When I was younger my dad used to take my brother and I hiking through the oak-laden woods of Western New York. “If you look closely, you might be able to find some arrowheads,” he’d say. Very dad-like, but that was enough to send us scourging for hours, because I used to believe— and still do— that he was right. Those natives weren’t so removed from my present. Surely I’d be able to find some of their leftovers! But that’s also the blessing and the burden of being of the historical mindset: the past is always almost close enough to touch; almost clear enough to see. I can’t tell you how many childhood moments I spent waiting for an Iroquois to tap me on the shoulder. 

Have you ever heard of Caneadea, New York? If you have, we should talk, because I’m sure you have some sort of connection to the place, and that our ancestors probably rubbed elbows at a social gathering. It’s about 1.5 hours from Buffalo and perhaps about 2 from Rochester. The path to get there— rt. 19 to rt. 49— has that same sort of off-the-grid, backroads of Geneseo feel, but this one is different: this is the path of my roots, ancestrally speaking. 

Caneadea Cemetery isn’t fully abandoned, but the nature of its abandonment is a unique type that I haven’t encountered anywhere else. I’ve been coming at least once a summer with my dad for as far back as I can remember. It was there in that cemetery where I waited for the natives of Western New York to emerge from the brush and offer me an arrowhead as a sign of alliance. In between the graves of my ancestors I envisioned a lifetime older than I was, not just because of my historically-bent mind, but because I had never witnessed another person visit the cemetery while we were there, let alone discover any new grave sites. The place seems lonely; stagnant. An outhouse-sized caretaker’s quarters that had been in disrepair since prior to my arrival on the grounds, with layers of spiderwebs forming a cotton blanket over the outsides of the windows, was nowhere in site upon my arrival this past summer. While I questioned whether or not anyone had even opened its doors in decades, it was solidified proof that whatever oversight that took place since the spiders began weaving their webs failed to be enough to warrant that of a caretaker. When he walked away from his last day of work, it seemed he took his job away with him. 

This all isn’t to say that individuals don’t look out at all for the cemetery. New flags make their way to the fallen heroes, mostly from a regiment that fought in the Civil War, including a great, great, great grandfather of mine, and every so often it seems as though the lawn is cut. Whether this care is taken by someone from the town, however, is unclear, but I have my reasons for believing it’s not coming from the cemetery itself.

Many of the stones are fractured in a curious way— the tops laid carefully at the base, their writing weathered and slightly overgrown. In fact, some of the stones have been so enveloped that it’s difficult to tell where dirt and stone divide in certain areas. Some sites are completely covered. My great grandmother’s grave, Pearl, is so close to the edge of a small mountain that a good erosive winter might give us cause for concern come Spring. Sadly, my grandparents don’t have headstones (burials the result of cross-country sibling travel and the continual plan-makings that just push all plans to the future, including plans for headstones), which makes me wonder just who else might be without one, and without any loved ones to acknowledge them above ground. But I have to say, it’s beautiful. Even when you notice a stone you hadn’t seen before, or a freshly placed vase you could have sworn wasn’t there moments ago when you walked by, it’s still eerily comforting. Then again, it is there I picture the ongoings of my people. A Civil War Soldier, children taken too soon, and my Grandpa Fred— a celebrated boy scout who saved someone from drowning, earning his fifteen minutes of Erie County fame— were they ever here?

The berries and fresh water that runs into Rushford Lake remind me that life will still beat on. Long after the last arrowhead has weathered and last flag planted, the land’s hand will play a role in the area’s unique abandonment. And like the caretaker, when I’m standing in the midst of it all, I can’t help but wonder if it would be possible— if I stood there long enough— to watch it all slowly start to happen. 

Perhaps next July. Be on the look-out for the follow-up, avid readers. 

Just about two hours north of New York City, there’s a super cool pocket of upstate New York where three adjoining towns meet: Woodstock, Palenville, and Saugerties. Whether it’s leftover hippie culture, yuppie culture, hikes, or the static state of an upstate town, each spot has something for everyone that’s slightly unique to each of the individual areas. But what each has in common, of course, are the ghoulish abandoned relics that stare back at you from the roadside. 

There are plenty of abandonment posts I could make from any one of the towns, but don’t get the wrong impression: it’s not because they’re decaying or decrepit. While the towns have an air of Hudson Valley abandonment that wreak of The Great Gatsby’s days gone by, life still continues in each one— quite fashionably, actually. But just beyond the curve a road (even the most chic road), through the leaves of an elderly maple, could lie an overgrown hotel, banquet hall, or boarding house (more to come on those at a different time) depending on which turn you take. At the sight of these establishments, if you didn’t get a full tour of the towns, one might assume that people just sort of fell off the map. 

Then, there are other types of abandoned places scattered along the way. I chose to showcase the diner from Palenville pictured above due to its retro-type exterior. A silver bullet type of hipster haven where the urbane could flock and enjoy their bacon (justifying its lack of nutrients because of the grass-fed chickens that plopped the eggs out next to it), it’s abandoned state seemed a matter of location. I wondered whether or not, if just a few miles down the road, it could have easily appeared on some foodies vintage eats blog. Wrong place, wrong time, my teal diner friend.

Weeds were literally growing out of the windows, and all of the furniture was just left in a pile, with each piece hastily stacked on top of another. The padlock that attached the linked chain was— based on what I could see— the only security measure taken aside from the the regular door and window locks. As I stood on the overgrown, concrete steps, I felt as if the owner finally decided to throw in the towel after what was a laborious decision-making process. Peering through the windows I could see the diner stools, cash register, and utensils all intact. I could picture middle-aged man or woman, slightly overweight, leaning over their registrar receipts with a paper hat drooping toward their eyebrows… the thought of shutting down weighing on them. Very Edward Hopper like. 

Maybe it was supposed to be temporary. Maybe they’ve contemplated going back, cleaning up, and either reopening or selling the supplies at auction. The inner Brooklyn hipster within me fantasized about contacting the owner and cutting profits after the goods went for hundreds at the Brooklyn Flea. The Historian wondered whether it was the closing of the Coldspring Hotel (post to come later) down the road, the migration back to the city, or just the inability to hold on to country homes or property in general that allowed people to pass the relic on by.

I feel like farm-to-table would have annoyed the owner, anyway. I’d like to think they walked away half-grumbling, half-proud, and nostalgic about the success the diner saw under their ownership… in “different” times. 

The above pictures are a mere sampling of photos I took a few months back of the Hudson Opera House, located in Hudson, New York. Just a couple of hours north of New York City, I surprisingly stumbled upon it amidst a weekend getaway. Had I known it was there, however, I would have scheduled a trip entirely devoted to creepily tiptoeing around the Opera House itself, rather than frequenting the artful shops, acting as if I had enough money to buy artisan-crafted pillows made from potato sacks (impressive, sure, just not $200 type of impressive).

At first glance, the house seems to function solely as an art gallery on the first floor. But as one enters, it’s obvious that it serves many other functions: choral rehearsal space, a lecture hall, and children’s classes, amongst many more. Fellow lovers of abandoned lecture spaces could imagine the rush of excitement that came over me when I learned of the unused opera house space on the second floor. During my undergraduate years at SUNY Geneseo I received an opportunity to tour the original Opera House above an old appliance store in town, and have been intrigued ever since.  ”You’re more than welcome to look around,” a board member said, “but doing so is at your own risk.” Risk? I feverishly thought to myself. Music to the ears of abandonment enthusiasts. See, in the mind of an abandonment entusiast, risk = neglected or not quite preserved, which also heightens one’s chances of finding super cool stuff that others haven’t gotten their hands on yet (my childhood self is still hoping to stumble upon a time capsule from the 1920s). 

Needless to say, I went back an additional day to continue to explore the dilapidated dressing rooms, the walls of the attic and its worn political posters, and abandoned pianos. As if I didn’t think I was lucky enough to stumble upon the relic, I was extra grateful when I found out that full revitalization of the house is scheduled to begin this coming summer of 2012. While I was excited to learn of the plans, I was also admittedly giddy at the thought of sitting upon the same stage rafters as the likes of Mark Twain and Susan B. Anthony. Because they were there. Along with touring minstrel shows… but, hey, if we judge history with the same moral compass we use today, we’d really have hardly anything to celebrate. 

http://www.hudsonoperahouse.org/

Every time I venture to my dad’s old neighborhood on the East Side of Buffalo, NY, I come across abandoned relics from his childhood. He tells me stories of the corner butcher who would give him free slices of turkey, playing football for Bennet High School at All High Stadium, and of this place: Central Park Plaza. I imagine families in the 1950s doing their grocery shopping, men getting their shoes shined, and I can hear the clacking of ladies’ heels as they run down to the neighborhood plaza after church for last minute errands. Recently relinquished from the hands of a Brooklyn owner, the plaza has sat abandoned for decades. While its future is currently being debated by community board members, residents are envisioning a revitalization that would bring hope to a neighborhood that could really use some.