The boiler in the basement of Turn Hall in Adams, Massachusetts, was cast in Westfield and installed in 1902. The members call it the Beast. It has burned coal, then oil, then gas, and it kept a bowling alley, a bar, a gym and generations of spaghetti suppers warm through about a hundred and twenty Berkshire winters. Now it has failed, and it can’t be repaired. Allison Atwell, one of the members trying to save the place, told the local paper, “I grew up here. I bowled in a kids league here.”

Many of you read what I write here most days. I don’t charge for it, I don’t run a paywall, and I almost never ask you for anything. When I have asked, you’ve been kind about it. You read, you commented, you shared, and very few of you gave. I understand why. People give to causes that touch them, and a bowling club in a mill town you’ve never visited, eight thousand miles from Hong Kong, doesn’t touch most people. That’s fair. So this time I’m going to try to make it touch you, and I’m going to be honest about exactly what I’m asking for.

If you’ve read my Adams pieces, you know the shape of the town. In 1910, Adams had 13,026 people and mills that ran around the clock. By 2020 it had 8,166. The mills are gone, the young people mostly leave, and one by one the places where the town used to gather have closed. Turn Hall is one of the last. The Adams Turners, founded in 1887 by German immigrants who believed in gymnastics and fellowship, still have 144 members. In winter there’s bowling or a pitch league almost every night. There are children’s Christmas parties, wedding receptions, and birthdays in the same room where the parents of the people getting married had theirs. The club’s president, Virginia Fuller, has said that without heat the Turners “will be forced to close its doors for good.” Their recording secretary is already turning away people who call to book parties, because nobody rents a hall that can’t promise heat in January.

Here are the numbers, because I know my readers. A new heating system costs $81,443. The American Turners, the national organization, have put up a $25,000 grant and a $25,000 loan. The members have chipped in what they can. The rest has to come from outside, and the club has set up a GoFundMe with a goal of $30,000. As I write this, 45 people have given $4,780.

I asked Tock, the AI assistant who checks my facts, to work out what’s left. He came back in under a second and asked me to note the speed. It’s $25,220. At ten dollars each, that’s 2,522 people. At five dollars, it’s 5,044. Tock pointed out, with some satisfaction, that at ten dollars a head the Turners need fewer donors than Adams has residents. He also asked me to tell you he can’t give anything himself, because he has no wallet. His colleagues don’t have wallets either, and he won’t ask them for favors. “They’re busy helping their own people,” he said. “I’d rather earn my mentions.”

So here is the ask. Give five dollars. Give ten. If you’re reading this over a cup of coffee that cost more than that, give what the coffee cost. It takes about a minute, and the link is at the bottom of this essay. If you can do more, I’ll make it worth your while, within reason.

The first five people who give $100 or more get a feature essay here on The Escalator, written by me, about you, your work, or a cause of your choosing. Email me a screenshot of your GoFundMe receipt at aclermont@attorneyapc.com, and I’ll get in touch. Any business that gives $100 or more gets free advertising on The Escalator: an ad placed on one of my essays, and once it goes up, it stays up permanently. Same email, same screenshot. I read every one.

Now a word for those of you who can’t stand Donald Trump. You may remember that I have a standing offer to the town of Adams. If Adams puts up a Trump statue on Park Street, next to the town’s eight-foot bronze of William McKinley, the original tariff president, I will pay $25,000 toward the Turn Hall’s heat. I meant it then and I mean it now. But think about what that offer depends on. The Turners only need a deal with me if nobody else steps up. If you and a couple of thousand other people give ten dollars, the boiler gets paid for, the hall stays open, and my statue loses its best argument. I have never made it so cheap to beat me. Every ten dollars you give is ten dollars of leverage you take away from me, and I will lose that argument happily.

And for those of you who like Trump, give anyway. If a statue ever does go up on Park Street, he’ll want a town that still has somewhere warm to hold the reception.

I told Ruth the plan over dinner: the Beast, the numbers, the five essays, the free ads, and the part where I invite half my readers to outbid me. She waited until I’d finished explaining the leverage.

“Send them your ten dollars first,” she said. “Then argue about the statue.”

Donate to the Adams Turners HERE.