Creative Packaging and Paper of Worcester

 

I wish I could tell you how J and I got inside. But truth be told, the memory’s gone fuzzy, like an old film reel playing just a little out of sync. What I do remember is this: the stale scent of time, the eerie silence of abandonment, and the feeling that we’d stepped through a tear in the fabric of the present.

It had been years since I last set foot in Massachusetts. These days, it’s rare you’ll find me wandering anywhere in the upper Northeast. Life has a funny way of circling back, though. Once upon a time, I called this place home, three years in total, though you wouldn’t know it from how little I explored.

The first year, I was carless, and Massachusetts isn’t the kind of state that makes it easy to explore on foot, especially if you’re not in Boston. By the time I bought a car and started to find my rhythm behind the wheel, the clock was already ticking down on my final months there. Funny, the timing of it all. That was 2012, the same year I should have bought some Bitcoin if I’d had more foresight and fewer student loans. But we’ll leave that thought where it belongs: in the ever-growing file of missed opportunities.

Back to Worcester.

Specifically, to the decaying carcass of the former Creative Packaging and Paper Company (Creative Paper and Packaging Co.), a name that sounds more optimistic than it has any right to. Stepping inside the building was like entering the afterlife of cardboard processing. A mashup of shadow and steel, grime and silence. The floor was caked in layers of dust; the air hung heavy with mildew. Pools of stagnant green water filled what were once treatment basins. The entire scene felt like it had been curated by nature herself in the style of an apocalyptic Drake album, equal parts gritty and tragic.

This place once pulsed with the mechanical heartbeat of a massive cardboard processing operation. At least, that's what the records say. As I wandered through, camera in hand, I couldn’t quite pin down where the central machine had once stood. There were hints, open pits, rusted scaffolding, a collapsed roof, a daring metal catwalk, but nothing definitive.

Outside, the chaos continued. Dirt mounds towered beside the shuttered truck docks. Jagged metal panels, long since rusted through, were strewn across the property like forgotten dominoes. The place was a scavenger’s dream, a buffet of scrap metal waiting to be carried off by the brave or the desperate.

But beneath the surface, there was a darker truth. Layers of asbestos still clung to pipe insulation like dead skin. Empty chemical drums and plastic totes sat quietly in the shadows and pools.

The Creative Packaging and Paper Company, a 124,100-square-foot relic of postwar optimism, had once been a hub of economic activity. Now, it sits idle, a silent witness to decades of ambition, missteps, and corporate entropy.

Built in 1955, this sprawling, single-story building marked its territory at the intersection of Clover Street, James Street, and South Ludlow Street, a stone’s throw from where Worcester’s working-class roots intertwined with the vestiges of its industrial past. Initially, a manufacturer of cardboard boxes, the facility transitioned into a cardboard recycling plant by the 1980s. For nearly three decades, it took in the region’s discarded packaging, transforming it back into usable materials, feeding the endless cycle of commerce.

But behind the unassuming brick and sheet metal facade, trouble had long been brewing.

In 2010, the company, then under the stewardship of James E. Hamilton of Florida and Richard “Dick” Perlman of Newton, sold its crown jewel: a 120-foot-long, 300-ton cardboard processing machine. The machine was a marvel, capable of swallowing thousands of pounds of used cardboard and spitting out corrugated medium, the structural heart of new cardboard boxes, rolled up like enormous spools of paper and ready to be shipped to factories in South America. There, it would be transformed into boxes destined to carry bananas, pineapples, and other commodities back to American ports.

The machine’s estimated value? $10 million. Its buyer, Repapers Corp. of Hicksville, New York, was eager to put it back to work, hoping to reinvigorate operations at the site. But it was a transaction mired in complications. Ownership of the property was tangled in a web of limited liability partnerships and real estate deals. Nancy Hamilton and Sheila Perlman, through R&J Realty LLP, controlled the building itself, while their husbands ran the operational side through entities like Creative Paper, Jamesville Inc., and Jamesville Crossing LLP.

And the debts. Oh, the debts. By 2011, Creative Packaging owed approximately $700,000 in taxes, fees, and penalties, a staggering burden that effectively paralyzed any prospect of a seamless ownership transfer. Water and sewer bills alone topped $115,773. On top of that, unresolved legal wrangling over tax liabilities stalled Repapers’ plans. Unfortunately, Repapers Corporation only took possession of the machine. 

Meanwhile, the company’s operational woes compounded. In 2003, Creative Packaging filed for bankruptcy, only to emerge three years later, battered but functional. By 2008, tragedy struck when a worker was crushed to death by machinery. In 2011, Creative Packaging ceased operations, leaving behind a silent complex, idle equipment, and an unresolved future.

When January 2012 brought heavy snowfall, a portion of the roof caved in, rendering the facility even more derelict. The utilities, including essential water supplies for fire suppression, were shut off. No repairs were undertaken. By then, the building was more than just abandoned; it was a hazard.

Even Repapers’ dream of reviving operations faced logistical nightmares. The cost of moving the 300-ton machine, even up the street, was estimated at a prohibitive $1 million. Inside the facility, 250,000 gallons of pulp-laden water languished in tanks, a grim reminder of what could have been and what was left unfinished.

Inside the cavernous, crumbling structure, danger lingered. On February 27, 2013, officials documented the unsecured presence of nine drums of ferric sulfate, alongside containers of kerosene, de-foamer, sodium hydroxide solution, antifreeze, and an assortment of other industrial chemicals. The site, already marred by years of operational neglect, became an environmental hazard.

The City of Worcester, unwilling to let the decay fester, took action. In 2014, the city assumed ownership of the contaminated property through tax foreclosure. Recognizing both the site's liabilities and opportunities, they rezoned it for residential development and solicited proposals for its revitalization. This was more than just a cleanup effort; it was a chance to redefine a critical corridor into the city.

Enter Botany Bay Construction Co., Inc., a private developer with a vision. Selected through a competitive process, the company embraced the challenge of transforming this industrial relic into something the city sorely needed: market-rate housing. Between 2016 and 2019, Botany Bay funded Phase I and II environmental assessments, meticulously cataloging residual contamination left behind even after the EPA Emergency Response team’s initial cleanup. The process was slow, deliberate, and essential.

In March 2020, the city, leveraging its Brownfields Revolving Loan Fund, granted Botany Bay a $1.25 million loan. The funds were earmarked for a massive remediation effort: demolishing the building, stripping it of asbestos and hazardous materials, excavating and removing PCB- and arsenic-contaminated soil. It was, in essence, a resurrection, but one that required tearing down before building anew.

By 2022, the first phase of construction emerged from the ruins: 16 market-rate apartments, modern units ranging from 900 to 1,200 square feet. This wasn’t just housing, it was a statement. The development transformed 175 James Street from an environmental liability into a desirable address, breathing new life into a once-forgotten corridor.

And the vision didn’t stop there. The project’s final phase envisions an additional 74 apartments, bringing the total to 90 units. The revitalized complex, named simply 175 James Street, now anchors a gateway corridor welcoming newcomers to Worcester. Its success has spurred a ripple effect of investments along the corridor: a sleek mixed-use retail complex, a modern self-storage facility, and even aesthetic and accessibility upgrades to Hadwen Park, a nearby urban oasis.

The legacy of Creative Packaging and Paper may have ended in bankruptcy and decay, but its story didn’t stop there. Worcester has reclaimed its narrative. And at 175 James Street, a new chapter has begun.

Source(s):

1. Nicodemus, A. (2012, January 22). Creative Packaging mired in one man's legal woes. Worcester Telegram & Gazette. https://www.telegram.com/story/news/local/north/2012/01/22/creative-packaging-mired-in-one/49757994007/

2. U.S. Environmental Protection Agency. (2025, March). R1 Success Story: Creative Paper and Packaging Co., Worcester, Mass. https://www.epa.gov/brownfields/r1-success-story-creative-paper-and-packaging-co-worcester-mass

3. Business Information Agency. (n.d.). USA major manufacturers. p. 335