Ties to Far-Flung Homes Drive Commuters to Great Lengths

The closings have left few options in Page County (population 24,000). The hulking Virginia Oak Tannery, Luray's largest employer for years, was abandoned 25 years ago, and the hilly Main Street is now sustained mainly by antiques shops.

So when a Luray man invited those who were laid off to join him at George Mason, they leapt at the chance.

Page residents have been heading east for work for years -- a few of the van passengers' fathers and grandfathers did construction work in the metropolitan area. But it is a direction being taken by more and more natives of the region's outer rim as their local economies fade, said Stephen Fuller, director of the Center for Regional Analysis at George Mason.

"Unless you're retired or a farmer, you have to be linked up to the metro area in some way," he said. "That is the future of these places."

That's why Randy Beahm, in the driver's seat, is unsurprised to see the road filling up before the van reaches Front Royal. He keeps a Fredericksburg country music station on low because some of the men are trying to sleep, curled up with flowery pillows from home. Others banter in the shorthand of men who've known one another since grade school, through softball leagues, hunting trips and layoffs.

They quip darkly about a communications technician at their kids' school who recently fell through the ceiling on a job. "He won't be running no more wire for a while," someone calls from the back. Someone else hollers for more air conditioning. They rib Ronnie Williams Jr. about his fondness for the TV drama "House" and complain about rising gasoline prices. "I put $20 in my truck yesterday, and it didn't even seem like the gauge moved," says Mark Gray, riding shotgun.

They exchange youth baseball scores from the day before -- they have 27 children and stepchildren among them, and most of the men spend their evenings coaching or running between games to watch. (Many games are under the lights, pushing bedtime past 10 p.m.)

And they discuss the issue of the day, immigration, which inspires remarks more rueful than bitter. They suspect that immigrants in the valley have held down wages at the few manufacturers left. They consider that their own jobs are potentially at risk if lawmakers agree on a route to citizenship for illegal immigrants, which could make it easier for them to get state jobs such as those at George Mason.

But they speak well of immigrants who are on campus -- typically employed by contractors with looser hiring rules than the university. Their main competition, they say, has not been immigrants but workers in other countries.

"All the Mexicans want to come here for work, and all the work goes south to Mexico," says Beahm.

"Good ol' free trade," Lang adds.

It's still dark when the van arrives at the campus at 5:30, with a half-hour to spare before work starts. (Their early schedule allows repairs to be made in classrooms before students arrive.) Someone jabs the perpetually drowsy Steve Wright, who requires pork rinds and Mountain Dew to stay awake on the days he drives. "Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," the dismounting passengers shout.