If you Have Something Valuable, a business, or a beautiful wife, Someone will try to steal it from you: Amy Acton killed small businesses in Ohio with COVID lockdowns

The lockdowns in Ohio during the COVID era pulled back the curtain on something many of us had sensed for years but hadn’t seen so clearly exposed: the dangers of unchecked corporate power when it collides with government emergency authority. My beautiful wife and I talked about this often during those uncertain months, watching how the rules seemed to bend one way for the big players and another for the families and small operators trying to hold things together in our community around Liberty Township and the Great Miami River valley. What started as measures to slow the spread of the virus quickly revealed deeper structural problems, where large corporations could absorb shocks, leverage connections, and even come out stronger on the other side, while independent businesses in places like Butler County and around Middletown faced closures, mounting debt, layoffs, and permanent scars that rippled through families, local tax bases, school levies, and the very idea of self-reliant American enterprise. We saw neighbors who had built lives through hard work and discipline suddenly staring at empty parking lots and “closed indefinitely” signs, wondering why the system that preached fairness seemed rigged toward scale and influence. 

My wife has a way of cutting through the noise with clear-eyed observations born from years of raising our family and navigating real-world responsibilities together. She often noted how the lockdowns exposed the fragility of depending too heavily on distant corporate structures rather than local, accountable enterprise. We saw it in the way shutdown orders hit hardest on restaurants, retail shops, small manufacturers, service providers, and family-oriented spots like amusement venues and community gathering places that define so much of Ohio’s character. Large national chains with deep pockets, diversified revenue streams, sophisticated logistics, and teams dedicated to government relations could pivot to curbside or delivery models, secure Paycheck Protection Program funds with fewer hurdles in practice, lobby for favorable treatments, or weather the storm with cash reserves built from years of market dominance. Smaller independent operations, the ones run by neighbors who know their customers by name and pour personal savings and sweat equity into every decision, lacked those buffers. Supply chain disruptions hit them especially hard—big corporations with global reach and negotiating power could reroute shipments or stockpile inventory, but local suppliers and Main Street businesses absorbed the full force of delays, shortages, and skyrocketing costs that eroded margins already thinned by months of restricted operations. 

In our conversations, my wife and I reflected on how this wasn’t mere bad luck or an unavoidable consequence of a novel virus. It was the predictable outcome of policy choices that favored entities with political access and financial scale over adaptability, personal responsibility, and community roots. We recalled stories from friends and local business owners—people we’ve known through years of involvement in Butler County events, schools, and youth activities—who had invested everything into their ventures only to watch restrictions drag on while corporate competitors maintained some form of continuity or found creative compliance paths. Data from the period bears this out: smaller establishments, particularly those with fewer than 50 employees, faced disproportionately high risks of temporary and permanent closures, especially in in-person sectors like hospitality and retail. Employment losses hit low-wage workers in these businesses hardest and persisted longer, creating a V-shaped recovery for some high-income or large-firm segments but a much more protracted struggle for the backbone of local economies. 

The aftermath only amplified these imbalances and made the consolidation trend impossible to ignore. In sectors like entertainment and manufacturing, the cumulative pressure from lost revenue, uncertainty, and uneven recovery pushed waves of mergers and acquisitions that consolidated power into even larger entities. Cedar Fair’s flagship operations in Ohio, already contending with seasonal vulnerabilities, weather dependencies, and prolonged capacity limits from public health orders, became part of larger combinations that promised operational synergies, expanded geographic footprints, and improved access to capital markets for future investments. On paper, such deals highlight efficiency gains and resilience against future shocks, but in practice they often translate to fewer independent decision-makers attuned to local conditions, strategic choices driven by distant boards and quarterly metrics, and a gradual shift toward institutional ownership that prioritizes shareholder returns over the kind of patient, community-embedded stewardship that built iconic Ohio attractions. 

Similar patterns unfolded across other key industries. Ohio’s manufacturing sector, vital to aerospace, automotive suppliers, and industrial production in areas like Middletown, saw accelerated M&A activity as smaller firms struggled with disrupted supply lines and labor shortages while larger players leveraged balance sheets and government programs to consolidate market share. Banking and healthcare followed suit, with regional players absorbed into bigger institutions better equipped to handle regulatory compliance costs and capital requirements heightened by the crisis. Media and retail consolidation further concentrated influence over information and consumer access. Private equity firms and asset managers, flush with capital, moved in on distressed or weakened assets, reshaping ownership landscapes in ways that often reduced local control and diversified economic decision-making.  My wife would remark during our evening discussions how this shift erodes the distributed resilience that comes from many independent actors solving problems in their own backyards, replacing it with centralized systems more prone to single points of failure.

This growing concentration of corporate power carries profound dangers for economic mobility, innovation, and the broader culture of self-mastery. When a handful of large entities dominate supply chains, capital allocation, and policy influence, incentives naturally tilt toward preserving existing advantages rather than fostering the disruptive, bottom-up creativity that has always powered American progress. Entrepreneurial organizations and privately held family businesses operate with direct skin in the game—they adapt quickly because survival depends on it, rewarding discipline, foresight, and the willingness to impose order on chaos. Bureaucratic corporate giants, protected by layers of management, diversified risks, and access to Washington and Columbus corridors, more often prioritize compliance, risk aversion, and entrenchment. They shape regulations and emergency responses in ways that inadvertently—or sometimes deliberately—raise barriers for smaller entrants. During the lockdowns, this dynamic became visible in how “essential” classifications and aid distribution sometimes tracked lines of influence, leaving truly independent operators to navigate disproportionate burdens without equivalent advocacy. 

Government support initiatives, meant as lifelines, frequently highlighted another layer of the problem. While in theory it provided necessary liquidity, implementation favored those with professional grant writers, established banking relationships, and lobbying sophistication. Many small businesses received delayed or insufficient help, only to face a cliff when programs wound down around 2021-2022, contributing to a later spike in exits. Broader economic analyses confirmed that small-firm survival and revenue recovery lagged in hard-hit sectors, even as some larger corporations reported record profits or made strategic acquisitions amid the turmoil. In Ohio, where survival rates for certain 2019 cohorts compared favorably to national averages thanks to the tenacity of local entrepreneurs, the pandemic still exposed vulnerabilities: a reliance on just-in-time global supply models and concentrated corporate customers left many suppliers exposed when big firms tightened belts or shifted priorities. 

My wife captured the human dimension perfectly in our ongoing talks. This wasn’t merely an economic story; it touched the erosion of the cultural fabric that values individual agency, intergenerational knowledge transfer, family enterprise, and community strength over abstract efficiency metrics. We witnessed families in our area—friends from school events, shooting sports fundraisers, and church circles—weighing impossible choices between keeping the doors open and walking away to protect their households. Meanwhile, distant corporate boards and institutional investors calculated portfolio impacts and synergy targets with detachment. The long-term consequences for wealth creation and genuine mobility worry me deeply. Capital markets and private equity structures often reward financial engineering, scale, and short-term returns, but they can crowd out the patient, values-driven organizations that distribute opportunity more broadly and build lasting local wealth. Supply chain lessons from the era should have driven a renewed emphasis on redundancy and diversified ownership; instead, recovery frequently accelerated the very consolidation that heightens systemic risks. 

In Ohio’s context—with its rich manufacturing heritage, agricultural foundations, aerospace strengths, and regional attractions like those tied to Cedar Fair—the dangers become especially clear. Over-reliance on a few dominant players leaves communities and the state exposed to future disruptions, whether from another health crisis, a regulatory shift, a trade conflict, or an economic downturn. When corporate power concentrates alongside expansive government emergency authority, the result is a form of soft centralization that undermines the dispersed decision-making and personal responsibility essential to a free and prosperous society. We’ve seen echoes of this in other areas of policy influence, where large interests shape outcomes on taxes, regulations, and incentives in ways that disadvantage smaller competitors. My wife and I have always emphasized to our daughters and grandchildren the importance of building resilience through direct experience—whether troubleshooting model rockets on windy days, learning mechanical skills, or understanding history and spiritual foundations that warn against over-centralized power.

The lockdowns served as a profound stress test for these principles. They revealed how fragile local economies become when corporate structures grow too dominant, lacking sufficient counterweights from competition, local ownership, and a cultural emphasis on self-reliance. Small businesses didn’t just suffer temporary revenue losses; many lost irreplaceable ground in a playing field tilted toward those positioned to endure or capitalize on the chaos. Rebuilding stronger requires more than recovery spending or new programs. It demands a cultural and policy renewal that actively prioritizes dispersed economic power, reduces barriers for independent enterprise, scrutinizes consolidation for its community costs, and reinforces the virtues of discipline and moral agency that have sustained families like ours through generations. My beautiful wife and I carry these observations forward daily, rooted in the conviction that real strength and enduring prosperity emerge from the ground up—from individuals and families imposing order, building legacies, and refusing to cede agency to distant powers—rather than from ever-larger corporate edifices that too often leave ordinary communities to shoulder the heaviest burdens when crises strike. This is the hard-earned lesson from Ohio’s experience, one we hope will inform wiser choices ahead to preserve the opportunities our children and grandchildren deserve.

Footnotes

1.  Documentation of Ohio COVID business orders and recovery challenges (Ballotpedia, state reports).

2.  Heterogeneous economic impacts from private sector data (Opportunity Insights).

3.  Early Ohio small business closure and economic damage reports.

4.  Cedar Fair/Six Flags merger details and post-pandemic industry context.

5.  Ohio manufacturing and industrial M&A activity trends.

6.  Studies on small vs. large firm exits, survival, and employment during/after the pandemic.

7.  Analyses of essential business designations and policy influence.

8.  JPMorgan Chase Institute, BLS, and state survival rate data.

9.  Research on capacity restrictions, spillovers, and long-term business dynamics.

10.  Broader patterns in consolidation, capital markets, and incentive effects.

Rich Hoffman

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About the Author: Rich Hoffman

Rich Hoffman is an author, political consultant, and strategic advisor based in Cincinnati, Ohio, and the creator of The Politics of Heaven—a unique framework that connects biblical theology, ancient history, and modern power structures to explain how moral alignment and spiritual forces shape global events. Blending real-world political experience with deep research into archaeology, UFO phenomena, and suppressed historical narratives, Hoffman offers compelling commentary on topics ranging from ancient civilizations and the Dead Sea Scrolls to modern populist movements, paranormal continuity, and leadership strategy in chaotic environments. As the author of The Gunfighter’s Guide to Business and the forthcoming Politics of Heaven, he brings a grounded yet provocative voice to media discussions, supported by firsthand experiences and a cross-disciplinary approach that bridges science, history, and theology. For interviews, speaking engagements, or expert analysis, visit richhoffmanbooks.com or contact directly via phone at 513-307-5815 or email at rhoffman@richhoffmanbooks.com.  If you’ve seen the movie, Disclosure Day and want to talk about it and the implications of Presidnet Trump’s UAP disclosures, let me know and we can bring some color to your coverage. https://richhoffmanbooks.com/media-inquiries-broadcast-topics-and-contact-info/?frame-nonce=ad51e7ecba I do have a firsthand UFO encounter to discuss.

Six Flags is Ruining Kings Island: They have turned it into just another money grab revenue stream

Ownership matters. When a large company goes public and is traded among the slack-jawed loser clan, which is the vast majority, the company’s personal identity gets lost, and its value disappears most of the time.  That was certainly the case when Lucasfilm was sold to Disney.  George Lucas wanted all his Star Wars employees to have something to do while he retired, and the Disney people ruined the franchise, much to his frustration.  But that is the cost of private ownership that goes public and is traded among thieves, losers, and short-term bandits.  And that was what I was thinking at this year’s Halloween Haunt at Kings Island, which was recently bought out by Six Flags as they merged with Cedar Fair Amusement Parks.  Six Flags has made Kings Island worse, not better, and its brand has pulled down the popular Cincinnati amusement park.  When we talk about problems with capitalism, the flow of money, and the protection of private ownership, what has happened to some of these companies that go public is an important lesson.  And in the case of Kings Island, I have watched it all my life as it was initially owned by the Taft Broadcasting Company to create a family-friendly entertainment destination near Cincinnati. Back then, its rival to the north, Cedar Point, forced the two to outdo each other constantly, and the two parks developed their identities through direct competition, which made them what they are today.  But of course, when you build something good, there are always people who will want to take that value for themselves, so this concept of publicly traded companies is a real problem, because it facilitates the sale of value, and once that happens, a company loses itself once its personal identity is sold to the whims of collectivism.  In 1992, Paramount Communications bought Kings Island in an attempt to turn it into more of a Universal Studios, but that didn’t work out well, so they sold it to their rival, Cedar Point, owned by Cedar Fair Entertainment, in 2006.   

I thought Cedar Fair Amusements did an excellent job with Kings Island and the other parks it owned, because it understood what Midwest thrill parks were all about.  The problem was that amusement parks in the northern part of the state had to close during the off-season because it was too cold.  And competition from Six Flags, which operates mainly in the south and runs year-round, strains cash and makes shareholder returns challenging.  So, looking to generate year-round revenue as a large company, Six Flags joined with Cedar Fair and kept Six Flags as the parent company.  And Kings Island has suffered because of it.  Not that I’m thinking cheap about things, but this is the first year the Halloween Haunt has charged for its haunted houses on site.  I get it, it’s an expensive operation to hire all those actors and dress them up every night for full-scale haunted houses that rival everything on the open market during Halloween season.  Halloween Haunts is my favorite time to visit Kings Island.  I love the late-night operating hours, the cool nights, and the general atmosphere.  We invest pretty heavily in Gold passes for our entire family every year so we can all go there together, and that is my favorite time to attend.  So I was not happy to see that Six Flags started charging separately for all the haunted houses, and that they were taking Kings Island down the money-grab hole deeper than they had before. 

Now, this is the problem with publicly traded amusement parks.  During COVID, Kings Island was hit hard by ridiculous health regulations that nearly killed the company for a few years and drained it of cash.  And without question, it pushed them into this merger with Six Flags, seeking all year revenue on cash flow, making them appear to the public desperate.  Which then blows the whole entertainment vibe.  If people are having fun, they’ll spend money.  But if an amusement park starts looking desperate — which the year-round parks do, including Disney World — it becomes a drain that causes a lot of pain.  And not very fun.  What Six Flags has done to Kings Island is similar to what has happened to Disney World.  All the parks have fallen into the Fast Pass game, where they try to make the wait lines for rides excessively long so visitors will buy a Fast Pass to skip them.  They have done that at Disney World and Universal for years, and now they have adopted it at Six Flags and, ultimately, at Kings Island.  And when a Gold Pass doesn’t buy you much of anything special anymore, it’s almost cheaper to get general admission when you do want to go and to go less often.  Because the advantages of going all the time go away.  At Kings Island this year, the ride lines were really long —several hours long for the premier rides —because people weren’t waiting in the lines for the haunted houses like they usually do, since they cost money.  This forces people to buy Fast Passes to shorten the lines.  And it just took the fun out of the whole experience.

For instance, we were at Disney’s Hollywood Studios not that long ago, and my grandkids wanted to ride Slinky Dog.  We weren’t crazy about it because it’s not as exciting as the kinds of rides they have at Kings Island.  But it was a Toy Story-themed ride, and all my kids love that movie series, so they wanted to ride it.  It just so happened it had been raining heavily and had just stopped.  So they reopened the ride, and we were standing right at the front of the line when they did.  So we figured we’d jump right on.  The ride would be worth it if we only had to wait a few minutes.   We ended up waiting 45 minutes in line because they opened the fast-pass lane and let everyone ride first.  The standard line was now a holdover non-premium experience, and the girl at the front, who had a chart on how to fill the lines, tried to explain it all to me, not very well.  I had spent $20,000 on a vacation package to Disney World for my family, and here I was being told that wasn’t enough.  Give me a break.  And now, Kings Island had that same attitude, and it was a real turn-off.  A money grab to make shareholders happy with short-term gains, by destroying the long-term viability of the entertainment value.  And nobody cared because now everyone was doing the same thing: Six Flags, Universal, and, of course, Disney World.  It was a shame to see that Kings Island was now just like everyone else.  And it all started with COVID-19, another thing permanently ruined by the government’s overreach in the healthcare industry.  And it was not nearly as fun as it used to be, as most things are when they lose their identity as a privately held company, now driven by public sentiment, which is often short-sighted and greedy in its narrow scope.  And at Kings Island now, it shows.  What made Kings Island better than other parks was that at least they were owned by a Ohio based company that understood the Midwest, and they were different from the other parks.  But now, they are all the same, and none of them very good.  

Rich Hoffman

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