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, 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.
