Tuesday, March 11, 2025

New Year's Day in Concrete City

There is something about the new year that makes you want to do something different. Some people make resolutions, some sleep off the hangover, something I haven’t had to do for almost nine years now… but this year, I decided to spend the first morning of the year walking with loved ones through the remains of a forgotten company town. Echoes of a New Year past…

Concrete City, 2025


 

Concrete City, near Nanticoke, Pennsylvania, is not much of a city anymore. There are anywhere from sixteen to twenty-two (depending on who you ask) identical, crumbling concrete houses standing in a quiet patch of woods on top of a rocky, muddy hilltop off of a county highway. Built in 1911 by the Delaware, Lackawanna and Western Railroad’s coal division (that entity sure does show up a lot in my creative work and in my travels through this weird, weary world), it was meant to be the future of worker housing: entirely sturdy, fireproof, and modern. Each home had indoor plumbing and electricity, a rare luxury for miners at the time. But the reality didn’t match the vision. The thick concrete walls made the homes freezing in the winter and sweltering in the summer, and poor drainage led to constant issues with flooding. A waking nightmare. 

By 1924, just thirteen years after it was built, Concrete City was abandoned. When the Glen Alden Coal Company took over property, they deemed the settlement too expensive to maintain. Demolishing it proved nearly impossible. A large amount of dynamite was used in an attempt to tear down just one house, and it barely left a dent. Rather than waste more resources, the company simply walked away, leaving Concrete City to slowly decay. There’s a lesson to be learned there. Sometimes the only winning move is not to play. 

Walking through it on New Year’s morning, it felt frozen in time. It was also freezing us to the core, as it was cold as anything out and raining. The graffiti-covered walls tell their own stories, coated over by decades of explorers, taggers, and those who just wanted to leave something behind. Trees and vines creep through the cracks, making it feel like the forest is slowly swallowing the place whole. In the center of the site is a large, water-filled pit, a perfect (if murky) mirror of the overcast sky. They say that it used to be a central water feature, a fountain. 

There are no confirmed records of any deaths occurring in Concrete City while it was occupied, but there’s one persistent legend. People say a young boy drowned in that fountain’s pool during its heyday. Or he fell and gravely injured his head. Some say they’ve heard soft splashing or children’s laughter when no one else is around. During our visit, towards the end, we stood in the center of that field, under the hail, flurries, and frigid rain, taking in a panoramic view of the still-standing buildings. There was some discomfort there, a palpable silence, but that may have just been the elements. 

For both our spiritual selves and to leave an unobstructive mark of our visit, an invisible landmark just for us, we held a small circle of intent. In our traditional visit to the mega-Walmart on our way in (somehow, unfortunately, a staple of our visits to the mountains), we had bought simple white candles in addition to our wares. (The ladies also blew a few dollars on lottery tickets, but I’ll just consider that a gift to the State of Pennsylvania.) For the new year, we stood in a circle, thought of our intentions, goals, and dreams for this fresh start, and lit our candles, taking in the moment. In the living room of one of the gutted concrete homes, we had found a pentagram spray-painted on the floor. A common sight at places like this. We saw it fitting to reappropriate it for this practice. Plus, the location helped to partially obstruct the swirling winds outside. After a few moments in silence, one such gust tore through the building and snuffed each of our candles out simultaneously. My buddy looked up and said, “Well, I guess that’s that.” I suppose (or rather, choose to believe that) that was nature’s way of acknowledging us. 

Concrete City was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1998, but no preservation efforts have been made. The buildings, though cracked and worn, remain standing—ironically, the very thing that doomed the project in the first place has made it nearly indestructible and still holding on, over a hundred years later.

By the time we were leaving, we were really feeling the cold and precipitation. It would be a lot more palatable to visit in the spring, however, I’m thinking that the humidity and insects are likely a very present nuisance. Take it from me. 

Concrete City may be abandoned, but it doesn’t feel empty. None of these places ever do. It still holds onto its history, its myths, and the traces of everyone who has ever passed through. There’s an old Russian belief, one that I’ve oft-referenced before, that what you do on New Year’s Day is an indication of how you are going to spend the rest of the year. 

Can’t really complain about that possibility, really. Not much else beats loved ones and abandoned history. 

 Note: after revising and editing this draft, I realized something serendipitous. The last time that we had urban explored on New Year’s Day ended up being the year that I got sober. Hopefully honoring the Russian tradition is as productive and bountiful as it was the last time.