In this issue
Not long ago, a woman and her husband's brother came to Ed Storti for help. The San Pedro, California, counselor is an interventionist. It is his job to convince drug and alcohol addicts to enter treatment programs.
Back in the fifties, a Maryland chicken farmer was contemplating how he could make a go of a business that he had taken over from his parents. Chicken in those days was, well, just — chicken; everyone was selling the same commodity and, because there was a glut of producers, prices were consistently low. But our Maryland farmer figured out that by packaging his product uniformly and attractively, he could give his customers something different; he could give them a better feeling about the product's quality and distinguish his chicken from that of his competitors.
A menacing barbed-wire fence surrounds the 60-acre site amid the scrubby pine barrens. Along the fence, ominous No Trespassing signs warn of explosives and the dangers of smoking. Inside, the nerve center of the complex consists of three trailers, behind which is a rutted field used for testing explosives. Farther down the road are three small concrete huts where the devices are packaged. Beyond the huts are several rows of bunkers surrounded by 10-foot high walls of sand, where explosive materials are stored in huge metal containers.
After five years at her dad's company in Houston, which supplies pipe for drilling oil wells, Debra Benditz itched to have a larger say in how things were run, but her father tended to wave off her marketing suggestions. What's more, he had already indicated that one of Debra's younger brothers would succeed him as CEO of the Continental Casing Corp. Even today, Paul Benditz admits he is more concerned about helping establish his sons in the business than in doing the same for his daughter.