This was the first house I photographed with a digital camera. Both the house and the camera are gone now. I bought a new camera, but the house was irreplaceable. To me the old houses become stoic individuals, one of a kind, the longer they remain abandoned. Please don’t vandalize, salvage, or take souvenirs. (I partially exempt garden plants because they are living things which can bloom again).
Being a little land-locked, it’s not possible to go beach combing in Long Eaton and urban combing is probably the next best thing. Here are lots of bits and pieces I recovered from my garden whilst digging the mud and also a few odds and ends from my walks with the dog.
The lost art of found objects. (It sounds great as a phrase but I don’t think beachcombing (or urban combing) has ever been lost).
This was in the parking lot area of a small town restaurant. I thought it was smart. I’m a non-smoker (partly due to allergies and asthma). So the smell of cigarettes is not pleasing to me but I especially dislike the smell of old cigarettes and the sight of piles of cigarette butts at the entrances of places like restaurants.
This year we have been finding cigarette butts flicked into the garden in front of our house too. It is pretty thoughtless to flick cigarette pollution in someone’s manicured lawn, carefully maintained and treasured garden space.
This house is only boarded on the lower level. One of the upper windows is smashed, both panes of the glass. Other than that it is just neglected looking. Too bad it is likely to be pulled down so something else can go up. It is a busy intersection, on #89. But already covered by enough restaurants I would think.
One thing I noticed and wished I could have dug up were some very scarlet and very deep neon pink sweet williams. There wasn’t much else there remaining of the garden. Tons of weeds and only one groundhog (or some other rodent-ish creature) hole in the yard.
Rural Ruins – by Laura (me).
Suspense and beauty in torn brick, shattered glass, mouldering wood and old craftsmanship, weathering, falling into ruin.
Relinquished by those who made them and neglected by those who could reuse them. Now just an old house in the way in a world of strangers.
Wooden sheds and barns grey with age lean against the Earth waiting to fall into the dirt they grew out of.
Garden perennials struggle in the lawn poked by groundhog holes, roof shingles, glass, bricks and wildflowers.
History and life forgotten in each dusty, spidered window pane, each strongly holding brick and each door with crackled paint.
Mystery shines at the partially open doorway. A touch of things that once were. A whisper of things inside with rotting floors and peeling paint.
Rain, sun, wind and snow the house stands, holding itself up, majestic, keeping it’s secrets. A home to only the wild creatures now.
Just in time as the new school year starts, here are pictures I took of the demolition of my Mother’s old school in Hamilton, Ontario. It was called Hillcrest when she attended but we noticed a clean spot left by old letters which said Hilldale. So it changed it’s name at some point. I brought her a brick from her old school. I think she’s going to put it out in the flower garden here, somewhere.