For some, the work began early.

One man told me he was thirteen or fourteen when he started. Too young to be hired, so he lied about his age to get in.

Others remembered moments that stayed with them — not as stories told later, but as things they saw themselves.

A machine. A hand. A moment that didn’t leave.

The factory was part of a larger effort during the Second World War, producing munitions at scale.

But what remains in these conversations isn’t only what was made.

It’s how it felt to be there.

Today, Building 12 — the Small Arms Inspection Building — remains.

Designated under the Ontario Heritage Act, it has been transformed into a space for arts and cultural programming. A place for exhibitions, events, and community gathering.

The structure is still there.

The work is not.

What remains are the people who still remember it.

These conversations were shaped through direct outreach — a call put out through community networks, leading to individuals who had been there.

Each interview carried its own pace.

Some moved quickly, recalling details with clarity. Others took longer, circling back through memory.

What stayed consistent was the sense that this wasn’t distant history.

It was lived.

This work reflects a different kind of storytelling.

Less about identity, and more about memory. About labour. About time.

These stories were developed through long-form interviews and shaped into both documentary and narrative formats.