The Fall
Late on the night of December 20, 2007, Ken Hendricks — sixty-six years old, net worth $3.5 billion, the ninety-first richest person in America, a high school dropout who had built the largest wholesale roofing distributor in the United States — walked above his garage in the home he shared with Diane in Afton, Wisconsin, to inspect construction work. It was the kind of thing he'd done his whole life: climbing, checking, touching the material. The son of a roofer, he'd spent his childhood scrambling up ladders alongside his father, absorbing the particular indignities that suppliers visited upon contractors — the unreturned calls, the contempt for men who worked with their hands. He had organized lawn-mowing crews at eight. Dropped out of high school. Launched his own roofing firm at twenty-one. And then, with Diane, pledged everything they owned to start a company predicated on a deceptively simple idea: that the guy in the pickup truck deserved respect.
He fell through the floor.
Diane found him. She called 911 at 10:18 p.m. She tried CPR. Emergency crews continued the effort. He was transported first to Beloit Memorial Hospital, then to Rockford Memorial across the state line in Illinois. He died in surgery at 4:48 a.m. on December 21, of massive head trauma. A roofer's son, killed by a roof.
The next day — before the funeral arrangements, before the grief had even metabolized into something recognizable — the questions started. Competitors circled. Board members needed answers. "It was horrible," Diane would recall. The company Ken had built, ABC Supply, had 384 locations and roughly $3 billion in annual revenue. The housing market was sliding toward catastrophe. And the woman left in charge — a dairy farmer's daughter, a teenage mother, a woman who had never attended a single day of college — had to decide whether to fight or fold.
She chose to fight. And in the eighteen years since, she has tripled, then quintupled, then septupled the company's revenue, made the two largest acquisitions in its history, expanded to over 1,000 locations, and accumulated a personal fortune north of $22 billion — making her, by Forbes' reckoning, the most successful self-made female entrepreneur in American history. She has never taken the company public. She has never sold a share. She owns one hundred percent of it.
This is the story of how a woman who grew up watching her father forbid his nine daughters from milking cows built an empire selling the materials that cover every house in America. It is a story about roofing. It is also, inescapably, a story about what gets built on top of wreckage.
By the Numbers
The ABC Supply Empire
$20.7B2024 annual revenue
1,000+Locations across U.S. and Canada
100%Diane Hendricks' ownership stake
22,000+Employees (associates)
$22.3BDiane Hendricks' estimated net worth (2025)
19Consecutive Gallup Exceptional Workplace Awards
8Consecutive years atop Forbes' Richest Self-Made Women list
The Window and the Blue Suit
The origin myth — every great fortune has one — begins at a farmhouse window in Osseo, Wisconsin, population barely worth counting. Diane was ten years old. She was one of nine sisters, born in 1947 to dairy farmers in Mondovi, raised in the kind of rural Wisconsin landscape that looks like a postcard until you live in it. Her father, by her account a good man who loved his daughters fiercely, drew a hard line between what girls did and what boys did. Girls cooked. Girls cleaned. Boys milked cows. Boys drove tractors. He hired young men for the farm work and kept his daughters indoors.
Diane looked out the window and made a decision that, in its childish specificity, would prove prophetic: "I don't want to be a farmer, and I don't want to marry a farmer." She imagined herself in a blue suit. Driving a nice car. Working in a city. Minneapolis, she thought. Somewhere with buildings.
The blue suit is a recurring image in every interview she's ever given — mentioned to Forbes, to CNBC, at the Republican National Convention, in speeches at Concordia University Wisconsin. It functions as a kind of talisman: not the thing she wanted so much as the symbol of the wanting itself, the conviction that there was a self beyond the farm that she could will into existence. "I never had a door that didn't open for me," she would say decades later, but this understates the effort required to find the doors in the first place.
At seventeen, the plan detonated. She got pregnant. In rural Wisconsin in the early 1960s, this was not merely inconvenient but socially annihilating. She married her high school sweetheart — a marriage born of circumstance rather than passion. She finished her senior year at home, earning her diploma while raising an infant. By twenty-one, the marriage was over. She was divorced, a single mother, and her grand ambitions looked increasingly theoretical.
She did what people do when the life they imagined collides with the life they're living: she worked. Assembly line at Parker Pen in Janesville — three months, then out. Waitressing. Even, for roughly a year, working as a Playboy Bunny — the cocktail-waitress kind, at one of the Playboy Clubs that dotted the Midwest in the late 1960s, where the uniform was a corset and bunny ears and the tips were good enough to feed a child. She has never hidden this fact and has never lingered on it either. It was a job. She needed money.
Then she found real estate. Selling custom-built homes for a builder, she discovered something about herself: she was good with people, good with numbers, and allergic to working for someone else. She earned her broker's license. She began to study how houses were built, how they were sold, how money moved through the transaction. This was her education — not classes but closings, not theory but margin.
You'll Do
The phone rang sometime in the early 1970s. On the other end was Ken Hendricks, a roofing contractor from Janesville — twenty-seven years old, also without a college degree, also divorced with children. They talked for weeks before meeting. By the time Diane finally laid eyes on him, walking up the steps, the decision was already made. "By the time I saw him, I knew," she would say. Her greeting, as Ken arrived: "You'll do."
Kenneth Albert Hendricks, born September 8, 1941, in Janesville, Wisconsin, was the son of a roofer named Joseph who took his boy up on roofs and showed him, without sentimentality, how the world treated men who worked with their hands. Suppliers ignored their calls. Manufacturers set the prices and the terms. The men who hammered shingles in hundred-degree heat were, in the commercial hierarchy of American construction, somewhere between invisible and expendable. Ken absorbed this — the trade and the injustice simultaneously — and by his early twenties was running his own roofing operation, then two, buying rental properties on the side, nursing a vision that was still inchoate but had something to do with distribution, with the gap between what contractors needed and what anyone was willing to provide.
They married in 1975. The partnership was immediate, total, and unusually balanced. Ken was the extrovert — a natural salesman, a motivational speaker, the kind of person who could walk into a room of skeptical roofers and walk out with their loyalty. Diane was the strategist — managing finances, running the books, keeping the operation solvent while Ken went out and evangelized. "We'd worked together every day since I was 21," she would say after his death.
Their first venture was rental properties. They bought cheap houses and apartments in Beloit, Wisconsin — a modest, slightly depressed factory town on the Illinois border — gutted them, renovated them, and leased them to students from Beloit College. In three years, they accumulated 100 properties. "I cleaned a lot of toilets," Diane told Forbes. The work was unglamorous and precisely educational: they learned how to assess a structure, how to budget a renovation, how to manage tenants, how to squeeze margin from properties no one else wanted.
A decade of this. Roofing contracts. Government jobs. Property management. And throughout, a nagging observation: there were no national chains supplying roofing contractors. Manufacturers sold direct, locking contractors into single ecosystems and dictating terms. If you needed shingles from one company and flashing from another, you made two calls and two trips. The supply side of the roofing industry was fragmented, hostile, and — crucially — contemptuous of its customers.
The $900,000 Bet
In 1982, the American economy was in recession. Interest rates were punishing. The housing market was soft. Ken and Diane Hendricks decided this was the moment to start.
They tried to get a loan from a bank in Janesville. The answer, as Diane would recount for decades with a bitterness that never quite faded, was decisive: "We don't do business with entrepreneurs, and we don't want your business." They turned to Beloit Savings Bank instead, secured a $900,000 loan, and pledged everything they owned — the rental properties, the roofing business, the houses they'd scraped together over fifteen years — to acquire three struggling supply centers from Bird & Sons Inc.
American Builders and Contractors Supply Co. — the name chosen, in part, because "ABC" would land near the top of Yellow Pages listings — opened on January 2, 1982. The thesis was brutally simple: buy from multiple manufacturers, sell to contractors, and treat the customers like human beings.
We felt like we weren't being treated with respect. That was part of our goal — to build a company that would help the guy in the pickup truck, and provide service and respect to everyone.
Ken personally ensured that no phone call went unanswered. If a contractor needed materials at 5 a.m., someone picked up. If a product wasn't in stock, someone found it. This was not complicated. But in an industry where suppliers routinely treated contractors as afterthoughts — slow to deliver, indifferent to complaints, contemptuous of the men who showed up in work boots and mud-caked trucks — it was revolutionary. The Hendricks weren't inventing a product. They were inventing a standard of service in a market that had never experienced one.
The growth was staggering. By 1984, two years in, ABC Supply was number three on the Inc. 500 list of America's fastest-growing private companies. By 1985, number two. By 1986, number one. They expanded from 3 locations to 25 to 47 to 50 within five years, and by 1987 were generating $183 million in annual sales. They grew by acquiring underperforming supply yards — bankrupt competitors, struggling independents — and rehabilitating them with ABC's operational systems and customer-first culture. They grew organically, too, opening new branches wherever contractors were underserved. The pattern was relentless: identify the gap, acquire the asset, install the culture, move on.
By 1994, ABC Supply had 100 locations. By 1998, $1 billion in annual sales. By 2002, 256 stores. By 2007, the year Ken died, 384 locations and roughly $3 billion in revenue.
The Hendricks family was itself a kind of acquisition. Ken had four children from his first marriage. Diane had one — her son Brent, from the pregnancy at seventeen. Together, they had two more. Seven children total, a blended family that Diane would later compare to the Brady Bunch, except this version grew up inside a distribution company. Five of the children would eventually hold vice president positions. Diane controlled the voting shares. The company was not merely a business. It was a family organism.
The Architecture of a Brady Bunch Empire
By the late 1990s, ABC Supply was large enough to need professional management. In 1998, Ken and Diane hired David Luck, a former president at Bridge/Firestone, to serve as president and run daily operations, freeing the Hendricks to oversee the portfolio of roughly thirty smaller companies they'd accumulated — steel, manufacturing, real estate — through Hendricks Holding Company, the private entity that served as the family's investment arm.
The structure was deliberate. ABC Supply was the anchor: the largest wholesale roofing distributor in the country, a cash-generating machine with the kind of recurring demand — roofs wear out, storms destroy them, new houses need them — that makes distribution businesses deeply resilient. Around it, Hendricks Holding Company acquired and managed affiliates that produced some of the products ABC sold: Mule-Hide Products (started 1986), American Construction Materials (started 2002), and various manufacturing operations. The holding company also managed the family's commercial real estate portfolio, which grew from the original Beloit rental properties into an operation spanning 33 states and 11 million square feet.
The model was vertical integration without the corporate formality. Ken and Diane owned everything. There were no outside shareholders, no quarterly earnings calls, no analysts demanding guidance. They could take decades-long views on investments, reinvest profits without asking permission, and make decisions at the speed of a phone call between two people who shared a home. The opacity was intentional. Ken once told an associate that the best business strategy was to never let anyone know exactly how much you were making.
Rob Gerbitz, who would eventually become CEO of Hendricks Commercial Properties, entered the orbit in this era. A real estate professional from the Midwest, Gerbitz would become Diane's most trusted operational lieutenant, overseeing the commercial portfolio that included — eventually — a $42 million hotel in Santa Barbara, the BoDo buildings in downtown Boise purchased for $25 million, and the Hotel Renegade in Boise that would serve as a flagship for the Geronimo Hospitality Group, another Hendricks subsidiary. "The things she's done, I'm not sure Ken could have done," Gerbitz would say years later.
December, and After
When Ken fell through the garage floor on December 20, 2007, the company was on the cusp of disaster — not because of internal weakness but because of external catastrophe. The U.S. housing market was collapsing. New residential construction, the engine of demand for roofing materials, was falling off a cliff. From 2006 to 2009, ABC Supply's sales would decline 7%. Competitors, sensing that a privately held company led by a grieving widow might be vulnerable, began circling.
Diane had been living through an ongoing renovation of the couple's home in Afton — a modest rustic property they were transforming into a 10,000-square-foot dream house. She'd been stepping around construction debris in black wedge heels to get from her bedroom to her closet for three years. She had no working oven, just a hot plate. The house was supposed to be their shared future. Now she was finishing it alone.
"Should she sell? Push ahead in a male-dominated business?" Forbes asked in a 2010 profile. Hendricks gave her answer: "I'm not a meek lady who stays at home and cooks."
She did not sell. She did not retreat. Instead, she made a decision that would define the next chapter of ABC Supply: she went shopping.
The Bradco Gamble
The Great Recession, which annihilated so many companies in the construction supply chain, created an opportunity that only a privately held, debt-light company with a single decision-maker could exploit. Bradco Supply Corporation — a rival distributor with nearly 2,000 employees and 128 locations — was available. The price was approximately $521 million. But the acquisition required something that made Diane physically ill: she gave up 40% of her equity stake in ABC Supply to a financial backer, on the condition that she could buy it back within five years.
I still get shivers right now because I felt that I had risked the company that I wanted my children to run. It's not a company that's ever going to be for sale.
The bet paid off. The construction market recovered. Revenues climbed. Diane bought back her stake in four years — a year ahead of schedule. The Bradco acquisition added over 100 locations overnight and cemented ABC Supply's dominance as a national distributor. It was the largest deal in the company's history.
Six years later, she did it again. In 2016, ABC Supply acquired L&W Supply, a Chicago-based distributor of interior building products — drywall, ceiling tile, steel framing — for $670 million, adding 136 locations across 36 states. The acquisition was strategically significant: it moved ABC beyond exterior products and into interior distribution, giving the company access to an entirely new revenue stream while deepening its relationship with contractors who now had a single source for both sides of a building.
The numbers tell the story. In 2007, the year Ken died, ABC Supply had roughly $3 billion in revenue. By 2020, $12.1 billion. By 2021, $15 billion. By 2022, $20.4 billion. By 2024, $20.7 billion. Diane Hendricks didn't just maintain what Ken had built. She built something five times larger.
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ABC Supply's Growth Under Diane Hendricks
Revenue and location expansion since Ken Hendricks' death in 2007
2007384 locations, ~$3B revenue. Ken Hendricks dies.
2010Acquires Bradco Supply (~128 locations) for ~$521M.
2012450+ locations. 30th anniversary.
2016Acquires L&W Supply (136 locations) for $670M.
2020~800 locations, $12.1B revenue.
2022970+ locations, $20.4B revenue, 20,000+ employees.
20241,000+ locations, $20.7B revenue. Expands into Canada.
Beloit, or the Problem with Billionaire Benevolence
There is a version of the Diane Hendricks story that reads as pure triumph — dairy farm to boardroom, teenage pregnancy to twenty-two billion dollars — and there is another version, more interesting and more troubling, that has to do with what happens when one person's fortune becomes a town's economy.
Beloit, Wisconsin, had roughly 37,000 residents in the early 2000s. It had once been a manufacturing town — paper machines, diesel engines, the Beloit Corporation employing 7,000 people at its peak. Then Beloit Corp. filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy on June 7, 1999, and liquidated by early 2000, taking nearly 2,000 local jobs with it. The town's economy cratered. Poverty spiked. Properties emptied. "I hope Beloit is ready to be without Beloit Corp.," one departing worker told television crews.
Into this vacuum stepped Diane Hendricks, who had been investing in Beloit since the 1970s, when she and Ken first bought rental properties there. Her approach was neither charity nor development in the conventional sense. It was something closer to acquisition: when she saw something she didn't like, she bought it. A bankrupt country club. A half-empty mall. Abandoned factory buildings. The rusting Beloit Corp. foundry on the Rock River. "I see old buildings, and I see an opportunity for putting things in them," she told the New York Times in 2017.
Hendricks Commercial Properties, founded in 1974, became the vehicle. The old foundry became Ironworks — a commercial complex housing a business incubator, tech startups, and a YMCA. She razed an entire downtown block and replaced it with the Phoenix — a mixed-use development featuring a sushi restaurant, a burger joint, and apartments with marble countertops. She moved the public library out of its historic downtown location and into a failing mall at the edge of town, then converted the original library building into a performing arts center for Beloit College. She built ABC Supply Stadium, a $40 million minor league baseball facility. She founded the Beloit International Film Festival — launching it, audaciously, the same week as Sundance.
"It looks like we're beautifying the city, but we're really beautifying the economy," she told the Times. The phrase is revealing. Hendricks has never been sentimental about Beloit's past. She is sentimental about its future — specifically, a future she can design. "It's the one thing that Ken and I said we'd never do: buy restaurants or a golf course," she once said. "And now we have both."
The results are real but uneven. Drew Pennington, the city's economic development director, called Hendricks' commitment "exceptional and unprecedented." New businesses have opened. Startups have relocated. Beloit College's website now describes the city as "home to an engaged community." But as of recent years, roughly a quarter of Beloit's population still lives in poverty — twice the rate of the surrounding county. One in four children in Rock County lives in poverty. A short drive south from the Phoenix, the new buildings give way to boarded-up shops. The revitalization, critics note, has clustered around downtown and the areas near the college, creating what some residents describe as two separate cities: the affluent, curated Beloit that Hendricks has built, and the struggling one that surrounds it.
The Beloit College relationship is itself complicated. Hendricks served on the Board of Trustees from 2011 to 2020. She donated the Hendricks Center, which houses the college's performing arts department. She funded the Powerhouse, a campus building. In September 2020, she and four other board members resigned. The college did not publicly disclose the reason. President Eric Boynton later said she was "ready to move on to other opportunities," but campus observers offered a different theory: that she had disagreed with the college's direction on matters of institutional politics. The departure was, by all appearances, amicable on the surface and something else underneath.
The Politics of a Roofing Queen
Diane Hendricks has never been shy about her politics. She is a Republican. She is a major Republican donor. And she has been, at certain moments, a politically consequential one.
In her office in Afton sits a statuette of Ronald Reagan on horseback. A photo of her with
Donald Trump. A stack of books with titles like
The MAGA Doctrine. Downstairs, a numbered print — identical to the one that hung in Trump's White House — depicting ten Republican presidents drinking at a fictional gathering. (Eisenhower seems to be enjoying his Scotch; the teetotaling Trump nurses a Diet Coke.) Outside, a life-size bronze of a Plains Indian watches over three retired Budweiser Clydesdales.
The iconography is not subtle, and neither is the money. In 2014, Hendricks donated $1 million to the Republican Party of Wisconsin — five times larger than any other individual contribution that cycle. From 2019 to 2020, she gave nearly $13.1 million to Republican and conservative groups. She donated $2 million to a political action committee supporting Senator Ron Johnson's 2022 re-election. She was appointed to Trump's 2016 campaign economic advisory team and donated more than $1 million to his 2020 re-election.
The most politically volatile moment came in 2011, when filmmaker Brad Lichtenstein captured a conversation between Hendricks and Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker on camera. In the footage, Hendricks urged Walker to pursue right-to-work legislation. Walker responded with the phrase "divide and conquer" — describing his strategy toward public-sector unions. He subsequently introduced Act 10, which effectively eliminated most public-sector collective bargaining in Wisconsin, triggering weeks of protests at the Capitol. Right-to-work legislation was eventually signed in 2015, after Hendricks' million-dollar contribution to the state GOP.
The tax situation has drawn scrutiny as well. The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel reported in 2016 that Hendricks "didn't pay a dime in state income tax from 2012 through 2014" and owed nothing in 2010. The explanation offered by ABC Supply's tax director was structural: the company had reclassified from a C-corp to an S-corp, and under Wisconsin law could elect out of state tax-option status while remaining current on federal obligations. Legal? Apparently. Politically convenient? Undeniably. The juxtaposition — a billionaire who pays no state income tax while advocating for policies that weaken worker bargaining power — has made Hendricks a polarizing figure in Wisconsin politics, beloved by business conservatives and distrusted by labor advocates.
At the 2024 Republican National Convention, she gave a five-minute speech about her journey from dairy farm to billionaire, praising Trump and declaring, "I'm living proof the American dream is possible through hard work and determination." The RNC's initial speaker list described her as an "everyday American." By the time she took the stage, the label had been quietly changed to "American businesswoman."
What a Bunny Builds
There is a line in Hendricks' biography that every profile writer seizes on and none quite knows what to do with: the year she spent working as a Playboy Bunny waitress. It's almost always deployed as a signal of how far she's come — the narrative equivalent of establishing the baseline from which the ascent is measured. But Hendricks herself treats it with a flatness that refuses to let it become either shame or spectacle. She worked there. She made tips. She moved on.
The Playboy Club circuit of the late 1960s — the Midwest locations, in particular — occupied a strange cultural space: simultaneously aspirational and degrading, a place where young women could earn genuinely good money in a society that otherwise offered them secretarial pools and factory floors. For a twenty-one-year-old single mother without a college degree, it was among the best-paying jobs available. That Hendricks saw it as a means rather than a destination tells you something about her. That she has never disavowed it tells you something more.
Her relationship to feminism — or, more precisely, to the narrative of female empowerment — is complicated by her politics and her self-conception. "I never thought about being a female and not being able to do what I do," she has said. This is either admirably unselfconscious or willfully ahistorical, depending on your vantage point. She built her fortune in one of the most male-dominated industries in America — roofing distribution, where the customer base is overwhelmingly male, the workforce is overwhelmingly male, and the management has been, until recently, almost entirely male. She did it without once, by her own account, experiencing a door that didn't open. The feminist reading would note that this isn't because the doors were always open; it's because she kicked them in so hard she didn't notice the locks.
Forbes called her "the most successful female entrepreneur in American history." The qualifier matters. Female. As if the achievement requires an asterisk, a category. Hendricks has never publicly complained about this framing, but her actions — the refusal to sell, the refusal to take the company public, the insistence on 100% ownership — suggest someone who understands that legitimacy, in business, is indistinguishable from control.
Cancer, Twice
The sources mention it in passing, as Hendricks herself apparently prefers: she has beaten cancer twice. The details — when, what type, what treatment — are largely absent from the public record, withheld by a woman who has always controlled her own narrative with the precision she applies to acquisitions. It surfaces in Forbes profiles as a clause in a sentence about other things, one more obstacle in a list of obstacles, treated with the same unsentimental economy she brings to everything.
What's notable is not the illness but the absence. A different kind of public figure would have turned the survivorship into a platform. Hendricks let it dissolve into the background of a life too densely packed with work to accommodate extended reflection on mortality. Whether this represents strength or avoidance is a question her biographers will have to answer. What's clear is that it didn't slow her down. Nothing did.
The Cathedral and the Pickup Truck
In July 2025, A&E premiered Betting on Beloit, a twelve-episode docuseries featuring Diane's daughter Konya Hendricks Schuh leading the next phase of Beloit's revitalization. The series follows Konya — a real estate broker and designer — her husband Matt (a plumbing contractor), and a small team as they buy, renovate, and sell historic homes in the neighborhoods surrounding Beloit College. Diane appears throughout, financing the operation and providing the strategic vision. The premiere drew attention less for the renovations themselves than for the spectacle of a $22 billion fortune being deployed, on national television, to flip houses in a town that USA Today once named Wisconsin's worst city to live in.
The series crystallizes the central tension of Hendricks' late career: she is simultaneously a private person and a public force, a woman who prizes discretion yet agreed to put her family on reality television because she believes — genuinely, by all evidence — that Beloit's story deserves to be told. Her son Brent Fox, from that first marriage at seventeen, is now CEO of Hendricks Holding Company, the parent entity of the construction and real estate firms doing the renovation work. Her nephew Connor Fox is a realtor featured on the show. The enterprise is a family affair, as it has been since five of her seven children took VP roles at ABC Supply.
The show's full title — Betting on Beloit — is apt in ways the producers may not have intended. Every investment Hendricks has ever made has been a bet. The $900,000 loan in 1982. The Bradco acquisition in 2010. The L&W deal in 2016. Each time, she pledged what she had against what she believed she could build. The difference now is that the bet isn't on a company. It's on a place. And places, unlike supply chains, don't always reward conviction with returns.
"I just want to give back to the community that gave us a chance," Hendricks says in the trailer. The sentence is simple. The record behind it is not.
The Clydesdale and the Constitution
At seventy-eight, Diane Hendricks wakes up in a 9,500-square-foot home in southern Wisconsin where an American flag pin sits in the closet, a bronze Plains Indian stands guard in the yard, and three retired Budweiser Clydesdales graze on the property. "Delivering on the American Dream Since 1982" is ABC Supply's slogan. "American Pride" is one of its seven core values. At company events, Lee Greenwood sometimes sings "God Bless the USA" live; otherwise, a video set to the song is played for managers.
She has spoken at Concordia University Wisconsin about "Promoting and Preserving the American Dream." She has told interviewers that freedom gives all people "opportunities to be who we are, to speak our beliefs and to choose our faith." She has said, simply: "I love this country."
The patriotism is genuine. It is also an aesthetic, a management philosophy, and a political identity — inseparable from the roofing materials that pay for all of it. ABC Supply exists because two people without college educations saw an opening in a market and filled it, and Hendricks reads this not as a business story but as an American one. The company's founding narrative — respect for the working man, skepticism of elites, the conviction that hard work outweighs credentials — maps onto a strain of conservative populism that she has funded, promoted, and lived.
Whether the story holds depends on where you're standing. If you're a roofing contractor who once couldn't get a supplier to answer the phone, and now you have a one-stop distributor in 1,000 locations that treats you like a professional, the American Dream is alive and residing in Beloit, Wisconsin. If you're a union worker whose bargaining rights were dismantled by a governor Hendricks supported, the story reads differently. If you're a family living in poverty on Beloit's south side, watching new hotels and sushi restaurants spring up on the other side of town, the promise and the reality don't quite align.
Hendricks doesn't wrestle with this publicly. She is not a woman who traffics in ambiguity. She has said that she trusts her own instincts, that she doesn't take advice very often, that the unforeseen downside of success is the feeling that "you never really achieve the success you want." Asked to name her heroes, she names Ronald Reagan and her close friends. Asked what book every entrepreneur should read, she refuses to name one: "I read everything I can get my hands on."
On the construction site that was once her bedroom, she walked to the closet in black wedge heels, past the debris, the hot plate where the oven should be, toward whatever she was building next. That was 2010. The house is finished now. The company is five times the size it was when Ken was alive. The girl who wanted a blue suit got one. And in Beloit, the Ironworks foundry that once made paper machines now incubates startups, and somewhere south of the Phoenix, someone is still waiting for the economy to reach their block.
