You can't go home again

This post brought to you by the not-so-long-lost past, as viewed from Carlisle, Pennsylvania.  That's where I grew up.  We were back there for a visit in June and had a lovely time.  But it was a bit shocking to see how many things have changed, just since our previous visit (back in Fall of 2012, so not that long ago).

The first big site to see (or see no longer) was the big factory, Carlisle Tire and Wheel, that's in the block behind my Mom's house.  Here's the intersection one block away from her house:

Yup, that sign says "Factory Street," the street that runs right behind my mom's house. It maybe should now be called "Pile of Rubble Street," but I guess that's not really likely.

I don't actually have any photos of this factory, because it was the kind of thing I didn't really think I would need to have in a photograph.  Friends from my high school worked there sometimes during the summer, and many of my friends' parents worked there, too.  I mean, I figured it would always be there.  It's FACTORY street, after all.  And it's not just this little corner: it's a 9-acre parcel of land.  I didn't realize it was that big back then, but it spans several blocks that I walked every day to school.  Here's a map

So "B" is my Mom's house, and that huge rectangle in the middle is where the factory was (interesting that google maps shows nothing in that lot on the map, but the street view shows the factory there!).  Note: "Smitty's Homebrew Shop" was not there back then.  What was there was a small business run by a guy who fixed and restored player pianos and those crazy music machines that you hear/see when you ride a carrousel.  More on that in another post.

I did manage to find, on googlemaps, this photo of the intersection (the intersection I pictured above):

So that building was there last fall (and whenever it was that the google car passed by) but is just a pile of rubble now.  There's a whole website with updates on the progress of demolition, which you can check out here.  Apparently, there are plans to make a bunch of medical offices here, and also perhaps a senior living community of some sort.  There's a bit more about all that, plus pictures of it pre-demolition, here.

And here are a few more of my post-demolition (or should I say mid-demolition, since it's still not done):

So in addition to tearing down Carlisle Tire and Wheel, a few blocks in the other direction, they're demolishing Masland Carpets, another massive parcel of industrial buildings.  So here's the full map of destruction:

"A" is my mom's house, and you can see, on both sides, there are huge swaths of industrial land that are....well, who knows what they are actually going to become once the rubble is cleared.  There was a massive fire at the Masland site back in May of 2012, but the factory wasn't really in operation anymore.  It had been a big employer since it started in 1919, and I had a few friends who worked there at times.  There's some trouble with the demolition progress, which you can read about here, but apparently they're going to build a hotel and various other businesses on the site.

It's kind of shocking to see these things being torn down.  I mean, I wasn't really attached to them or anything, but they just seemed like they would always be there. Here's where progress was as of June 2013:

So in addition to these industrial sites, one more demolition hit a little closer to home.  This tree, in the backyard of my Mom's house, was the subject of an extensive report that I wrote in the third grade for Mrs. Drachbar (my totally awesome third grade teacher who I also ran into when I was visiting):

But despite its literary significance, the tree has been removed.  Sigh.  See here:

Now you see it (and me, frolicking in its leaves!):

Now you don't:

I should note that although I am happily raking leaves in that picture, at no point did I really enjoy raking leaves from that tree, except for when it was to make a pile to jump in.

 My Mom even got a few shots of the thing after they took it down:

It was huge.  But it was causing problems, including the fact that it was shoving its thirsty roots into the foundation of the house and wreaking some havoc there.  We're sad that it's gone, though.

But perhaps the most disruptive destruction I encountered on this trip was the shocking and outrageous discovery that our very favorite potato chips in the world -- Kay & Ray's -- have been discontinued, forever.  I'm really feeling bad about this one, because I even had a blog post in my head to write about them.  When we were in Carlisle back in the fall, we had bought a bunch of them (as we often do) and brought them back for various taste tests, gifts, and party fun.  I had a whole thing to say about their "dark" chips and whatnot, but now, they are gone.  And I can't even find the photos I had of them.  This one from the internets will have to suffice for now:

Kay & Ray's, RIP.

Well, as long as I'm being all nostalgic, I'll end with a favorite picture that I just scanned from the pile I brought home:

That's me and my brother and my grandparents' dog, Heddy.  Please note that I am rocking a Lehigh warm-up suit, and my brother is rocking the Lehigh hoodie with plaid pants.  There's no date on this photo, but I'd put it at about 1982/3-ish.

That's it for today's walk down Memory Lane, Carlisle.  Stay tuned for more updates from the past.

Adventures of the Amateur Archivist, Episode 3

Jake is off somewhere in Connecticut for the day, doing an insane bike ride. To pass the time during Lucy's nap, I'm here scanning stuff from the archive and filling up the recycling bin with the detritus of my kindergarden through eighth grade years.

I am about to trash in its entirety my "eighth grade journal." This is NOT the eighth grade journal full of dark poetry; rather, this is the journal that my 8th grade teacher required that we keep and actually read. So I think "journal" isn't quite the right word for it. It's filled with entries about what I was reading and what was going on at school and such. What I find amazing about this is that my teacher responded to EVERY entry in there. No matter how stupid it was. I cannot imagine the time it took for her to read all of this -- and not just mine, but everyone in my class! As I read it now, I am mostly embarrassed; I am seriously obsessively focused on every quiz, test, and report, and constantly worried about my grades. There's also an entry revealing my excitement about the haunted house I'm constructing in the attic of our house, and my excitement that I got a gift certificate to the local office supply store (woo hoo! markers!). Other than that, I worry about band (yes, I was in the marching band), talk about my science fair project. On the latter, I am upset because I did well enough in the first one to go on to the next level and "it's going to be a lot of work to collect more rain." Priceless. (the project was on acid rain.)

Anyway, the only page that was really worth scanning was the drawing my Japanese friend, Kimiko made, shown here:

Check out our over-sized 80s shirts. And hair. Nice. I haven't seen most of these people in many years; I wonder where they are now and what they would think if they stumbled upon this.

I know you're all wondering how I can stand the excitement of spending my Saturday sifting through my archives. The real excitement is tomorrow: we're going to see They Might Be Giants! I'm very excited. This will be Lucy's second time....wait, actually, this will be everyone's second time seeing them. As I type this, I am also listening to Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me (fairly typical Saturday activity) and the guests are....the guys from TMBG. They are doing the "Not My Job" quiz, which involves them answering questions about something outside their area of expertise. So since they are "They Might Be Giants," they are being asked questions about Andre the Giant. Brilliant.

So that's today's update. We'll try to get pix of Lucy at the show, but it will be hard to beat this one from the last time.

Adventures of the Amateur Archivist, Episode 2

Yes, readers, dreams really do come true. I wrote this poem in my sixth grade English class. Amongst the archives, I found an impressively bound and illustrated poetry collection (a required element of the course) featuring numerous different types of (required) poems based on various models. This was the "I dreamed..." model.

Also note, I had much better handwriting then. Further evidence regarding dreams and wishes coming true:

Hmmm. That worked out pretty well for me. That appears to be from first or second grade and was in a journal of "I wish..." statements. The next one kinda undercuts my wish fulfillment abilities:

Sorry, Brendan. I was kind of a jerk. Glad the archives could remind us all of that.

Adventures of the Amateur Archivist

We just returned from a visit to see my mom and my brother's family. We had a lovely time. While in Carlisle, I did a bit of excavating in a few boxes in the attic. I was simultaneously horrified and delighted to see the absurd things of mine that had been saved (by both my Mom and by me). We're talking serious documentation. Impressive stuff. Seeing as I don't believe anyone will be writing my biography and needing to visit the Bridget archives, I decided to embark on a serious weeding project.

First, there were boxes of my projects. Years and years of projects, from my early drawings and stories (from first grade) to my forays into various media such as macrame:
(Jake was particularly horrified by the hideousness of this craft)

and cross stitch:
Sadly, other than this digital image, the world will no longer have the physical evidence of my needlepoint abilities. And yes, that is a 4-H project sampler.

So saving my own project is one thing, but I also saved all kinds of other things. If you've ever sent me a letter, I probably still have it. I have a hard time getting rid of such things. In some cases, I have saved the envelops, too. In the eighth grade, I was good friends with a Japanese exchange student who was in my class. She was a most excellent artist, and was always drawing little caricatures of our classmates and teachers. I saved a whole bunch of stuff she drew. Here is a sample:


Yes, she has spelled my name a bit incorrectly. I have chosen this particular artifact to share because it depicts me (in a remarkably flattering and sympathetic manner) sporting my tragic haircut of the eighth grade. Many of you have heard the story of this dreadful, life-altering haircut, and a few of you have seen photos. Even fewer of you saw the actual offending haircut in person (I weep for you). Someday I will tell the sad tale of my haircut (spoiler alert: it involved a perm) and dig up some photographic evidence. For now, this will have to entice to you further reading of my "adventures of an amateur archivist" posts.

So anyway, I thought my saving of envelops and other random -- it has to be said -- crap was a bit, uh, excessive. I felt better when, among my stockpiles, I found these envelops with my mother's handwriting:

That would be two envelops. The larger one says "First Birthday Cards," and was in fact filled with cards that say "You're 1!" Obviously, I am not the one responsible for saving these. But it was fun to see them. In fact, I found a card from my Uncle Hot Dogs. I knew I had a relative who went by the name "Hot Dogs" (he was my great-grandmother's brother) but I somehow didn't realize that he was still around when I was born. Anyway, he wrote something nice in the card and taped a silver dollar into it. Sweet! So that was kind of a fun find. But more amazing is the smaller envelop. In case you can't quite make out what it says, here is the transcription: "Icing off my first Birthday cake." Seriously? Seriously. Inside was a small candle and a very crusty piece of cake decoration. Wow. After formally documenting them for this blog (archive edition), I properly disposed of the icing. Thanks, Mom, for keeping every artifact intact!

Stay tuned for further fun and/or horrifying revelations from the archive.

People who live in glass houses.....

...should be sure to have a lot of band-aids around.

So I was cleaning up the mess of our shattered storm door (see below), which, thankfully, was made of tempered glass. Tempered glass shatterers into tiny little bits instead of big sharp-edged pieces. I should stress that it fractures into LOTS of TINY bits. It's actually kind of pretty.

While sweeping up the sparkly bits, I was transported back to the days one summer when I worked in a glass factory. Yes, dear reader, I worked in a glass factory. Worst. Summer. Job. Ever. I spent a lot of time sweeping up broken glass from the floor, not because I caused the glass to be broken, but because A LOT of glass gets broken by machines & people, and when you're the lowly summer help (and a girl at that) the only thing they really want you to do is sweep the floor.

One of the many miserable things about working in a glass factory is that you have to wear a lot of protective gear. First, heavy steel-toed boots. There are chaps involved. Also arm gaiters and multiple layers of gloves. As a (former) professional in the field, one would think I might have at least put on some garden gloves for the task at hand. But no, I took the term "safety glass" a bit too literally, and now my hand is covered in band-aids.