger’s “The Catcher in the Rye” is at the top.

Her eyesight is still sharp enough for her to recognize the about 50 people milling about the bar, waiting their turn to stop Stevens with their open arms and to give her what they can.

It will add up to $1,500.

Story by Carol Motsinger, photos by Albert Cesare



Housing on South Clinton Street. Amanda Rossmann/The Enquirer

The John Ross Hunt Tower, a low-income apartment building, stands seven stories tall in downtown Middletown.

There are only 43 affordable rental units for every 100 extremely low-income households in Ohio. And some 67 percent of the state's poorest households spend over half of their income on rent. That's according to a March 2019 report from The National Low Income Housing Coalition.





CATCHING UP

Nancy Barr is tucked into a corner computer station late on a February afternoon at MidPointe MLibrary in Middletown, quietly tapping on the keyboard.

“I’m looking up Chip and Joanna,” she says, smiling. “I came to see what’s going on and see their baby and everything.”

Show caption Hide caption Nancy Barr comes to the MidPointe Library in Middletown to use the computers for internet access. As a senior living on social security, Nancy says... Nancy Barr comes to the MidPointe Library in Middletown to use the computers for internet access. As a senior living on social security, Nancy says she can't afford a computer nor the security to protect herself online. Phil Didion

Barr is a fan of Chip and Joanna Gaines of the wildly popular HGTV show "Fixer Upper."

But she can’t stream it at home. She can't afford broadband internet service or a computer. She won't say how old she is, but she's retired and living on Social Security and Medicare.

Barr worked for 43 years, mostly in retail. She had a 401K, savings that was supposed to help pull people through their retirement years, but that money is gone.

Middle class retirement accounts are still hurting The Great Recession took a bite out of retirement savings. The wealthy bounced back nicely, but the middle class remains in a hole. Here’s how the value of retirement savings has changed since 2007 among all income levels, from the poorest 20 percent to the richest 10 percent.

Even now, Barr keeps active, often volunteering mornings and watching her cousin’s kids in the afternoon. “My days are pretty busy.”

When she’s done, like anyone, she can use a little screen time.

“I just come down here," she says, "where I can relax and enjoy it."

Story by Terry DeMio, photos by Phil Didion



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MOUNTAIN DEW MEDS

Ten-year-old Bryan Barrett Jr. needs help with his spelling homework. There’s no dictionary in the house. The new words are tough.

Mandy Williamson, his father’s girlfriend, tries to help. Bryan calls her ‘mom.’ His biological mother died about three years ago.

Williamson reads definitions she’s pulled up on her phone. Bryan scribbles sentences.

One word is “enrich.”

Ten-year-old Bryan Barrett Jr. gets some help with his spelling work from Mandy Williamson, his father's girlfriend. Bryan's family can't afford an annual checkup for the boy. Cara Owsley

“Enrich — I am not rich,” Bryan says. Two holes in the ceiling plaster expose wood strips overhead, betraying a leaky past.

Williamson repeats the spelling word several times, emphasizing its pronunciation.

Bryan asks what it means.

“To make rich or richer,” Williamson says.

Bryan writes: “I am enrich.”

Bryan’s dad, Bryan Barrett Sr., cuts gas-pump hoses at a Springboro factory. He used to have better jobs, but he left one because he wanted to spend more time with his son, another because he felt underpaid and underappreciated. Now he’s a temporary worker, still without any employer-sponsored health insurance.

Bryan Barrett Jr., 10, lives on Fairmount Avenue in Middletown. Those who grew up in this area earn an average of $22,000 a year in adulthood. Cara Owsley/The Enquirer

And without insurance or savings, Barrett Sr. says he can’t afford his son’s annual checkup.

Bryan's teacher suspects the boy has attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.

She offered this advice: Let the fourth-grader chug diet Mountain Dew. She told Bryan’s father the caffeine can help calm hyperactive kids.

This is what passes for medical care in a family that can’t afford it. But the homespun treatment, the well-meaning offer of any help to keep Bryan focused, is an enduring myth.

It doesn't work. At certain thresholds, caffeine can be harmful to children.

Bryan's father knows his son needs to see a doctor. He also knows public assistance is likely available to him. But he is proud and worried about missing work to stand in line all day to apply. And he thinks others out there are the ones who really need the help.

The Barretts live in a neighborhood where 70 percent of those who grew up there tend to stay. Those from the neighborhood also tend to remain in the same economic straits as their parents, with the average income hovering around $22,000 a year.

More children live in poverty today than before the Great Recession Despite a nearly decade-long economic recovery, the poverty rate among children is climbing both nationwide and in Greater Cincinnati.

Finished with his vocabulary exercise, Bryan complains that there is no WiFi. The phone company disconnected it after a missed payment. So Bryan awaits dinner alone in his room, which is dominated by an air mattress atop a sheet of plywood on a thin white bed frame.

Later, Bryan calls to his father:

“Can I drink the last Mountain Dew?”

“Yeah, OK,” his dad says.

Story by Max Londberg, photos by Cara Owsley



An old plant sits on Ohio 4, south of Middletown. Cara Owsley/The Enquirer





KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

Two men lean against a table, side by side, squinting at a computer screen.

The younger man, Antoine Delon Durham, is trying to get a job. The older man, Michael Bailey, is trying to help. They’re running out of time.

“OK, they’re asking for your information here,” Bailey says, pointing to a line on the screen. “What’s your Social Security number?”

Durham taps the keyboard, slowly, with his index fingers.

Show caption Hide caption Michael Bailey, 65, right, career counselor, talks with Antoine Delon Durham, 37, at the resource center of the Robert "Sonny" Hill Community Center in... Michael Bailey, 65, right, career counselor, talks with Antoine Delon Durham, 37, at the resource center of the Robert "Sonny" Hill Community Center in Middletown. Durham is rushing to fill out paperwork and arrange a ride so he can make his new job official before someone else takes it. Cara Owsley

Durham, 37, moved to Middletown a month ago from Detroit. One of his first stops was a job counseling session here at the Robert “Sonny” Hill Community Center, where he met Bailey, 65.

It’s now early February, and Durham is back. He’s close to getting hired at an auto parts plant, but all the paperwork is online and the drug testing center is seven miles away.

Durham doesn’t have a computer, or a car, so these are problems he needs to solve. And he needs to do it quickly. The job pays good money, $18.50 an hour. Someone else will grab it if he doesn’t.

Durham is hurrying to finish the computer forms because one of Bailey’s friends is available in the next hour to drive him to the testing center. They tried to find a bus route, but there was nothing close.

“If he can get his drug screen, he’s got a job,” Bailey told his friend.

Bailey sees a little of himself in Durham. At his age, Bailey also had a wife, kids and a high school education.

But Bailey worked the same job for 30 years at the AK Steel mill until his retirement. He has a pension and health care benefits for his family.

Durham, who worked at a factory and a fried chicken restaurant in Detroit, is trying to get his third job in less than a year. He has no pension and relies on Medicaid for his family.

When Bailey was starting out, one in four Americans worked in manufacturing jobs like those at the steel mill. Today, it's one in 10.

Some jobs are plentiful, but pay isn’t what it used to be The changing economy has turned some middle-class jobs into lower-wage occupations. Work in warehouses, auto parts and maintenance still employ millions, but pay is on the decline. Here’s how warehouse jobs have changed.

At the community center, Bailey meets guys like Durham all the time: Low-skilled workers who can find jobs, but not the kind of jobs that were around when Bailey was young. Not the kind you can raise a family on. For the poorest workers, benefits today are less generous, and wages are flat.

Bailey knows those workers have it rougher than he did. It’s why he spends a few days a week here, behind a desk in a corner next to a coffee machine, doing what he can to help.

“There you go,” he tells Durham, pointing again to the computer screen. “Everything else looks good.”

Durham finishes typing. His ride will be here soon.

Story by Dan Horn, photos by Cara Owsley

VETERAN'S DAY

Darrell Wick sits nearly motionless and silent at the middle table in a crowded church hall.

His pale complexion is even more ghostly when set against his black Vietnam Veteran cap and dark blue U.S. Navy hoodie. His right hand trembles.

Eighty-three veterans, a single-day record for such a meeting, are here to listen to the man standing beside an easel at the front of the room. He's a fellow veteran who has developed an expertise in Veterans Affairs benefit forms.

Show caption Hide caption Vietnam veteran Darrell Wick, 71, center left, chats with fellow Vietnam veterans David Steele, of Hamilton, and Harry Cable, of Lebanon, at a Veterans Social... Vietnam veteran Darrell Wick, 71, center left, chats with fellow Vietnam veterans David Steele, of Hamilton, and Harry Cable, of Lebanon, at a Veterans Social Command meeting. The group's 400 members meet monthly in Middletown for fellowship and help understanding benefits. Cara Owsley

They hope he can tell them how to get the help they need.

Wick is here because, in 2002, the government narrowed its definition of who "served in the Republic of Vietnam."

Because of the change, the government denied Wick an estimated $3,000 a month in disability coverage for Agent Orange-related illnesses. The reason: He served offshore, not in combat, during the war.

But Wick and other sailors drank or showered in distilled seawater that contained Agent Orange, a chemical herbicide. Today, he believes he's suffering the consequences.

In 2009, alopecia started to cause his then-brown hair to fall out in clumps. Then came the onset of Bell's palsy and Parkinson's disease.

Too weak to go back to work, Wick can't live on his pension from his 34 years at Corson Packaging, especially with his mounting medical bills.

Veterans wait longer for medical care Delays in receiving health care are common for all patients, but veterans are more likely to wait. They report more frequent scheduling and transportation problems. Here’s a comparison of how often veterans and nonveterans encounter delays.

But he receives a glimmer of hope at the meeting. Fellow veterans tell him about an early 2019 federal appeals court ruling that grants eligibility to sailors like him.

If the decision stands, Wick would be among the 50,000 to 70,000 former sailors nationwide who could receive the monthly stipend.

The appeals court decision is not final. It could be appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court.

That could take months, if not years.

Wick is 71.

Story by Mark Curnutte, photos by Cara Owsley



Show caption Hide caption In the United States, diabetes diagnoses have been on the rise since the mid-1990s. But not for every group of people in this country. And... In the United States, diabetes diagnoses have been on the rise since the mid-1990s. But not for every group of people in this country. And the gaps between these groups have widened in recent years. In the 2000s, The number of cases for white people, as well as those who are highly educated, have leveled off. The number of cases among minorities, the poor and those without college degrees continue to rise. About 28 percent of the people who live just north of these billboards did not finish high school. Forty percent are minorities, and median income is less than $22,000 a year. Sources: Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Associated Press local life expectancy report Amanda Rossmann/The Enquirer

In the United States, diabetes diagnoses have been on the rise since the mid-1990s. But not for every group of people in this country. And the gaps between these groups have widened in recent years.

In the 2000s, the number of cases for white people, as well as those who are highly educated, have leveled off.

The number of cases among minorities, the poor and those without college degrees continue to rise. About 28 percent of the people who live just north of these billboards did not finish high school. Forty percent are minorities, and median income is less than $22,000 a year.

Sources: Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Associated Press local life expectancy report





THE CHICKEN REBELS

It was like throwing water into a hot frying pan.

Asphalt sprayed up like a geyser, scarring the emulsion plant and its line of 30,000-gallon tanks in black streaks. The cover on top of the tanks blew 50 feet across the plant.

On most days, Jane Otterbein would have been standing above those tanks. On most days, she would have been dead. On this day, she was on the other side of a concrete wall when she heard a rumble.

It didn’t truly sink in until much later, though, maybe a year after the explosion. Otterbein remembers standing on a catwalk some 20 feet in the air, looking out over those very same tanks.

Jane Otterbein and Beverly Skinner unload a tractor of wood to split. Kareem Elgazzar

This was one of those days that had turned into one of those nights and eventually became one of those mornings. She saw the sun rising after already seeing it set, never having left her job.

That’s when she realized she didn’t have to be there.

Now she lives in a barn. She runs a dog kennel and sells chicken eggs with her wife on a small piece of land before Monroe turns into Middletown.

The barn is painted pink and teal and yellow and purple.

“Because I want it to be,” she says.

Otterbein and her wife, Beverly Skinner, don’t do things like everyone else. It is not that they do not see how others live. But they do not envy it. They opt to live small and outside the system. They chop their own wood to feed their wood-burning stove in winter.

They do not require much. Neither do they want for much.

Skinner grew up in Middletown but lived in California for 50 years. She milked a cow for the first time when she was 8 years old, and she learned how to drive a John Deere tractor at 10.

A life they want to live Jane Otterbein and Beverly Skinner, self-proclaimed rebels, live on a small piece of land where they sell chicken eggs and run a dog kennel. Kareem Elgazzar, kelgazzar@enquirer.com

“I’ve been a rebel all my life,” she says.

When she gave up nursing a few years ago in California, she drove a trailer across America all by herself. She is 79 now. Her son’s friends told him they would never let their mother do that. But her son knew he could do little to stop her.

When she made it to Otterbein’s house, almost three years ago, she stayed.

Otterbein is 72 and talks with her hands, both of which have tattoos. She remembers a time in the ’70s, after her divorce, when she had a nice house in a perfectly pleasant subdivision in Eaton, Ohio.

She was miserable.

Now, Otterbein and Skinner live in a world where chickens greet guests at their front door. A world where peace and quiet is only interrupted by the rooster living in the kitchen.

Skinner looks outside. After too much talking, she puts her boots on to gather eggs. When she returns, she shows off a carton for sale. Her eyes widen as she pulls the lid open and points to a green egg inside.

Why is she selling green eggs?

The long answer is because certain types of chickens produce different colored eggs.

The real reason is closer to this: Because she can.

Story by Keith BieryGolick, photos by Kareem Elgazzar

BROKE IN THE 'BURBS

Jennifer Romer sits in the kitchen of the house she can no longer afford, listening to the whoosh and rumble of the old furnace in the basement.

She’s not sure, but she thinks she might hear it rattling again, a sound she likens to someone slowly shaking a giant tin of breath mints.

Clack, clack, clack.

Romer has been worrying about the rattle for weeks. A dead furnace during a brutal cold snap would likely be the last straw, forcing her and her 10-year-old daughter out of their Liberty Township neighborhood.

Jennifer Romer washes dishes, Thursday, Jan. 31, 2019, at her home in Liberty Township, Ohio. Romer, a single mom, is juggling three part-time jobs to pay the bills. Kareem Elgazzar/The Enquirer

This is a place where $250,000 homes sit on culs-de-sac and fire pits adorn backyard patios, a place where parents are supposed to be able to keep their children warm at night.

Romer has a master’s degree, but she works three part-time jobs to help her ex-husband pay the bills. She has multiple sclerosis and the medical expenses that go with it. She missed her last student loan payment.

There is no money to replace the furnace. If it goes, so does she.

Romer listens to the heating vent in the kitchen until she thinks maybe the rattle was just her imagination. Or maybe, if she’s lucky, it’s gone for good.

A mom's struggle to find a full-time job Jennifer Romer was laid off from work six years ago. She's been struggling ever since. Kareem Elgazzar and Amanda Rossmann, Cincinnati Enquirer

“It seems to be working,” she says, without great confidence.

At best, this is a temporary reprieve. Romer is surrounded by the trappings of suburbia – a three-car garage, a split-rail fence – but this is more her past now than her future.

She’s agreed to sell the house as part of her divorce and is looking for an apartment nearby so her daughter, Abigail, can stay in the same school.

Romer knows others who are struggling to make it work in the suburbs, which are now home to about 16 million poor people nationwide. She's surprised every day to be one of them.

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After losing her $36-an-hour job as a nuclear medical technician almost six years ago in a downsizing, Romer went back to school to get a master’s degree in training and performance improvement. She was married and her husband was working, so going to school and staying home with her daughter seemed reasonable.

Now, though, she’s in a kind of employment no-man’s land: Out of her old field so long it’s hard to go back, and lacking experience to break into her new one.

She guesses she’s sent out hundreds of resumes. The response, when she gets one, is always some version of the same sentence: “At this time, we are pursuing other candidates.”

Romer does a mish-mash of jobs to get by. She designs websites, does some marketing work and writes test questions for college exams. She earned less than $16,000 last year.

Romer gets up from the kitchen table and makes her way to the sink to do dishes. She walks with a slight limp, a symptom of her multiple sclerosis. Her two dogs, Molly and Nutmeg, sniff around her feet, while Abigail works a half-finished puzzle on the counter.

More poor people live in the suburbs than in big cities Poverty rates have been rising in many cities and rural areas, but they’re rising fastest in the suburbs. The trend gained momentum during the Great Recession and continues today.

For a moment, looking around, it’s easy to imagine nothing has changed. This is still her home. The flag magnets on the fridge, the rack of cookbooks, the wall-hanging that says, “Too many wines spoil the cook.”

Romer dries her hands and sidles up to her daughter. They lean over the puzzle, a brightly colored coastal scene with sailboats and brilliant blue skies.

“Yaaaay! I found one,” Abigail says, snapping a piece into place.

Neither seems to notice when the furnace shakes to life again in the basement, sending a rush of warm air into the kitchen. They just stand there together, searching the scattered puzzle pieces on the counter.

Story by Dan Horn, photos by Kareem Elgazzar

TIRED OF CLIFF DWELLING

Ricky Davis reaches into the belly of the air conditioner, feeling his way around the tubes and fans, until he finds what he’s looking for.

After a few tugs, he lifts out a filter.

“Oh, man,” he says.

It’s covered in black soot and debris. Davis carries the filter to a garbage bin, scrubs it with a brush until the dirt tumbles out and returns it to the air conditioner.

It’s a late February afternoon at Butler Tech, where Davis is working toward his certification in the heating, ventilation and air conditioning program. When he graduates in five months, he could earn around $20 an hour fixing machines like this one.

Show caption Hide caption Ricky Davis, 31, hugs his girlfriend Ashley Jackson, 30, while they were both on break from classes at Butler Tech. The couple was encouraged by... Ricky Davis, 31, hugs his girlfriend Ashley Jackson, 30, while they were both on break from classes at Butler Tech. The couple was encouraged by family members to further their education. Davis and Jackson have been together for 10 years and have three sons. Cara Owsley/The Enquirer

That’s about double what he’s been paid for any job he’s ever had. Davis, 31, has spent his adult life delivering furniture, driving forklifts and carrying heavy things.

It was steady work. But it’s not enough to raise his three boys the way he wants to raise them, or to keep his 20-year-old Chrysler Sebring running, or to cover the rent on an apartment that isn’t freezing in the winter and sweltering in the summer.

He’s tired of living on a cliff, where one mistake or misfortune can send him over the edge.

Two years ago, when his car got towed, Davis paid $200 to get it back. That put him $200 behind on rent, which triggered late fees, which put him further behind, which led to an eviction, which landed his family in a roadside motel.

Show caption Hide caption Ricky Davis, 31, center works on an air conditioner in a class at Butler Tech. He hopes the training he gets here will lead to... Ricky Davis, 31, center works on an air conditioner in a class at Butler Tech. He hopes the training he gets here will lead to a better-paying job that will support his fiance and three sons. Cara Owsley/The Enquirer

All the while he was working, often two jobs. So was his fiancé, Ashley Jackson. It wasn’t enough.

They’re both here now, at Butler Tech, hoping to get the training that's now required for most better-paying jobs. Jackson, the mother of his sons, is studying to be a medical assistant.

Davis’ sister is letting them live in her basement, rent free, while they go to school and work part time. It’s the only way they can afford it. At first, Davis resisted her offer.

“I’ll be OK,” he told her. “Something will come along.”

“This is that something,” his sister said.

She told him it was time to make a change. And she reminded him how much he’s always loved working with his hands, ever since he took apart the family’s old VCR when he was a kid and somehow got the thing working.

He does love it. She was right about that. Not everyone can take something broken and make it useful again.

Davis stands over the air conditioner, sliding parts into place. Sometimes, he consults a diagram that shows where everything should go. The wires. The compressor. The filter he scrubbed clean.

Sometimes, he just goes by instinct, feeling his way until he gets it right.

Story by Dan Horn, photos by Cara Owsley



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A PRAYER FOR THE ECONOMY

Al’Lora Leonhardt’s voice quickens, quivers from the altar.

“Enemies might look like financial distress, physical struggles, marital strife, emotional pain, spiritual bondage – these things may try to overtake us, Lord,” she says.

She speaks of how money troubles threaten the spiritual bond between parents and children, husbands and wives. She's updating Moses’ sermon to the Israelites about the rewards of following God's law.

It’s Sunday at Princeton Pike Church of God, and this is Deuteronomy for today.

She translates the Old Testament, when Moses spoke of full barns and plentiful crops. If he was at the pulpit now, he would speak of bank accounts and jobs.

Show caption Hide caption This home is part of the Princeton Pike Church of God property on Ohio 747. The church's land includes about 75 acres of former farm... This home is part of the Princeton Pike Church of God property on Ohio 747. The church's land includes about 75 acres of former farm land. A variety of folks stay at this home, including homeless families working to get back on their feet. Cara Owsley/The Enquirer

The meaning hasn't changed: If you believe, you will work. You will have all you need.

But many here don't. Despite its reputation as a booming suburb, Butler County is home to about 50,000 people who live in poverty.

Students from the Lakota Local School District eat meals here weekly, made from supplies collected at the church's pantry. Volunteers come to the church parking lot every Friday to grab food to distribute to other churches.

They leave extra food near one door in the back of the church. Teachers at the daycare there may grab groceries for a child's family in need. The janitorial staff may take some home with them that night.

There are no questions, no requirements, no expectations.

No Deuteronomy.

Story by Carol Motsinger, photos by Cara Owsley

GOING IT ALONE

Francisco Ramirez is stoic. He believes sustained hard work will be rewarded.

The 35-year-old has a work permit, having immigrated from Michoacán, Mexico, in 2003. He is eligible but refuses to apply for food stamps or other government help, worrying it could hinder his dream of U.S. citizenship.

He works about 60 hours a week, full-time as an excavator and part-time as a handyman, a role that began when he helped out a neighbor in need.

On a recent evening, after returning home from a cold day cleaning and fueling equipment, Ramirez watched his children eat potatoes and beans with tortillas.

Franciso Ramirez carries his 3-year-old son, Roberto, across the driveway from their single-wide trailer. A growing hostility toward immigrants like Ramirez has him fearful his family of six will be deported. Amanda Rossmann/The Enquirer

Then he headed south around 7 p.m. to fix a residential water leak, one of his many weekly side gigs. This one brought in about $40.

He wants to return to school to become a certified electrician, but right now he has neither the time nor the money. He declined a friend’s offer to help him pay for school.

Ramirez immigrated as a teenager, sold on the promise of American prosperity that has proved more elusive than expected.

He lives with his wife, Mayra, and their four children. The family shares two bedrooms in a single-wide trailer in a mobile home park.

Mayra Ramirez studies twice a week to complete her G.E.D. She knows her family needs help with the bills.

When the family moved into the trailer in West Chester Township, Ramirez assured his wife it would only be temporary. All he had to do was work hard, he thought.

Six years have passed.

Francisco Ramirez and his 3-year-old son, Roberto, live in a mobile home park. Ramirez and his wife have four children. The family shares two bedrooms. Amanda Rossmann/The Enquirer

Years after undergoing a vicious bout of bronchitis and asthma, Ramirez is still paying down the associated medical bills. When money is tight, electricity and phone payments are the first to be sacrificed.

These days, Ramirez’s eldest son often asks about moving into a home with a basement. Eight-year-old Jesús loves Legos. He wants more space for his toys and has asked to convert a yard shed into a play area. But Ramirez tells him it's too cold out there.

In the family’s small living room, 3-year-old Roberto maintains a shrine to his plastic cars. Should anyone alter the setup, whose order is known only to Roberto, they are sure to receive a tongue-lashing from the toddler.

Francisco Ramirez, 35, shovels snow from the roof of his single-wide trailer in West Chester Township. He works about 60 hours a week and can't afford his goal of taking classes to become an electrician. Amanda Rossmann/The Enquirer

The trailer has two bedrooms. Jesús and 12-year-old Angelique share one. Ramirez and his wife sleep in the second bedroom with Roberto and Miguel, a 19-month-old.

Sometimes, after Jesús watches scary TV, he asks to climb into bed with his parents.

“It’s real tight with four kids,” Ramirez says.

Ramirez’s work permit expires in September. Attorneys have told him that, given how things stand today, he has a coin-flip’s chance of keeping it.

He fears being forced to move his family back to Mexico, where fewer opportunities are available to him and his children.

Lately, he senses a growing hostility toward people like him. Once, while speaking Spanish to his children at a UDF off Princeton Glendale Road, a clerk took offense and called police.

“I’m not here to take anybody else’s jobs or money or benefits,” Ramirez says. “I’m here to work.”

Story by Max Londberg, photos by Amanda Rossmann



This Speedway is off Ohio 747. Sam Greene, The Enquirer

In Ohio, Speedway employs almost 3,000 people whose households rely on food stamps. Other companies with large numbers of low-wage workers eligible for food stamps include Walmart, McDonald's, Kroger and Bob Evans.

Speedway is headquartered in Enon, Ohio, about 55 miles north of this location off of Ohio 747 in Port Union. The convenience store is the second largest chain of its kind in the country.

Source: Policy Matters Ohio





A WAY OUT

It’s late February, and Eli Owsley is making one of his last welds as a student at Elite Welding Academy in West Chester. He graduates tomorrow. Soon, he hopes, he’ll be building more than the short I-beams he’s working on now.

Before this, Owsley worked in food service. The money was never good, but he kept at it. He had a hard time seeing himself doing anything else, even after getting married and having three kids.

Eli Owsley, 34, left, and Ryan Taylor, 32, right, both students at Elite Welding Academy, work on a buddy weld, in Fairfield. Kareem Elgazzar

Twenty years in, his pay topped out at $12.50 an hour as a shift leader at Skyline Chili.

But one day, the chili parlor’s steam table needed a repair, and Owsley had to call a welder for help. The guy did the work in eight hours, and Owsley wrote him a company check. The amount was for more money than Owsley made in two months.

Suddenly, a way out became clear.

The for-profit welding school tuition is $15,398. Owsley got a Pell grant for about $7,000 of that and took out a personal loan for the balance.

American factories are productive, they’re just hiring fewer workers Manufacturing’s share of the economy hasn’t changed much in 40 years, but factories are doing the job with fewer workers. Why? Most likely because of automation and improved efficiency.

He goes to school during the day and works at Marco’s Pizza at night, earning $10 an hour. His wife is an assistant bank manager. They maxed out their credit cards to pay for daycare.

Later this afternoon, on the eve of graduation, Owsley plans to fill out applications for welding jobs paying up to $22 an hour.

Story by Anne Saker, photos by Kareem ElGazzar

LAST DAY ON THE JOB

Danielle Horsley places the plates in the engraving machine.

She is about to carve names of football league champions into the six metal sheets.

There will be a Bill and a Mike and a Mark and a Tom.

Danielle Horsley, 24, affixes an engraved nameplate to a plaque at the Things Remembered store located in Tri-County Mall in Springdale. The store closed the following day. Meg Vogel

This is what the 24-year-old does at Things Remembered personalized gift shop. She inscribes other people’s names into tokens of achievement. An employee of the month trophy. A jewelry box congratulating a graduate.

It’s a Friday afternoon in late January at Tri-County Mall. Her last Friday here.

The shop will close Saturday, joining the other darkened storefronts in the 59-year-old Springdale shopping center on Princeton Pike. In 12 days, lawyers for Things Remembered Inc.– based 250 miles from where Horsley stands right now – will file for bankruptcy. Hundreds of stores and thousands of jobs are at risk.

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Horsley already knows that soon she won’t have this $9-an-hour wage to help pay for her $170 textbook. Her $2,500 tuition bill from last fall. The $26,000 in student debt from the two colleges she attended before signing up for classes at Cincinnati State in 2012.

She’s not doing that math in her head today. Sure, the paycheck and flexible hours are hard to find elsewhere. And yes, losing this job will make it harder to juggle work and the courses she’s taking toward an audiovisual production degree.

But she doesn’t worry, at least not this afternoon. She’s already filled out a Target application, and that job could start at $12 an hour. She’s also got a job at Macy’s call center in Mason, where she works from 4 p.m. to midnight, answering questions about mixed up packages and lost orders for $13.69 an hour.

Her mind also keeps returning to those inspirational quotes she sees engraved and embroidered on keepsakes all the time. Something about how much pressure it takes to transform coal into a diamond? That the lotus flower grows in the mud?

College grads make more money, but college costs keep rising College graduates make about 40 percent more than non-graduates. But a four-year public college degree costs almost 30 percent more today than before the recession.

They're all clichés, she knows, but maybe that means they're true.

She can handle the coal and the mud from the last three years, the death of her mother and grandmother. Her chronic migraines and sleep apnea.

With hard work, she will shine. She will bloom. That’s what her grandparents always said when they were raising her. Now, she concentrates on the screwdriver in her hand. She leans in close and turns the tool, securing the engraved plates into the wooden plaque.

When she finishes, there are still five blank plates on this plaque, reserved for the winners of the future, for those whose triumphs are still ahead of them.

Story by Carol Motsinger, photos by Meg Vogel



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This post has been altered slightly. Elite Welding Academy, a for-profit trade school, has a provisional allowance from the Department of Education which allows students to receive federal aid.

Coming in December The Kentucky side of The Road, to Falmouth