There is a certain comfort to be found collecting discarded mementos from others lives, solid objects from a life experienced and lived long ago, a person or a building, the story told in items found snooping around the foundations of decaying structures, junk yards, and little out of the way antique shops that are far from the beaten path, more patron-less museums than a viable business intent on turning a profit.
Both my apartment and computer are cluttered with these treasures, each walk seeing my own collection grow as I gather about me examples of a simpler time, a time when every day items had a certain elegance about them, an elegance easily seen in the pictures I snap along the way, in the items I bring home, clean, wash and repair before putting them on display.
Both my apartment and computer are cluttered with these treasures, each walk seeing my own collection grow as I gather about me examples of a simpler time, a time when every day items had a certain elegance about them, an elegance easily seen in the pictures I snap along the way, in the items I bring home, clean, wash and repair before putting them on display.
A Radiant Lamp bulb found in its original box laying in the corner of a long ago abandoned decrepit building speaks of a day when America made things, produced the items of a thriving nation that led the world in every way...those days where we manufactured things seems all but gone, these relics all that remains of times when towns and cities thrived, worked and played. A search for the Radiant Lamp company of Newark NJ turns up nothing on the company itself, the 500 Watt bulb in box having an EBay value of around $24. Suppose I should take pleasure in knowing my finds have a certain value to others, that other collectors are doing their part to preserve these reminders of our past.
The picture to the right was taken in the small village of Woodbridge which is about two miles from here. There is still some activity going on in the building, yet it has a sense of neglect hanging on it, rust; peeling stucco upon its face speak of better days when vast qantities of laundry moved in and out of the Sullivan Steam Laundry each and every day. A Google search tells us that Minnie Burns, former bookkeeper for the laundry passed away June 15, 2001 in Florida, though no hint of when she retired, moved to the warmer climate enjoyed in North Miami Beach is found in the brief mention of her own life.
Can almost sense spirits looking out as I look in, ghosts of long dead inhabitants inviting me to come sit awhile. Do you ever wonder if houses past their prime, abandoned, left to recede back into Mother Earth's waiting arms cry in their lonesomeness, left to face their death, no person to witness their final passing? Perhaps the only proof they ever existed a digital photograph on a blog which, like the house will one day find itself all alone.
Those without a place to lay their heads, people without a place in which to live are called homeless...are homes without inhabitants called people-less, and if not perhaps they should be, more pity felt for their plight if they but had a label for their cause? Help the people-less, please someone come and move inside.
Sometimes as I stand alone, watching the sun filtering down through the broken spines of these old places, it is hard to imagine them without a soul, and at those times I grieve for them, mark their imminent death with a little prayer hoping it helps them on their way to wherever it is that old houses go to when they collapse back into the ground, buried under leaves as nature takes back what was hers.
Wonder what will become of my own collection when I am gone, worry about this odd assortment of trinkets and toys finding themselves without a home...at those times I sit alone and cry, then; realizing the silliness of my own emotions, I get out a dust rag, a can of wax, some paper towels, Windex and scurry about my little home letting each and every object know that they are loved.
Once was told that a clean home is the sign of a sick mind, and perhaps there is some truth in that saying. Others have said, "It's just stuff" and I am not sure I can agree with that sentiment...if things, objects were just stuff, they would not tell such grand stories without speaking a word, would not bring out such strong emotions as boney fingers caress their surfaces remembering times from so long ago.
Can almost sense spirits looking out as I look in, ghosts of long dead inhabitants inviting me to come sit awhile. Do you ever wonder if houses past their prime, abandoned, left to recede back into Mother Earth's waiting arms cry in their lonesomeness, left to face their death, no person to witness their final passing? Perhaps the only proof they ever existed a digital photograph on a blog which, like the house will one day find itself all alone.Those without a place to lay their heads, people without a place in which to live are called homeless...are homes without inhabitants called people-less, and if not perhaps they should be, more pity felt for their plight if they but had a label for their cause? Help the people-less, please someone come and move inside.
Sometimes as I stand alone, watching the sun filtering down through the broken spines of these old places, it is hard to imagine them without a soul, and at those times I grieve for them, mark their imminent death with a little prayer hoping it helps them on their way to wherever it is that old houses go to when they collapse back into the ground, buried under leaves as nature takes back what was hers.Wonder what will become of my own collection when I am gone, worry about this odd assortment of trinkets and toys finding themselves without a home...at those times I sit alone and cry, then; realizing the silliness of my own emotions, I get out a dust rag, a can of wax, some paper towels, Windex and scurry about my little home letting each and every object know that they are loved.
Once was told that a clean home is the sign of a sick mind, and perhaps there is some truth in that saying. Others have said, "It's just stuff" and I am not sure I can agree with that sentiment...if things, objects were just stuff, they would not tell such grand stories without speaking a word, would not bring out such strong emotions as boney fingers caress their surfaces remembering times from so long ago.
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