Ever since the U.S. government's uranium
enrichment plant started hiring in 1951, there has been a Buckley
helping to run it. Before his sons, a daughter-in-law and a grandson
clocked in, Fred Buckley, now 86, would travel three hours a day from
his home in West Tennessee to make $1.46 per hour as a plant security
guard.It felt to Buckley like he was back in the Army, working with a
close-knit group of men on a secret mission. He'd served in World War II
-- after a few weeks of basic training, he ended up on the front lines
at the Battle of the Bulge. He rose quickly from infantryman to staff
sergeant to squad leader. The job at the plant promised the safety of a
stable income and a sense of purpose at the dawn of the Cold War. One
month before he started, the first of his two sons was born.
It seemed like
Paducah
was being reborn too. As new workers from neighboring Illinois, Ohio
and Tennessee showed up, the small city in Western Kentucky faced a
housing shortage. "So many people came in, you know?" Buckley told The
Huffington Post. "Anything that had a roof on it -- chicken house, any
kind of outbuilding, they were in it."
Room rates tripled until local officials imposed rent control. Home
construction blanketed the city, while trailer parks rose up on cinder
blocks throughout the surrounding county. More than 1,100 homes were
built while Buckley waited for his chance to move to the Paducah area.
After more than six years, he found a one-story, two-bedroom white frame
house on a corner lot off Highway 60, just three miles from the plant.
He still lives there today.
The flood of well-paid men had ramifications well beyond the
homebuilding industry, lifting almost every business in the region. Even
the local
brothel expanded.
Paducah embraced the plant and its patriotic celebration of nuclear
power. It called itself "The Atomic City" and envisioned thoroughfares
bright with shiny, pastel-colored automobiles, a downtown humming with
Cold War money. "The plant just made the town, you know?" Buckley says.
He still remembers when they first raised the American flag in front of
the plant's administration building. He was there, standing at
attention.
Fred Buckley (left) with the Paducah plant union's vice president, Jim Key.
Nobody understands the plant's importance more than Mitch McConnell.
For the past 30 years, the Senate minority leader, now 71, has been the
plant's most ardent defender in Washington. The repugican lawmaker
knows
its 750 acres
located just 12 miles from downtown. He's walked its grid under the
haze of the ever-present steam cloud emanating from its cooling towers.
He grasps its history, its hold on the imaginations of men like Buckley.
No other jobs in Western Kentucky presented the opportunity to use more
electricity than Detroit and more water than New York City every day of
the week.
The senator has remained loyal to the plant and its workers, keeping
it running on federal earmarks and complicated deals with the Department
of Energy to convert its core function from producing warheads to
mining nuclear waste to create electricity. At least in Paducah,
McConnell is not the "abominable no-man," the sour-faced persona of
Washington gridlock. He is an honorary union man. "He's been the best
friend to the plant we've had over the years," Buckley says. "He went
above and beyond the call of duty for the union."
Up until the tea party-led ban on earmarks a few years ago, McConnell
played out this dichotomy across Kentucky. In Washington, he voted
against a health care program for poor children. In Kentucky, he
funneled money to provide innovative health services for pregnant women.
In Washington, he railed against Obamacare. In Kentucky, he supported
free health care and prevention programs paid for by the federal
government without the hassle of a private-insurance middleman. This
policy ping-pong may not suggest a coherent belief system, but it has
led to loyalty among the repugican cabal in Washington and something close to fealty
in Kentucky. It has advanced McConnell's highest ideal: his own
political survival.
McConnell's hold on Kentucky is a grim reminder of the practice of
power in America -- where political excellence can be wholly divorced
from successful governance and even public admiration. The most dominant
and influential Kentucky politician since his hero Henry Clay,
McConnell has rarely used his indefatigable talents toward broad,
substantive reforms. He may be ruling, but he's ruling over a
commonwealth with the
lowest median income
in the country, where too many counties have infant mortality rates
comparable to those of the Third World. His solutions have been
piecemeal and temporary, more cynical than merciful.
And with McConnell's rise into the repugican cabal leadership, his continuous
search for tactical advantage with limited regard for policy
consequences has overrun Washington. McConnell has more than doubled the
previous high-water mark for the number of filibusters deployed to
block legislation, infamously declaring that his "
top political priority"
was to make President Barack Obama a one-term president. This
obstruction has had serious consequences, as the Great Recession grinds
on and large-scale problems like climate change march inexorably
forward. Congress has failed to address the nation's most pressing
challenges, and America has come to look more and more like McConnell's
Kentucky.
At the Paducah plant, and throughout the Bluegrass State, McConnell's
influence is a complicated, even poisonous one. As other aging nuclear
facilities have been shuttered, Paducah has groaned its way into the
21st century. The plant has become a barely functional relic in the
midst of a decades-long power down. The town's post-war pastels have
given way to rust, padlocks and contaminated waterways. After three
decades under McConnell, Kentucky residents are wondering whether his
survival is good for them.
Up for reelection again in 2014, McConnell faces dismal polling numbers. In January, a
Courier-Journal Bluegrass Poll found that only 17 percent of residents said they were planning on voting for him. A recent
Public Policy Polling survey
showed him tied in a hypothetical race against Alison Lundergan Grimes,
Kentucky's Democratic secretary of state, weeks before she announced
she was running on July 1. Today, McConnell finds himself at both the
most powerful and most vulnerable moment of his career. He faces not
only a Democratic opposition out to avenge McConnell's attacks on Obama,
but an energized tea party unhappy with the repugican cabal establishment and
independents disgusted with Washington.
Keith Runyon was a veteran reporter and editorial page editor for the
Louisville-based Courier-Journal, Kentucky's dominant statewide paper,
which has generations of close personal ties to state and national
Democrats. He witnessed McConnell's rise in Louisville and its suburbs
of Jefferson County. He met his future wife, Meme Sweets, when she
worked as McConnell's press secretary after his election as the county's
judge-executive. Runyon came to know McConnell well. He says that
McConnell was not always such a ruthless partisan obstructionist.
"It was not the local Mitch McConnell that became the problem," he
told HuffPost. "It was what he became when he went to Washington."
In 2006, the former editor and publisher of the liberal Courier-Journal,
Barry Bingham Jr., 72, "was dying and knew it," Runyon says. A week before his death in early April, he summoned Runyon to his home.
When he arrived on that balmy morning, Runyon recalls, Bingham was
sitting up in a chair in his library. A breeze was drifting in through
the windows. Among the many things Bingham wanted to talk about, the
paper's early support of McConnell was one them. "He looked at me and he
said, ‘You know, the worst mistake we ever made was endorsing Mitch
McConnell' in 1977."