NORTH CANAAN — By producing 2 billion disposable plastic syringes a year, BD’s (Becton Dickinson and Company) North Canaan plant has the potential to touch a quarter of the world’s population.
“And that’s just out of this one factory alone,” said Dustin Andersen, plant director of the 400,000-square-foot manufacturing plant on Grace Way off rural Route 63.
“I tell all the new hires when they come in, we make 6 million syringes a day, which means every person in the state of Connecticut could come into this factory, we could give them a syringe every day, and still have millions left over to distribute,” noted Andersen, who oversees operations at the 60-year-old facility, which spans 10 acres under one roof.
“When you’re working for a company that has that kind of impact, it really stands for something.”
BD is one of a handful of manufacturers in the state’s bucolic Northwest Corner making a significant impact locally and globally by stimulating the economy, providing jobs for the community, launching innovative technology and embracing renewable resources.
In addition to BD, a handful of other major manufacturers in the Northwest Corner with a global scope include:
— The Lakeville-based ITW (Illinois Tool Works) Seats & Motion Division within the ITW Automotive Segment, which molds and assembles 45 million headrest guides per year for Ford and Toyota vehicles throughout North America and Venezuela.
— CowPots, one of three businesses owned and operated by the multigenerational Freund family farm in East Canaan, where tens of millions of eco-friendly flowerpots made from composted manure have been manufactured over the past 27 years using the longest continuously operating methane digester in the country.
— Hutzler Manufacturing, a four-generation family-owned and -operated business in North Canaan that has been designing and producing housewares since 1938, including innovative utensils for several popular fast-food giants.
“Rural manufacturers are a critical piece of Connecticut’s overall economy and their products impact lives around the world,” said Chris DiPentima, resident and CEO of the Connecticut Business and Industry Association (CBIA).
They are also “critical to local economic development, supporting and revitalizing local communities not only through the hundreds of millions in state and local taxes that they pay, but also because they create five additional jobs in other parts of the state’s economy for every one manufacturing job, and generate $2.60 in additional economic activity for every $1 spent in manufacturing.”
Those are huge multipliers, said DiPentima, “equivalent to what Silicon Valley experienced with the tech-sector boom — and high wage careers with the average Connecticut manufacturing salary at $92,633, 36% higher than the national average and 14% more than the state’s average salary.”
Courtesy of BD
Dustin Andersen is the plant director at BD Canaan, which is the largest employer in the Northwest Corner, with more than 400 employees.
Innovation transformed BD
The first wave of disposable plastic syringes were manufactured out of BD’s North Canaan facility in 1961 in its original 25,000-square-foot-building, manned by eight associates. The innovation soon transformed BD by replacing traditional glass syringes to ensure more sterile conditions.
“The PlastiPak syringe was really what put us on the map,” said Andersen.
One year later, BD purchased a 77-acre tract of land and broke ground for the construction of a 55,000-square-foot state-of-the-art plant, and since then, has expanded the North Canaan facility eight times, for a total of 360,000 square feet.
Until you’ve toured the plant, it’s difficult to comprehend the scale of the operation.
The operation is a vital facility for the BD Medical -Medical Surgical Systems unit of its parent, Becton Dickinson and Company, which was founded in 1897 and is headquartered in Franklin Lakes, New Jersey.
About 400 employees work at the North Canaan facility, making it the largest employer and taxpayer in the Northwest Corner.
“Everybody around here knows somebody who is working at BD,” Andersen explained.
Jeanine Hodgekiss, BD’s customer complaint and validation quality manager and a second-generation associate, noted that the “quality” within the facility extends far beyond the products produced.
“I’ve been at BD for 34 years, and my dad worked there over 30 years,” said Hodgekiss “When people think of quality, they think of the product. But BD also provides the quality of life.”
Steve Furth is the plant manager at ITW Seats & Motion Division in Lakeville, which manufactures automobile headrest guides for Ford and Toyota. Debra A. Aleksinas
Building a ‘model factory’ in Lakeville
The odds are that anyone who owns a Toyota Tacoma pickup truck is driving around with a plastic component tucked into the vehicle’s headrest that was molded by ITW’s Seats & Motion Division in Lakeville. Ditto for Ford vehicles on the road today.
The global operation takes place in a commercial building adjacent to the Lakeville Hose Company, where plastic headrest guides, a key safety component in automobiles, are produced by 38 molding and 15 assembly machines in the 20,000-square-foot plant.
“We make them for 98% of the Fords that are built in North America,” said Steve Furth, the operation’s plant manager, during a recent tour of the totally automated facility.
“Toyota is getting close to Ford” in terms of production, said Furth as he pointed out the five molding machines and three assembly machines pumping out and assembling headrest guides for Tacoma vehicles. “We ship 100,000 parts a week.”
As he spoke, the machines whirred as they completed various steps of the process, work that up until about three years ago, was done primarily through manual labor.
To keep up with the volume, for several years, ITW rented warehouse space in Millerton, New York, for storage, packing and shipping. Now, the entire process takes place in Lakeville.
“Three years ago, the company decided it was time to do what we call ‘model factory,’” said Furth, which improved efficiency through automation but resulted in the closing of the Millerton site and downsizing the workforce from 50 to about 35.
“It did take some jobs away, but it improved our efficiency tenfold. We now produce about 45 million parts per year.”
Furth, who has been employed by ITW for 15 years, marveled that even though ITW global has 35 locations worldwide with an estimated 28,000 employees, that a modest plant in rural Lakeville is part of that world-wide success.
“How this little factory got started in this area up here, nobody knows, but here we are.
”‘Dirty Jobs,’ the pandemic, fueled CowPots
Tucked away on a winding dirt road behind the Freund family farm’s dairy operation and farm market and bakery, is a manufacturing plant that molds eco-friendly flowerpots made from composted manure.
On a recent visit to the operation, Amanda Freund, third generation of the family farm, manages the CowPots operation with her father, Matt Freund. The second-generation Freund, with help from a friend with an engineering background, designed the technology used to mold dried manure into flower pots as an alternative to peat pots, which take longer to biodegrade.
Diversification, said Amanda Freund, was a saving grace when the pandemic hit in 2020. The family’s 300-cow dairy operation was in ”crisis mode,” she recalled, as demand for milk dried up when schools, restaurants and other customers closed shop.
But at the same time, “everyone was home, and gardening blew up,” and demand for CowPots skyrocketed.
In 2007, CowPots gained “incredible national exposure” when it was featured not only on “Larry King Live,” but also in a segment of “Dirty Jobs” with Mike Rowe.
“It was incredible national exposure, with reruns in 125 countries to this day, which I can always track by the spike in visits to my website,” Freund noted.
The CowPots operation maintains a health permit with the USDA to be able to export product to the European Union, and Freund said she is two to three years into a discussion with a company in Australia “that has begun the process of licensing our technology and some form of royalties.”
“With 500 million tons of plastic per year produced from the horticultural industry,” she said, “we’re pushing to be part of the solution.”
An engineering breakthrough
Also on Grace Way in North Canaan, across from BD, is the Hutzler Manufacturing Company Inc., a four-generation, family-owned and -operated manufacturer and worldwide distributor of high-quality housewares since 1938.
According to the company’s website, in the 1970s, Hutzler made the engineering breakthrough that fiberglass can give additional strength that was lacking from traditional nylon. They used this knowledge to produce fiberglas-reinforced nylon utensils, “which are still used today by McDonalds, Burger King and Pizza Hut.”
Company officials did not respond to requests for comment.
Transportation challenges and solutions
While the sight and sounds of big rigs rumbling around the Northwest Corner may annoy some, transportation costs can be expensive and compounded in rural areas where trucks need to make special trips, said Cow-Pots’ Freund.
“There is great value to us, being a small manufacturer in the community, and having the larger companies like BD make a lot of shipping trips, with the trucks coming and going,” she explained. As transportation frequency increases in the area, said Freund, it helps to lower her transportation costs.
CBIA’s DiPentima noted that rural manufacturers struggle with employees’ transportation needs.
“One thing we have heard from the rural manufacturers is that there is not much of it for their employees, especially for what is referred to as the ‘last mile,’ meaning employees can get to a train or bus hub but have challenges getting to their workplace from there.”
Transportation along with housing, child care and cost of health insurance are top issues that CBIA hears from businesses and are at the center of its 2024 legislative policy solutions, said DiPentima.
This article has been updated to reflect the correct name of the PlastiPak syringe and the location of Franklin Lakes, New Jersey.
Dan Baker, left, and Daniel Latzman at Barrington Hall in Great Barrington.
The partnership behind Barrington Hall began long before the building itself. Both Baker and Latzman grew up on Long Island, spent more than a decade in New York City, and eventually found their way to the Berkshires, drawn by the desire for something different. What they didn’t realize at first was just how closely their lives had already mirrored one another.
They were born in the same hospital, a year apart. Their families had distant connections. They even played on the same soccer team — never meeting, but moving through the same spaces. It wasn’t until they became neighbors in Egremont about five years ago that those parallels came into focus.
“In hindsight, it feels inevitable,” Latzman said. “But it was actually extremely random that we ended up here.”
From the beginning, Barrington Hall was meant to be a place people return to, not for any one event, but for the experience of being there. On any given week, the space might host a jazz performance, a dance party, a songwriter circle or a children’s event. Some nights bring in touring acts. Others highlight local creatives. The variety is intentional and so is the atmosphere.
“It’s about people,” Baker said. “It’s about being present.”
Inside Barrington Hall.Provided
Baker and Latzman are keenly aware of the world outside with its constant barrage of information, political conflicts, a culture that pulls people deeper into their screens. Barrington Hall offers a way out of that noise.
“A little bit of a bubble,” Latzman said. “A place to step away from everything else.”
During a recent event, they noticed something telling: a full room of people dancing, talking, engaged — and almost no one on their phone.
“That’s when you know something is working,” Baker said.
Taking over a beloved local space comes with responsibility, one Baker and Latzman have met by honoring the building’s traditions while also expanding them.
“We didn’t feel obligated,” Latzman said. “We felt honored.”
Part of what makes the space distinct is its versatility. Large enough to host more than 250 people, yet intimate enough to feel personal, it fills a gap in the local landscape, serving a wide range of people and bringing different groups together in the same space.
“We want people to feel like, if something’s happening here, it’s worth checking out,” Latzman said.
They are carefully balancing community access with the realities of running a business, with an eye toward the long term.
“We want this to be here in 20 years,” Latzman said.
Inside Barrington Hall.Provided
That vision extends beyond the building itself — future collaborations, expanded programming, a growing role in shaping the cultural life of the Berkshires. But at its core, the mission remains simple: to create a place where people can gather, a place that feels alive.
And perhaps most importantly, to create a place where, if only for a few hours, people can step away from the noise of the world and enjoy being together.
When asked who they’re most excited to host next, their answer was immediate: The Mammals on April 10 and Lee Ross, a one-man party band from Massachusetts, scheduled to perform on May 1.
For more information and tickets, visit
barringtonhallgb.com
Gail Rothschild with her painting “Dead Sea Linen III (73 x 58 inches, 2024, acrylic on canvas.
Her work begins, often, with something small: a scrap of linen from the Judean desert, dating “to a time before the notion of ‘Israel’ or ‘Palestine;’” a fragment so diminished it barely registers as an object; or a rare indigo-dyed child’s head cloth from Tutankhamen’s tomb.
“I call them portraits of ancient linen,” she said.
Rothschild grew up in Greenwich and studied drawing and painting at Yale University. “That was kind of my first love,” she said. But she quickly veered toward something more collective, working with Peter Schumann at the Bread and Puppet Theater, building papier-mâché puppets and participating in a kind of performance-based activism that blurred art and politics.
“After Yale, I got out of school and thought‘Wait a second. I don’t want to paint anymore. I need to work with people in communities and make things.’”
She moved to Brooklyn and began working in public schools, developing projects rooted in collaboration and local history. The projects were ambitious, research-driven, and often confrontational. At the University of Massachusetts, she recalled asking students: “Did you know that Amherst was named for Jeffrey Amherst, who was responsible for giving blankets infected with smallpox to Native Americans? Why don’t we look into that?’”
There were sculptures, letters to watchdog groups, installations. She worked on four such projects a year, she said, until the pace became unsustainable. “At some point I just said, ‘I’m exhausted. I’m going back to the studio.’”
What brought her back was a book, “Prehistoric Textiles ” by Elizabeth Wayland Barber. Inside, she encountered an image of a 7,000-year-old textile, unraveling.
“It said to me, ‘this could be a great big abstract painting’,” she said. “What does it mean that this textile, this thing that used to be a Cartesian grid and over time has gone back to nature?”
That question became a kind of axis for her work. “There is this cusp between nature and culture,” she said. Early on, she avoided textiles with imagery, drawn instead to the raw language of fiber itself. But eventually, even that boundary softened. A project with the Godwin-Ternbach Museum introduced her to Egyptian textiles — Christian, pagan, Greek, Roman influences colliding in woven form.
Gail Rothschild’s “Esquina Decorada” (52 x 52 inches, 2022, acrylic on canvas)Gail Rothschild
What followed was a deepening relationship with museums and, crucially, with conservators. Institutions like The Metropolitan Museum of Art and collections in Berlin and Paris began sending her images of textile fragments, sometimes pieces she has still never seen in person.
“It’s almost easier for me to transform it when I haven’t seen it,” she said.
Her process is both precise and intuitive. She grids the canvas and the source image, drawing freehand to “honor what the object is.” For a time, she works closely from the photograph. Then something shifts. “At some point I’ll say, ‘It’s a painting. It’s got to talk to itself,’ and then I stop looking at the photograph.”
What emerges is layered, luminous and muscular. “Sometimes people say, ‘Do you miss making sculpture?’ and I say, ‘I never stopped.’”
You feel that in the surfaces: the tension of threads pulling apart, the sense that something is both forming and dissolving at once. Even the backgrounds — often ambiguous, atmospheric — are not neutral. “It’s really more about feeling the space around the object,” she said, especially as she considers how ancient fragments are mounted on modern fabrics. “I get to invent an entirely other language.”
Some of her most arresting work is on the monumental textiles of The Met Cloisters, where medieval tapestries, some towering more than a dozen feet, are slowly, painstakingly conserved. It’s in the conservation labs that Rothschild has observed the physical reality of these works: their own weight pulling them apart, threads breaking under centuries of strain. Conservators insert new threads to stabilize them and Rothschild documents this process. “There’s a kind of poignancy to their work,” Rothschild said, “because as hard as we work to conserve the objects of our past, in the greater cosmic scheme of time, it’s only temporary. There’s something beautiful about that.”
Time operates on multiple levels in Rothschild’s work. There is the time of the object —thousands of years, in some cases — and the time of the painting, which unfolds over months. “Once I start working on something, I can’t stop,” she said. “But then it’ll rest for a while and I may change it, add layers.”
And then there is the time of attention itself, the way looking can tip into obsession, into pattern-seeking that doesn’t quite turn off. Rothschild is aware of that edge.
“I have to make myself stop or I just see patterns everywhere and I can’t stop, really,” she laughed. “That’s why I’ve built in other things I need to do in my life like take the dogs for a hike or, you know, volunteer at the Sharon Land Trust… otherwise I go a little nuts. And it wouldn’t be good painting either.”
A painting session, for her, has its own its own arc. “There’s kind of a trajectory for every work session. I might be repeating something and suddenly it looks linear. The language I started painting with may change by the end and I think, ‘Oh God, I’m gonna have to go back and repaint that.’”
But then, she said, there is a pause.
“I kind of step back and say, ‘No, this painting can hold both. That’s part of its history. There’s the history of the object but then there’s the history of the painting.’”
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