Garrett noticed the symmetry when Lana called him near the end of the year.
“The moth year pushed demand up,” she told him. “Now a pandemic changes the market and we end up near the same annual revenue.”
Her father thought about that.
“Two crises, same result.”
“Different crises.”
“Same product.”
Lana smiled.
“That’s closer.”
Garrett said nothing for a moment.
Then, in the understated way he had always spoken about the company, he asked, “Cash okay?”
“Enough.”
“Debt?”
“Under control.”
“Supply?”
“Good.”
“Then don’t get impressed with yourself.”
Lana laughed.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You called me.”
The supply question seemed routine.
It was not.
For twelve years, the deepest structural advantage in Dickstra Cedar Works had been inexpensive cedar that already existed because another industry produced it as a byproduct. Lana had worried about that dependence from the beginning. Customers had asked about it. Contractors had asked. Garrett had asked.
She had built reserves.
She had improved yield.
She had considered alternate mills.
But Musgrave remained the foundation.
Then, in February 2021, the announcement came.
The company was closing its Shelbyville processing facility.
The corporate language sounded harmless enough: consolidation, efficiency, relocation of production functions.
Lana read the notice twice.
Then a third time.
The building would close in September.
The machinery would stop.
The deliveries would stop.
The cedar stream that had supported her cost structure since she was twenty-two would disappear.
For years, people had told Lana that the mill might eventually change its mind.
They had been asking the wrong question.
The mill had not changed its mind about her.
The mill itself was going away.
Lana stood in the workshop surrounded by racks of panels made from wood that technically existed only because a different company had once considered it waste.
Seven employees now depended on this material.
Contractors depended on her.
Customers had deposits down.
The wholesale line depended on predictable production.
For the first time in years, the notebook did not immediately give her an answer.
She called Don Crowley, the retired plant manager who had known the cedar operation better than almost anyone.
“I heard,” he said when Lana told him.
“Don’t be sorry.”
“What do you need?”
Lana looked across the workshop.
“Tell me where the cedar goes.”
Don was quiet.
“What do you mean?”
“The inventory. Billets. Offcuts. Raw stock. Anything they aren’t moving to the other facility.”
“Some of it will probably be sold.”
“To who?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Find out.”
Don laughed softly.
“You haven’t changed much.”
“Yes, I have.”
“How?”
“I own better saws.”
He laughed again.
Lana ended the call and opened a fresh notebook page.
At the top she wrote:
SEPTEMBER — MUSGRAVE SUPPLY ENDS.
Then beneath it:
What are we actually buying?
For twelve years, she had described her company as being built on cheap cedar scrap.
Now she forced herself to question that assumption.
Was the competitive advantage really the scrap?
Or had the company built value somewhere else?
Sorting.
Panel design.
Yield from irregular pieces.
Installation speed.
Brand reputation.