Only a few of the old Pocono Honeymoon Hotels are still standing, One of the casualties from the last few years was the Pocono Gardens. Poking around the trashed offices we found a filing cabinet that contained nothing but customer complaints and the responses from the hotel. Suffice it to say, this place was not much worse abandoned than it had been in its last few years of operation. These were shot in 2007. The place was since razed.
Just outside the gritty, urban center of Paterson, in a wooded setting that completely hides the surrounding sprawl, stood the abandoned Preakness Health Center. The center relocated to a new, more modern location and the old building was left for nature to retake. And while the moss, weeds, and trees that spring up in abandoned places had yet to succeed in their siege of the building, the black mold of doom had laid claim to the structure. In the empty halls and quiet rooms of Preakness, it was the mold that reigned supreme.
Today, that mold is homeless, as the bulldozers won where the trees failed and as I type this they are finishing the razing of the building.
The facility was basically one long building. There was a separate maximum security building and another small building that held the morgue. Unfortunately, I never made it to either.
The main building looked like it could have been a school, rather than a long term care facility.
Parking on the street, I watched as various cars passed by while numerous residents came and went and busied themselves with tasks all their own. My out of state plates stood out, and it was clear that we were not native to the neighborhood. We’d have to make a walk past the active school, through a no man’s land of cracked pavement and snow. A flock of Canada geese covered a scraggly looking patch of grass, scavenging for snacks or just lazily relaxing on a cold winter’s day. Occasionally, something would spark their interested and a cacophony honking would erupt. I just hoped they would stay calm and quiet until we were passed and to the unlocked door.
I have been running around abandoned places since I was a little kid, long before I started carrying a camera with me. Most places were small. Old railroad buildings, abandoned farms, an former general store that was near two covered bridges and a quarry with some ancient, rusting steam shovels, and so on. When I started shooting these places I discovered that I was not alone in my abandonment attraction. There was a whole underground community out there doing the same thing. By that point I had begun spending much of my free time running around Bethlehem Steel’s abandoned flagship plant, but other than that I was still mostly hitting smaller stuff. I was surprised to see the lists of factories and hospitals and other large places that people were going to. I was also surprised by how many people would not bother with anything smaller than a former mental hospital. Even the smaller, less flashy places have their stories to tell.
A few years back I was waiting to meet someone to go shoot the abandoned part of an old slate quarry (with permission.) While I waited I discovered this little gem just sitting there with its wide open windows beckoning.
It was a small freight station whose glory days were long past. Its days were obviously numbered, one more piece of our industrial past about to be wiped from the earth. But not until I shot a bunch of photos to commemorate its existence.
Looking east towards the Delaware River, it’s hard to imagine that Philadelphia once had a thriving and vibrant water front. The decline of industry meant a decline in shipping and trade. Immigrants no longer arrive in America by the shipload, and newer forms of transportation mean less work on the water. Then I-95 came through and basically severed the waterfront from the rest of the city.
Today, the Philly waterfront is seeing a renaissance of sorts, as old piers are being converted to parks and trails are being established. Penn’s Landing continues to draw people in, and plans to cover more of the sunken parts of I-95 will turn what is now basically a moat back into usable space. But besides the crumbling remains of piers, there is little left of Philly’s nautical past.
One of the most commonly asked question I receive is “how do you find these places?” There are multiple answers to that. Sometimes it’s through sharing information with other abandonment enthusiasts. Sometimes it’s by seeing stories of closures or impending demolition in the news. Now and then we just go out cruising the streets for boarded up windows and the dank smell of mildew and neglect. Or, as in this case, I spend hours looking at the satellite view on Google Maps.
At the time I had no idea what this place had been. Only that it was very abandoned and easy to walk into. It took a little researching to learn that it was Tippett and Wood, a producer of water tanks and stand pipes. The place dated back to the 1870’s but I had no idea when it closed.
So many of the places I’ve photographed are gone. Places that stood for decades, eliminated in the span of a day or two. I decided it was time to take a look back at the places that will never be seen again, beginning with an old bleach factory that once stood outside of Philadelphia. I’m not even sure of the name of the company, but this decaying structure (which featured an active beer distributor at one end) had that beauty and complexity only found in old industrial sites.
Approaching to the building, we passed an old dam, though whether it was there to support this factory or a long gone mill I don’t know.
Heading east along route 22 towards Easton, one cannot help but notice a large factory building rising up on the right. The buildings size, especially compared to its neighbors automatically draws the eye, but its most striking feature has to be the water tower on its roof, shaped like a paper Dixie Cup. Opened in 1921, it was here that the world famous Dixie Cups were manufactured for most of the twentieth century.
Located in Norwhich, Connecticut, Norwich State Hospital was opened in 1904 under the name Norwich State Hospital for the Insane. It began with one building that housed 95 patients, but demand forced the facility to grow. At its peak, Norwich had more than 30 buildings.
While it was intended to house mentally ill patients and people found not guilty by reason of insanity, it went on to handle addicts, geriatrics and during the 1930’s tuberculosis patients. Norwich’s patient population hit its high point in the mid fifties when it was home to over 3000 patients. It declined over the decades that followed until it was eventually closed in 1996. The last few patients were transferred to another facility and the buildings were left vacant. Currently, the remaining buildings are in the process of being demolished.