The Forgotten Grid: Towns That Industry Left Behind
Echoes of Industry: The Rise and Fall of Drexel, Hildebran, and Valdese
Introduction
In the rolling Foothills of Western North Carolina, a trio of small towns – Drexel, Hildebran, and Valdese – once thrived on the energy of American industry. In the mid-20th century, furniture factories buzzed, textile mills hummed, and railways hauled away the fruits of local labor. These communities boomed in their heyday, with bustling main streets and proud civic institutions built on industrial prosperity. Yet today they tell a different story: mill buildings stand silent or in ruins, population growth has stalled or reversed, and a quiet despair lingers in places that modern economic planning has largely passed by. The history of these towns’ rise and fall is written in factory ledgers and census rolls – and in the empty storefronts and faded civic halls that remain as testament to what once was. Below, we report on each town’s journey from boom to bust, drawing on public records and local accounts to chronicle the human geography of being left behind.
Drexel: Furniture Empire to Empty Mills
Founded along a railway line in Burke County, Drexel came of age with the American furniture boom. In 1903 the Drexel Furniture Company opened a small factory just east of Morganton, crafting fine wooden furniture in the Appalachian foothills -(ncpedia.org). Over the following decades, Drexel’s industry expanded dramatically acquiring other furniture makers in the 1950s and 60s, and even supplying the U.S. State Department with embassy furnishings (ncpedia.org). By the mid-20th century, Drexel was synonymous with quality furniture; the company grew into one of the world’s leading furniture manufacturers, operating multiple plants and employing thousands of people across western North Carolina (flickr.comncpedia.org). In those peak years, the town’s identity and economy revolved around the furniture works. Families boasted generations of skilled woodworkers, the Drexel Community Fair and local ball teams flourished under company sponsorship, and the railroad depot saw daily boxcars loaded with locally made chairs and tables heading nationwide.
The town’s peak era can be traced to the post–World War II decades, when demand for furniture was high and jobs were plentiful. During the 1960s and 70s, Drexel’s population climbed steadily (from about 1,146 in 1960 to over 1,430 by 1970) (kids.kiddle.co). A visitor back then would have found a vibrant community: tidy brick storefronts along Main Street, civic clubs and churches bolstered by a confident middle class, and the constant whistle of the Southern Railway echoing across town as it carried off Drexel’s products. By 1980, the town population neared 1,400 and Drexel Enterprises (later Drexel Heritage) was a pillar of Burke County’s economy (flickr.com). But the prosperity was not to last.
The late 20th and early 21st centuries brought tectonic shifts to Drexel’s fortunes. Competitive pressures and globalization began to erode the furniture industry. In the span of a single decade (1999–2009), North Carolina’s furniture manufacturing employment collapsed by over 50%, largely due to cheaper imports from Asia (richmondfed.org). Drexel’s factories were not spared. Ownership of the company changed hands multiple times, and production gradually ebbed. By 2004 the corporate headquarters had moved to High Point and only 1,300 employees remained at scattered facilities statewide (ncpedia.org). Then came the final blows: in 2014 the last Drexel Heritage plant in the area closed its doors, permanently laying off its remaining 87 workers (furnituretoday.com). After more than a century, the furniture that built Drexel was no longer made there.
Today, Drexel is a town of echoes and remnants. Its population has drifted down below 1,800 (from nearly 2,000 around the year 2000) (kids.kiddle.co). The once-busy Plant #1 sits abandoned, its windows shattered and yard overgrown with weeds – a mute reminder of livelihoods lost. “We made bedroom suites and tables here… now all of it’s made overseas,” recalls one former worker, lamenting that manufacturing in North Carolina “is a thing of the past.” (flickr.com) On a quiet afternoon, you might see the rusting water tower still labeled “Drexel” and the empty loading docks where boxcars no longer call. Yet amid the decay, there are flickers of hope: a grassroots group called Grow with Drexel is working to attract new investment, and local officials have secured grants to clean up an old 100-acre factory site for future industry (businessfacilities.com). As of 2024, that brownfield site – now dubbed Butler Hill – is being marketed as a ready rail-served industrial park to rekindle jobs (businessfacilities.com). Whether such plans will materialize remains uncertain. For now, Drexel embodies the quiet resilience and lingering sorrow of a town that rose with manufacturing and fell with its departure.
Hildebran: A Sawmill Switch and a Shuttered School
Hildebran’s story began with timber and rail. In the late 1800s, settler Jake Hildebrand built a sawmill along the newly extended rail line and added a rail “switch” so lumber could be loaded directly onto trains (hildebrannc.com). The little settlement at “Hildebrand’s Switch” soon grew into a town, officially incorporating in 1899 (hildebrannc.com). By the early 20th century, Hildebran had capitalized on its location between the furniture center of Hickory and the textile mills of Burke County. Small industries – from lumber and furniture workshops to a nearby textile mill village – provided steady work. Generations of residents labored at local plants or commuted to bigger factories in the region, and the town’s modest population grew accordingly (from only 246 people in 1930 to over 500 by 1950) (en.wikipedia.org). A brick schoolhouse was erected in 1917, signaling the community’s optimism and investment in its future youths (elon.edu). Through the mid-1900s, Hildebran’s economy and civic life were humble but stable: a Main Street dotted with cafes and a pharmacy, churches filled on Sundays, and a tight-knit feel where everyone rallied around the Hildebran Dragons high school team on Friday nights.
Like much of rural North Carolina, however, Hildebran’s fortunes wavered in the late 20th century. As farming and traditional industries mechanized or moved, the town struggled to attract new business. The local textile mill at nearby Henry River closed decades ago, leaving an “industrial village” ghost town just beyond Hildebran’s limits (forsythfamilymagazine.com). Furniture manufacturing in the region likewise contracted sharply in the 1990s and 2000s, eliminating many jobs that Hildebran residents once held (richmondfed.org). By 1987, even the venerable Hildebran High School shut its doors (consolidated into a county-wide school), a symbolic loss of identity (caselaw.findlaw.com). Part of the old campus found new life as the Town Hall, but the original 1917 school building was left vacant and deteriorating for nearly a quarter-century (elon.edu). In 2015, a fierce debate erupted over whether to demolish the crumbling structure or preserve it as a historic landmark. Many residents felt “an emotional attachment” to the school and fought to save it (wbtv.com). Town officials, citing safety hazards and costly repairs, voted for demolition (elon.edu - caselaw.findlaw.com). In the end, fate intervened: before the legal battle concluded, the old school caught fire and burned to the ground, erasing a piece of Hildebran’s heritage in a cloud of smoke (caselaw.findlaw.com).
Present-day Hildebran faces the trials common to America’s forgotten towns. Its population, which surprisingly swelled to about 2,000 during the suburban growth of the 2000s, has since fallen by roughly 17% (down to ~1,680 in 2020) (en.wikipedia.org). With few local employers, many younger residents have moved away in search of opportunities, leaving behind an aging community. Drive through town and you’ll note the half-empty strip malls and quiet streets; the railway still runs along the edge of Hildebran, but it now carries freight through the town rather than industry into it. There are small signs of resilience – a heritage museum, a farmers market on summer weekends, and even some niche manufacturing (a furniture upholstery plant operates on the outskirts) – but growth remains elusive. Infrastructure has outlived its heyday, from the scorched lot where the old school stood to roads that once handled factory shift changes now in need of repair. The mood among long-time residents mixes nostalgia with resignation. As one local historian put it, Hildebran is “proud of its past, but unsure of its future.” For this town born of a rail switch and a sawmill, the challenge is finding a new track forward in the 21st century.
Valdese: Waldensian Roots, Threadbare Future
Valdese offers a story of both cultural uniqueness and industrial decline. Founded in 1893 by Waldensian immigrants from the Italian Alps, Valdese from the outset had a strong community identity built on faith, frugality, and hard work. These settlers brought textile skills and soon established the town’s industrial backbone: the Waldensian Hosiery Mill (1901) and the Valdese Manufacturing Company (1913) for cotton yarn were early enterprises (businessnc.com). In 1915, a group of enterprising locals started the Valdese Weavers as the Swiss Embroidery Company, which grew into a major producer of decorative fabrics (valdeseweavers.com). Through the mid-20th century, this small town in Burke County thrived as a textile town. By 1940 Valdese’s population had jumped to over 2,600 (kids.kiddle.co), and Main Street bustled with grocery stores, bakeries, and a famous winery – all reflecting the Waldensians’ influence. During peak years in the 1960s, nearly every family had someone working in a mill or in a furniture plant in the broader region. Civic life was rich: Valdese had its own hospital, a vibrant downtown theater, and an annual Waldensian Festival celebrating its unique heritage. The local high school sports teams (the Valdese Wildcats) drew packed crowds, and pride ran deep for a town punching above its weight economically and culturally.
The winds of change, however, did not spare Valdese. The late 20th century saw global competition batter the textile industry that had sustained the town. Tens of thousands of textile and apparel jobs across North Carolina vanished between the late 1990s and early 2000s with mills closing due to cheap imports and production moving overseas (ncpedia.org). In Valdese, one by one, the longtime employers shut down or shrank. Carolina Mills, which operated a dyeing and finishing plant (Plant #9) in town, closed it in 2006, citing the “flood of low-priced imports” that made local operations unsustainable (furnituretoday.com). Not long after, Burke Mills Inc., a local yarn-dyeing factory founded in the 1940s, announced it would liquidate and lay off virtually all its 200 workers by late 2008 (fibre2fashion.com). Each closure dealt a heavy blow – not only were jobs lost, but the empty hulks of factories were left behind, casting shadows over the town. By 2010, Valdese’s once-growing population plateaued around 4,500 residents (kids.kiddle.co) as younger folks left to seek employment in bigger cities. Those who stayed found a local economy much diminished: a few textile operations (notably Valdese Weavers, which remarkably survived and remains one of the nation’s largest decorative fabric mills (hometextilestoday.com), some small machine shops, and a trickle of tourism driven by Waldensian heritage sites.
Today’s Valdese is a town straddling its proud past and an uncertain tomorrow. The community still cherishes its European roots – Italian is spoken by old-timers at the bakery, and the white-and-green Waldensian flag flies downtown – but the economic vigor beneath the cultural celebrations has waned. Many storefronts along Main Street sit vacant or house thrift shops and resale stores, a far cry from the bustling merchants of decades past. Some infrastructure has decayed with time: for instance, a large 1930s-era textile mill in the heart of downtown stood vacant for years, becoming an eyesore littered with broken glass and even discarded needles, according to residents (wsoctv.com). In a hopeful turn, town leaders recently secured funding to renovate that crumbling mill building into affordable housing, aiming to bring new life (and 60 families) into downtown by 2024 (wsoctv.com). It’s a poignant full-circle moment – repurposing a relic of the old economy to serve a new social need. Meanwhile, the people of Valdese carry on with quiet determination. Community morale has been tested, but not broken: the local museum and winery still welcome visitors, and older residents swap stories of the days when the mills ran nonstop. The consensus, however, is that the glory days will not return as they were. Valdese must chart a new course in a post-industrial landscape, even as it safeguards the legacy of those “industrious Waldensians” who first put it on the map (valdeseweavers.com).
Conclusion: Left Behind in Modern Economic Planning
Drexel, Hildebran, and Valdese are three distinct towns linked by a common trajectory – rapid mid-century growth fueled by industry, followed by painful decline as those industries left. In each case, global economic forces (from trade agreements to automation) swept through like a whirlwind, and the promised benefits of modernization often bypassed these communities. The result has been stagnation and a sense of abandonment. Public records and demographic data confirm the trend: populations aging or shrinking, poverty creeping in, and tax bases eroding as factories and young families disappear (kids.kiddle.co) - (en.wikipedia.org). Local governments struggle to maintain infrastructure built for busier days; school consolidations and hospital closures force residents to travel farther for basic services. And perhaps most devastating is the psychological toll on community identity. Once proud mill towns now wear a label no one wants: “left behind.” The empty mills and boarded schools are not just physical structures – they are symbols of promises unkept and generations of hard work now devalued.
Yet, within this sober reality lies a note of urgency and reflection. What does it mean for towns like these to be left out of modern economic planning? It means that grand strategies for growth and investment – technology corridors, urban-centric development, global supply chains – often overlook the smaller dots on the map. It means that the people in Drexel, Hildebran, and Valdese watch state and federal initiatives pour resources into booming metros or overseas ventures, while their own appeals for revitalization funding arrive slowly or not at all. It raises moral and practical questions: How can prosperity be more evenly distributed, and what obligation does a society have to its forgotten corners? The residents of these Foothills towns are not merely waiting for rescue; many are doing what they can – preserving local history, seeking grants, encouraging any small business that might take root on Main Street. Their resilience carries a quiet lesson. If modern planners and policymakers truly listen, they may find that places like Drexel, Hildebran, and Valdese have something to teach about community, perseverance, and the cost of progress. In the end, the fate of “the forgotten grid” of small-town America will say much about the values and vision that guide our modern economy – whether we leave these towns behind for good, or find ways to bring them along into the future.
Sources: Public records, local news archives, social media posts, and historical references as cited throughout the report.
This article was created with the assistance of ChatGPT DeepSearch
Public records, local news archives, social media posts, and historical references as cited throughout the report.
