Hello LJ and happy 2020!
I'm going to TRY to be more active this year with posting. Anyway, here's a new one.
Hello LJ, hope all is well. It seems every time I log in the home page here is different in some way, which is good I suppose, as perhaps its an effort on LJ's part to attract more users. Here's the latest location from our (my partner and my) website. I plan to always share our entries here, because LJ really did help us hone our skills, both in writing and in photography/video. The community was (and still is?) a far different place than the toxic mire which most social media has become. Glad it's still kickin' and hopefully a renascence is somewhere in the future. All that said, on to the post —
Long ago this region was founded upon brass, an industrious calling which found a great many factories sprouting along the banks of Mad River, replacing the tall marsh grasses and wildflower as it winds through the city of Waterbury, Connecticut. The backbone of the city remains to this day, though it has long been broken, now little more than weathering brick-red protrusions which stand above the shallow skyline.
From atop the bluff which the abandoned Holy Land theme park sits you can truly see the scope of how industrious Waterbury was during its prime, an era which can be more-or-less pinpointed to have began when the city was contracted to supply the United States military with the buttons needed for their uniforms during the War of 1812. Quickly the city became known as the brass capital of the country, a title which it held for well over a century, until the eventual collapse of the city's brass industry, which was all but a memory to most by the late 1970's.
We visited several sites on this chilly spring day, but focused primarily on the home of the once-famous Waterbury Button Company from the 1840's until its eventual purchase and re-branding to Waterbury Companies Inc. in 1945. The company still exists today, though in a markedly different form, with its headquarters across town from its former home on the edge of Mad River.
What greeted us within the hulls of the old factories was not unexpected - Severely decayed wood hung on loose supports which dangled from equally decayed brick walls. The steel skeletons and fireproof stairwells of the buildings were, by and large, the sole elements keeping these structures from utter collapse. All around were signs of vagrants, heaps of trash, and graffiti several generations thick. Not much remains of the industrious purpose which once called these streets home, or the American-made pride which emanated from it. In its stead we find literal mounds of trash and disused needles. The symbolism is obvious, and thus we see no point in dwelling upon it here.
Room after room, corridor after corridor, we experienced the same scene - Destruction, both man-made and natural, dotted with a few faded reminders of what once was. A repetitive and sobering pulse of ruin. However, in one of the larger structure we came upon an unexpected sight. At the bottom of a stairwell, just barely visible in the murky shadows, we spotted the shoulders of a torso protruding above the debris. Luckily this day we were joined by both Lerch and Vacant New Jersey, long-time colleagues of ours, who we have joined in numerous outings through the years. Together we stepped outside into the daylight to gather our thoughts, and prepare ourselves for the very real possibility that we were about to uncover a corpse in the derelict warehouse building. We decided that the best course of action was to immediately return and check to see if the person was alive, and if they were, see if they required aid. Walking back up the dark hallway we hoped against reality that the body would somehow have vanished during our short hiatus, but it remained. Long ago the stairs had been removed from this stairwell, and the landing which the torso now lay in was a drop of several feet onto a questionable pile of rubble and broken glass. We approached the edge of the cement flooring and yelled down, preying for a response. Silence. We yelled again, this time informing them that we were not police, but if they were indeed hurt, we would have to call it in. This garnered a reply, mumbled as it were. Slowly the body before us stood up and dusted themselves off.
We helped him climb out of the hole, while he explained that he thought we were security and had hid away as to not be discovered. He then hugged us, and thanked us for being concerned enough to make sure he was safe. After a few minutes of small talk he said he was taking our chance meeting as a sign to move on and stay away from the property for good. His words seemed genuine, and we hope he did manage to find himself in a better way since our meeting.
Lost places, like this shuttered resort, stand as unique objects of fascination for many reasons. Oftentimes it's because these locations have come to exist in a state contrary to their constructed roles. In this case, we may find initial captivation in the absolute silence where thousands once gathered with their families. Beyond that though, there is something arguably more profound which ties all these places together. A common thread which entwines every abandoned structure and property – Time. Human history, all history really, crests and recedes like the waterline along the shore. Popular culture rises and falls, profitability rises and falls, communities rise and fall, nations rise and fall. The waters of time endlessly rise and fall. And after the tide has retreated these places remain in the wake, like cast-off shells upon a beach.
Some time after our arrival a large storm began to stir at the outskirts of the valley. It came on slowly at first, as the sunny day gradually greyed over. Eventually though, the storm gathered force and with it a purple-hued darkness which stood as a wall along the edge of the valley. There it remained though, held at bay by strong updrafts which perpetually carry through the basin. Frustrated it loudly thundered at the edge of the ridges around us, forever tumbling upon itself without gaining ground. At times it looked not unlike a great obsidian wave breaking upon a bluff. Occasionally its cries shook the walls of the old resort, but even though the outlying mountains were ringed with near black, above us was never more than a haze of light grey. The air became cool, as the warmth was sucked away by the storm-front, but we remained dry at the center of the turmoil around us. As it tends to be with storms of this force though, the events were short lived. In little time the thundering from the mountains fell silent, and the grey of the sky dissolved back to blue. What just moments ago was all-encompassing, now may as well have never existed at all. Much like the decaying resort we had taken shelter within.
The original buildings on these grounds opened to the public in 1903, with much of what is currently standing dating from the 1950s and '60s, including the distinctive tower building which rises high above all else. By the time the resort was shuttered it had served the region for over a century. Considering the long lifespan of the old resort makes the grounds today all the more sombre. Generations of families vacationed here. Parents bringing their children, just as their own parents had brought them. There is no doubt that the silence which now embraces this property is saturated with memories of those who knew it in far happier times than these.
The original buildings on these grounds opened to the public in 1903, with much of what is currently standing dating from the 1950s and '60s, including the distinctive tower building which rises high above all else. By the time the resort was shuttered it had served the region for over a century. Considering the long lifespan of the old resort makes the grounds today all the more sombre. Generations of families vacationed here. Parents bringing their children, just as their own parents had brought them. There is no doubt that the silence which now embraces this property is saturated with memories of those who knew it in far happier times than these.
Some places cry out their stories, their histories, to those who visit. You may have felt this for yourself when visiting a site of some significance. Places steeped with history tend to exude it in a way that isn't easily explained. It's as if simply laying your hand upon the cold walls of an old building helps you to better understand it. Perhaps it's simply human instinct to reach out and touch something you wish to learn more about. A tactile sense somehow linked to our minds, left over from eons past. A sensibility which we have collectively evolved beyond, but endures nonetheless. That voice was absent here.
Throughout all these halls, quarters, and common spaces, no grand proclamations of the past were to be found. All that remained were the low moans of a tired building, pitch shadows, and a deep-seated rot. Numerous items remained from the heydays of the resort, but coming upon those remnants felt less like glimpsing cherished mementos, and more like one was rummaging through the possessions of a deceased person. As we toured the grounds it seemed as if this is a place was not only utterly given up on, but that it had also given up.
In the end though, it's reasonable to think that this place never had a voice to begin with, not a singular one anyway. This resort lived as a hub for others to create their own stories and memories within its walls, and by that accord the last of its life went from this property the moment the final guest checked out nearly a decade ago.
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