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In many rural communities, entire cities often rely on one business to support the economy, and when those businesses leave, it leaves the community devastated.For the town of Luke, Maryland, its paper mill went out of business last summer, and the deep financial impact is being felt by families and businesses throughout the region.“I could hear that mill day and night, sitting right here. You knew everything was alright. Listen up there now,” said former mill worker Paul Coleman, while looking out the window towards what used to be the noisy mill. “Pretty quiet, isn’t it? Pretty quiet. That’s eerie."Yet, it’s the silence that now haunts Coleman every day. “I had no sights, no goals on retiring. I would’ve kept on working as long as I could,” said the father of four daughters.For nearly 30 years, he worked alongside hundreds of people inside the Luke Paper Mill. He did several jobs over the years, but much of his time was spent as an electrician.“All my family has worked in there,” said Coleman. “The mill was the lifeblood of the community."The mill is nestled into the hills on the Maryland-West Virginia border. For the small towns around it, this big business was really the only business.“Everything was centered around that paper mill,” said Coleman.But last summer, this electrician got the news he couldn’t believe.“He said, ‘The mill’s closing.’ I thought he was kidding,” Coleman recalled. The closure was real, and almost immediately, his unemployment benefits fell short, and eventually, they stopped.“I thank God I had my 401K, which I had to dip into, so we’ve had to live off of that,” he said.Still, the bills piled up, especially the health insurance bills. “Reality is what it is. I know no one is going to want to hire a 62-year-old electrician,” said Coleman.On his fridge are several magnets from the Caribbean islands the family vacationed to over the years. We asked him about those trips, to which he replied, “Anything like that—it’s out of the question. You have to live within your means."The most painful adjustment to Coleman is not having what he needs for his daughter, who is disabled.The family was just able to fix their handicapped van, so they could bring his 21-year-old daughter home from weeks in the hospital. But now, more problems for this dedicated father.“My chairlift is broken down,” said Coleman. "That’s the chair lift we use to get her up and down the steps. I called the guy today and it’ll be ,000 to put a new one in. Where am I gonna get that?”So, each day, he gets to work, fixing what he can.“I don’t claim to be the best of anything,” said Coleman. “I’m not the best electrician, but you don’t have to be, you just have to keep moving regardless of what you’re dealt.”At the height of its operation, the mill employed more than 2,000 people. As technology increased and production decreased, fewer people were needed inside the mill, but even still, when the mill shut its doors, 700 people were left without jobs. That loss extended far past the mill—the entire community felt the pain of this closure.“It went from seven days a week to not really knowing what you’re doing tomorrow,” said Richard Moran, a man born and raised in Allegany County and who supplied coal to the mill for decades. “Lucky to get a 40 hour week now."Moran was forced to lay off dozens of workers when the mill shut down. Months later, his family’s legacy is hanging on by a thread.“Right now, we’re doing odd jobs basically, whatever we can pick up on the side,” he said.He’s not only lost income, he’s lost the future he dreamed of. “I know my kids won’t stick around here," he said. "There’s nothing for them here.”Coleman is worried for the future, too. “I think there’s just an attitude of hopelessness and helplessness that’s here,” he said.Both men agree that attitude is easily fueled by no new jobs and no way to relocate for most living in this rural community.“That’s not an option for me. This is my home, my entire family’s here,” said Coleman, as his granddaughter and two of his daughters all sat in the next room over.The United Steel Workers Local Union President Gregory Harvey said these struggles are only the beginning.“Unemployment ran out, insurance ran out, so now it impacts the area," he said. "Now, there’s people not spending money like they were spending money before."He’s working to get as many of his members and neighbors employed as he can, but the jobs in town are low-paying.“These guys were used to making ,000 a year, and now they’re making ,000. That’s a hit,” said Harvey, a third-generation paper maker himself.Still, the community holds onto hope that this closure isn’t the end. “My hope is that somebody buys this mill and reopens it back up, and if I get the opportunity to go back and work in a heartbeat, do I have to be an electrician? No. I’d go back and shovel a ditch or anything, whatever it took,” said Coleman about wanting to continue providing for his family.His plea like so many of his neighbors: a call to someone—to anyone—to rescue this town and these families.“You’re not investing in concrete. You’re not investing in these buildings. You’re investing in a workforce like no other,” said Harvey. 5223

INDIANAPOLIS -- An Indianapolis family is pleading for help to find the man they say broke into their home and ended up in bed with two little girls. Veronica Mildenberg says her 6-year-old and 10-year-old daughters were sleeping in the top bunk of her bed when the stranger climbed up with them.The 10-year-old woke up and screamed. “He must have climbed up the stairwell and got in bed with her. That’s when she hollered for her grandma,” Mildenberg said. “He woke her up because he touched her leg.”The surveillance video below shows the suspect peeking into the windows of the home on New York Street around 1:45 a.m. Minutes later, family members say he went to the back of the home and climbed through a kitchen window with a broken lock.   779

It only took a little over 15 minutes for Ed Bledsoe to lose three lives that meant the world to him -- his wife and their two great-grandchildren.He had left his home in Shasta County, California, on Thursday to go to the doctor, he told CNN on Sunday. The Carr Fire had been burning for four days at that point and Bledsoe said he didn't realize the fire was coming into his neighborhood.He also said his family was never told to evacuate.While he was out, his 70-year-old wife, Melody Bledsoe, called and told him she could see the fire and that he needed to come get her and their great-grandchildren, 4-year-old Emily Roberts and 5-year-old James Roberts, who Ed Bledsoe called "Junior.""I said 'I'm on my way.' So I just throwed down everything and took off," he said.Ed Bledsoe said he wasn't able to use his usual route to get home because of traffic congestion in the fire area, so he left his car and tried to make it home on foot but that, too, was not possible."I took off running down there (toward his house) and I helped some guy that got burnt ... I got him and helped him out of there and when I got back down there the fire was" -- Bledsoe paused, seeming to search for a word to accurately convey the chaos -- "the fire was ... just intense."But I still tried to get down in there and they come and stopped me and wouldn't let me get down in there."Bledsoe said he got back in his car and sped through an alternate route, passing "everybody in the dirt" but still could not get to his house.At the same time, his sons also tried to get to the house, he said, and heat and flames were so intense as one son tried "it burned his hair off. It took his breath," adding that his son's house was also on fire. In those final minutes, unable to get to his wife and their great-grandchildren, Bledsoe was able to get through on the phone.Bledsoe broke into sobs as he described the words that passed between them."He just kept saying 'Grandpa, come and get me," Bledsoe said, referring to 5-year-old James. "'The fire's coming in the back door. C'mon Grandpa.' I said 'I'm right down the road.'"His granddaughter and wife were also on the phone, he said."Emily says, 'I love you, Grandpa.' Grandma said 'I love you, Grandpa ...' Junior said, 'I love you ... come and get us ... come and get us ...' I said 'I'm on my way ... ' He talked until he died." 2371

In May of 1963, students from across Birmingham, Alabama marched in the streets as part of what is known as the Birmingham Movement.At the time, slavery was long abolished, but black people, particularly in the South, continued to endure discrimination. The march began an unprecedented fight that continues to this day.“I get very emotional because it seems like it was only yesterday,” said Albert Scruggs Jr., as he looked back at pictures from the Birmingham Movement.Now in his 70s, Scruggs Jr. was only a teenager when the movement took place in his hometown. He was one of the hundreds of high school students who marched alongside Dr. Martin Luther King that day.A famous picture that emerged from the march shows two young black men, and one young black woman, shielding themselves from a water hose being shot at them by police. Scruggs Jr. is the young man in the middle and says the memories from that experience have always remained fresh, but now, it hits a particular chord.“Seems like I can still feel the pressure of that water hose,” said Scruggs Jr., who sees similarities between the protests then and now. "Every time I see someone on television getting hit with one of those batons, I feel it. I’ve got the whips and the bruises to show.”Scruggs Jr. says the passion he still feels is the same passion for racial justice he did when he was a teenager, but he has found his hope wavering at times because of the lack of progress he has seen.“They’re fighting for the same thing that we fought for in 1963,” he said. "We got complacent. We believed that change has come; however, it hasn’t.”Scruggs Jr. says it happens in the job market when a prospective employee who is black is not afforded the same opportunities as his or her white counterpart. He says it happens at the public store when a handshake is not reciprocated. He says it also happens in schools when a black student is viewed more critically or graded more harshly by a teacher. He says they are palpable inequalities that are both subconscious and otherwise, and it is why he says these protests need to happen, but properly.“I saw where the market house here in Fayetteville [North Carolina] was set on fire,” said Scruggs Jr. “When it gets to the place, where it turns to anarchy or looting, then we have chosen the wrong path.”For Scruggs Jr., the path he helped forge in 1963 lead to the passing of The Civil Rights Act of 1964, the most sweeping civil rights legislation in nearly 100 years at the time, as it prohibited discrimination in public places, provided free integration of schools and other public facilities and made employment discrimination illegal.“It lets me know that the lick up on the side of my head wasn’t as bad as I thought it was,” said Scruggs Jr.It also laid the blueprint for the current movement that he says is still seeking a better future for his grandchildren's generation.“When you get an education, or you learn something, no one can take that from you,” said Scruggs Jr. "And if what you experienced will help someone else then that in itself is a success.” 3092

Investigators are uncovering more details about five adults accused of child abuse after 11 emaciated children were found in a trailer buried in a New Mexico compound last Friday.The two men and three women -- believed to be the mothers of the children -- each face 11 counts "related to the neglect and abuse of the children involved." The accused are due in court Tuesday and Wednesday.One of the men arrested is the son of a prominent and controversial New York imam, according to Facebook posts and the Muslim Alliance in North America.And the imam's Facebook post identifies two women among the suspects as his daughters. 634

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