Sanders Meanders

The Learning

A friend of mine once said that he liked the fall because it reminded him of going back to high school. I thought about that for days after, and even now I still remember it. It serves as a reminder to me that I don’t ever want to be so caught up in the past that I wander through my present and future.

I understand the feeling he felt, though. Change is difficult, even when we want it. As human beings, we are so geared toward holding on to what we have that it is hard to let go of something, even when it’s already gone. Some have worse trouble than others and are selfish in all things; some have the ability to let go in certain areas and free themselves.

One of the things I love about photography is that it is always the present. But the irony, of course, is that once this moment of the present is captured, immediately it melts into the past. This is why I like to take pictures of the same thing several times: the present changes, making the subject darker, lighter, unbelievably cheerful or dreary without hope. And some things are just varying degrees of one or the other.

One location seems to be just the dark and the dreary. Three times I’ve gotten shots at the Lehigh Structural Steel in Allentown; the first, on the hottest day of the year in 2009:

The second shot was taken on a bright, clear day last year; and the third, taken today, in the deep cold of the winter. The sign faces north, so the sun is almost always behind it. It sits parallel to the Union Street bridge over the Lehigh River, which was where I took the second shot:

It turned out almost cheery and somewhat interesting, but I was never terrifically happy with it. The first set I always kind of liked, too, but I was just learning my camera and quite frankly the pictures were very grainy. Today, since I was in the area, and since it was cloudy, I decided to try again.

First problem: the angles are odd. Lehigh Structural Steel is located in an odd sub-basement below the bridge, jam-packed with houses and one-way streets that pass for two-way streets. The first shot I took from an odd angle, from the lot next to the old plant. The bridge is the most direct shot, but in the best of days it’s not a great walk.

Under the bridge is an extension of Tilghman Street, and an odd collection of houses sit there, directly underneath the Union Street bridge. I saw a spot to park at the end of the street, near the railroad tracks, and fit my car in it. From here, it was a short walk along the tracks to the shot I wanted. I decided to get the tracks involved, as well:

Wide shot of Lehigh Structural Steel, Allentown, PA

And this seems to have captured its present. The way it should look, warts and all. The other shots have their merit, and they certainly captured the present as of that moment, but these shots seem to capture the spirit of the area more than anything.

This is what I’m learning, and what I’m continuing to learn: the past never gets better and never gets worse. Only the present and the future change, and they always do, so the best thing I can to do is try to change these things rather than something that might have happened in my past. It’s a hard lesson, and one that I continue to learn.

Reinvention

Stop me if I’ve said this before, but it had great impact: a few months ago I was listening to “Fresh Air” on NPR, my favorite return-home radio program. The interview was with a college professor and social media expert. She was talking about how her students, in this age of social media, were not able to reinvent themselves in college as prior generations had, because Facebook and Twitter and Instagram followed them around, keeping them anchored to their past.

Whereas I’m sure that this college professor’s students felt that pressure to remain in their past, the ones who make the hard decision to shed the past and move on are going to be all the better for it. Bear in mind this comes from the man who earlier this year said to himself, “Huh. It’s been 25 years since I graduated high school. Wonder if there was a reunion. Oh, well.”

It sounds strange coming from someone who takes photographs of old signs, but there is an impossible danger to living in the past. I have an appreciation of the past, which is not the same thing. Ever had a friend who wished he was still in high school? Genuinely frightening, right? I appreciate my high school years for what they were, but put a bullet in my head if I had to go back and relive them.

Things are changing and changing rapidly in my life, so in honor of that, I decided to throw together some of my pictures of newer signs with an appreciation of the past:

The Inside Scoop neon sign, Coopersburg, PA The Inside Scoop, Coopersburg, PA

This sign, to me, speaks volumes about what a truly good sign is all about. Honestly, this sign strikes such a mood that they could serve you ice cream in flavors like Dead Camel and Frozen Wart and you’d still go in a second time because of the atmosphere. This was one of the very first sign pictures I took and is one of the main reasons why I still do this.

Neato Burrito neon sign, Harrisburg, PA Neato Burrito, Harrisburg, PA

Serendipity. This summer I was in downtown Harrisburg trying to find the Pep’s Grill “Bar” sign. I found it all right, but what I wasn’t finding was parking. Eventually, I ended up on a cross street, right underneath the Neato Burrito sign. I was pretty sure I was parked illegally, so I ran over to Pep’s Grill and got a few shots of it. It was one of the hottest days of the year. I was sweating pretty good. There were two Mennonite girls in light blue dresses and bonnets and sneakers on the corner, handing out tracts. They handed me one as I went back to my car. I put it on the passenger’s side seat and was about to put my camera away when I said to myself, don’t be ridiculous, take the shot. So I snapped off a few of the Neato Burrito sign. Love the style, love the way the background shows up in this. No regrets, other than I had already eaten lunch.

The Capitol Restaurant neon sign, Bloomsburg, PA The Capitol Restaurant, Bloomsburg, PA

For years, The Capitol Theatre in Bloomsburg was something other than a theatre, although the marquee stayed. It was student housing when I first took a shot of it in 2011. This year, they decided to make a restaurant out of it. As you can see, where the marquee was, they put up an LCD panel, and they eventually put one on the other side. I’m so glad they restored it, that you know what, I don’t even care that they’ve pretty much ruined it.

Again, things are changing, but I’m not really sure at this moment how they will go. One thing’s for sure, though: I’m not looking back.

The End of Limbo

For the last few months I’ve been trying to concoct a post on signs in the Central Susquehanna Valley in Pennsylvania, where I spend a good deal of my time. Due to economic reasons, four days and three nights I spend working in the Lewisburg area. Away from my wife. It’s been like that for nearly three years. It’s been difficult to write about, because to be quite honest, I’d rather talk about travel and signs and inspiring things instead of whining about my own problems.

And then I found out this week that I’m going to be able to do work from home at the start of the year. So now that I’ve reached the end, it seems this the perfect time to bring out some of the signs I’ve taken shots of during the last few years.

Henry Voelcker, Danville, PA

This beauty is down a side street in my wife’s hometown. I stumbled upon it one day in 2011 and got a few shots of it, but being the pronounced goof that I am, wanted to get a shot of it lit. Every time I was in Danville about dusk, I would drop down the side street and see if it was lit. And if it wasn’t, I’d drive off and come back a little later. No deal for the longest time. Finally, I decided it was high time that I forget about it happening naturally and stepped inside one day. The guy working there was very nice and turned the sign on for me. As you can see, only the “Henry” lit up. But a small victory none-the-less.

Bea Butler’s, Danville, PA

I got this one the same day that I took the picture at Henry Voelcker. This one is right on Main Street in Danville, and it firmly falls into the category of hiding in plain sight. I had been down this way several times and never saw this one. In truth, I never found it until I did some research of previous sign pictures in Danville. Bea Butler’s was a dress shop, although I’ve never been able to find out any real information about it, when it closed, or much of anything.

Brooks, Sunbury, PA

This was also taken in 2011, along Market Street in Sunbury. Brooks appeared to be a clothing store in Sunbury, and again, the internet is mum on the subject. I had an early appointment in Shamokin Dam the morning I took this, and the morning sun was fantastic, shining on all these panels. A few weeks ago I drove past to see that this whole facade had been painted a dull tan in readiness for a new business. It made me feel good that the old place was at last being used for something, but I was sorry to see this wonderful cranberry-and-turquoise go away.

The Pike Drive-In, Montgomery, PA

Eventually, when you live in limbo as I have, you try and find things to do, so I made little mini-excursions after work. One day, I just followed US 15 up to Williamsport just to see what I could see, and I ran across this fantastic drive-in, right at the beginning of the season. I didn’t get a chance to see a movie there, because my schedule never coincided with when they were open. This is one of the drive-ins that is in danger of closing because of the digital conversion. Check it out at projectdrivein.com and see how you can help.

Sunset Rink, Shamokin Dam, PA

This sign has gone through the wringer in my time here. It’s always been a grand old 50s-60s relic, and I love the shot of the ice cream cone at the top left, but it was in pretty sad shape when I first saw it in 2011. It further deteriorated in a storm, and for the first quarter of this year, the while panel was broken and the sign read ” set ink.” Fortunately, they restored it shortly thereafter, and I got this shot this summer.

There are, of course, plenty more, which I’ll be sharing shortly. The fact is, I do have a soft spot in my heart for this area, and since we have family in the area, I’m not completely leaving it behind. Thanks so much, Susquehanna Valley. It was difficult, but I’m thankful for the time I spent here.

Tales of Philly Sales

During this last week I had a great conversation with someone I met on Facebook who lives in the Charlotte area but grew up, as I did, in Binghamton, New York. We got to reminiscing about some things that are no longer in the area, such as the signs at Walter’s Shoe Store and Elgin Rugs, and stuff every good Binghamtonian should know, such as where to get the best spiedie.

Asking yourself, what’s a spiedie? The native food of Binghamton. The nectar of the gods. That which I must eat every few months or so or I start to twitch. More here…

So in amongst the conversation was a mention of Philadelphia Sales Company. Alas, I have no pictures of this place, since it closed before I ever owned a camera, but it’s an important component of why I do what I do. While I tell you all about it, I’ll scatter in some pictures of other Binghamton landmark signs I did manage to get in time.

Greyhound Station (restored), Binghamton, NY

Philadelphia Sales Company, or Philly Sales as they were more commonly known, was the Wal-Mart before there was Wal-Mart. They had everything for less and you didn’t question its origins. Four floors of random stuff from ball gloves to fabrics. The building it was housed in was not in the best neighborhood, and when you entered from the parking lot, you were greeted by the view of the back side of some ancient tenements which had somehow managed to stay upright despite seventy or more brutal winters.

The original entrance was essentially through a narrow shed at the front and right of the building. During the winter this became a dirty, sloshy, claustrophobic mess, but once inside, you were rewarded with the smell of popcorn. Philly Sales had an old popcorn popper and they kept it in the entrance, and if you grew up in the are in the 60s and 70s, this is a grand memory. To tell the truth, I can only recall getting the popcorn once or twice, but the aroma was overwhelming, cheering, warming on a chilly day.

Red Oak Diner, Binghamton, NY

The building itself was a marvel. What it housed prior to Philly Sales is unknown to me, but it certainly never looked like it was meant to be a department store. There were steps in odd places. Some sections were cavernous, others were laughingly small. The first floor, past the popcorn machine and all the candy a child could ever want, was a section of glassware. Midway along this area of glassware was a sign telling you to “Watch Your Head.” And they meant it. At this point, the builders, tired of high ceilings, decided to lower the ceiling to child level. I’m guessing it was five and a half feet from the ground, because my mother could enter without bending, but at a certain age, I could not. It was a proud day the moment my hair touched that ceiling. A rite of passage. Some people have bar mitzvahs, I had this.

Competition Kitchens, Binghamton, NY

To get upstairs, you had several options. Staircases seemed to appear out of nowhere. I swear there was one that went from the fourth floor to the third that had been a secret passageway. But each staircase had something special: an indoor neon sign with an arrow, lighting the way. “THIS WAY TO THE THIRD FLOOR.” These signs were relics even in the seventies. I’d like to think somebody has them somewhere.

There was neon sign outdoors as well, on Clinton Street, which was technically its address, although hardly anyone ever entered from that side.

Ellis Brothers Furniture, Binghamton, NY

My family has a friend who worked there for a period of time. She said that there was definitely a sitcom that could have been based on that place, and that her boss could have been played by Don Knotts. The crazy tales she told only added to the place’s slapstick allure. We went frequently.

And then Wal-Mart burst forth from the South, rendering it irrelevant. At the time, we welcomed the colossus in, somehow never dreaming that this old wacky place had created such fond memories. For instance, Phily Sales had a bin of white tube socks. Fifteen feet by nine. You could jump in it if you needed to hide from danger. No one ever needed that many white tube socks, but they had them in case you did.

It’s odd to think of a place I know so well no longer exists. The whole building is gone now, and a new one in its place. It makes me sad that I don’t have a picture of it, but maybe that makes the memory stronger.

Anybody else have tales of Philly Sales? I’d love to hear them.

Addendum: Recently I found this picture from the Clinton Street entrance. I’m not sure who took it or when it was taken, but it looks like it was taken after it closed.

Mission Accomplished

The sun was at our backs, slowly disappearing behind the comfort of Virginia hilltops. We hadn’t said anything to each other in about a half hour. Somehow to talk would slow us down. Laura driving, me in the passenger’s side, messing with my camera gear. We had twenty-five miles to go, and the darkness was already creeping in. I had given up and had my hopes raised three or four times in the past ten minutes. Nagging doubt. I was going to miss out once again.

A week earlier: the opposite direction, another time of day. Morning, 7am. I’m driving, clutching the steering wheel. The sun was reluctant to remove itself from the same Virginia hills. It had been raining since we had left in a crazy fit of vacation-fueled excitement at two in the morning. But now, for the moment, the rain had subsided and there was a chance. Clouds had swallowed the light of the sun and the skies were still practically dark as night.

Three miles from Staunton, Virginia. My goal was Wright’s Dairy-Rite and the Stonewall Jackson Hotel, two terrific landmarks in the same basic neighborhood. Three years before, when my sister-in-law got married and they were to drive down this same highway to get to their eventual home in Texas, I suggested Wright’s as a possible stopping place. Car-hop service. Drive-In. Grand old sign. How road food used to be. I had never been there, but they stopped and enjoyed. Next year, on our way to Florida, I hoped to stop, but time and circumstance had kept me away. Ditto the following year.

I got off I-81 at US 250, despite the darkness. After all, how many times had the darkness been an illusion, and once I had reached my goal, the clouds had parted and the sun was shining bright? This is an act of faith.

By the time I had gotten to the end of the off-ramp, my hopes were already scuttled against the rocks. Rain. Not just rain. A curtain, a wall of rain. Impenetrable. No chance for a good shot. I made it to the next stoplight before I admitted the futility. Wright’s would have to wait another year.

Back to a week later: going through South Carolina, plans to stop at Bar-B-Q King in Charlotte. Laura driving. She asks me if I’m thinking about Staunton, could we actually get Staunton this time? I shake my head. I was trying not to think about it. I’ve missed out too many times to think about it. But the math works out in my head: Staunton by 5:30. Neon magic hour. Perfection, better than it would have been at 7am. I try not to think about it.

Bar-B-Q King. I saw a bit on them on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives and knew we’d be hitting Charlotte about lunchtime, so this was ideal. I’m driving and we find it pretty easily. I pull in and everything seems familiar, and I think: my aunt used to live in Charlotte, over 30 years ago, had she taken me here? The place is awfully familiar, too familiar. I figure I’ll ask her later. In the meantime, I’ll have some great old Carolina Barbecue and take a picture or 46 of the sign.

Bar-B-Q King neon sign, Charlotte, NC

We drive on. The taste is still in my mouth. That will have to be a regular stop, I say, and Laura agrees. The gradual climb into Virginia begins. I’m thinking about Staunton again and I don’t want to. We made good time in Charlotte and my original estimate of 5:30 has been pushed up to 5. Maybe too early. It’s going to happen, I think. Clear skies all the way.

The turn off of I-77 to I-81 and Laura’s driving again. I’m distracted from Staunton, thinking we may get there too early. I’m thinking of something else: the previous year I had spotted an abandoned motel nestled off the side of 81. Then it was too late in the day to do it justice, and it came upon us so quickly there was no way to get off the exit in time, but I had bookmarked it in my mind. And just as I think of it, I see it up ahead. It’s early enough that the sun is on it. Laura asks me if I want to go for it and by now I’ve already grabbed my camera from the back seat. “Yesss,” I say, and she pulls off.

To get in position for a shot of this is easier said than done. Although it looked like it was going to be right by the side of the road, we had to go down a hill to get to the entrance and climb back up. The sign was located at the end of a steep, steep road. Laura was nervous. The area looks untouched for a number of years. We make the climb and see that the Motel had an old restaurant attached to it, and that it has a sign, too. I sneak a shot or two before moving on.

And then, our hearts stop.Far in the distance, to the side of the abandoned lot and across from the Motel’s sign, is a pick-up truck. Flanked by another vehicle. A couple of guys milling about suspiciously. Out in the middle of Nowhere, Virginia. Could be innocent but it doesn’t look it. And I’m sitting in a parked car wielding a camera. Laura’s sense of panic hits considerably before mine. But she’s right. I don’t know what was going on but I didn’t think it was a bright idea to find out what it was. We head back down the hill.

Laura’s emotions are churning. She thinks I’m mad at her because we miss out on the Motel sign, but I’m not. I’m still thinking about Staunton but I don’t say anything. I assure her that our safety is more important. I remind her of the end of L.A. Confidential, and although Dudley Smith had it coming I wasn’t about to end up like him. She’s calmed down somewhat. But just below the surface we’re thinking the same thing: that stop may have cost us Staunton. Again.

We carry on in silence. Enter Salem. Leave Salem. Past Roanoke, which hangs us up a little bit but not near as bad as it has in the past. The sun diminishes. Two lanes through this section of I-81 and we’re riding in the fast lane. Laura breaks the silence with many words of scorn directed at the driver of whichever car or truck that gets in front of us. By now I’ve given into my thoughts and I’m looking over my shoulder, watching the sun, and Laura senses it. Still a long way, and I say what I’m thinking: “Not a chance.”

Laura has none of that. She chokes the life out of the wheel and pushes all would-be-obstacle drivers back into the slow lane with the power of her thoughts and her speech. Twenty miles away, ten. The last vestiges of daylight still hanging on. The quest is still alive and I don’t know how, but I believe it can still happen. She asks me what she needs to do and I give her the directions. We’re on route 11 in a moment and the traffic is thick. The stoplights seem to take forever and Laura is still talking ill of the local drivers.

And then we turn the corner, and a flash of neon hits my eye. We’ve done it. A scrap of light still left in the sky. Laura pulls over and I literally bolt out of the car before the power of the sun completely dies.

Wright's Dairy-Rite neon sign lit up, Staunton, VA Nothing worth doing is easy. And now that I have this shot, it serves as a reminder of what hard work and perseverance means. To anyone else this would mean nothing and perhaps rightfully so, but we know, our eyes are open, and all we have to do is think about a chilly night in Virginia to think of what can be accomplished.

And a bonus: we were just going to head out of town, but I spotted the Stonewall Jackson Hotel in my rear view and I had to turn the car around. It was perhaps too late, and I had to crank the ISO on the K-5 to get the shot I wanted, but when in Staunton, and while the neon is glowing, I figured why not?

The Stonewall Jackson Hotel neon sign lit up, Staunton, VA

A Bit of Old Florida

When my grandparents moved to Florida in the mid-80s, it was inevitable that we would go down to visit them. At the time they had a trailer they had used to take a trip around the United States, and it was just lying around in the parking lot of their housing complex gathering dust. Either my parents put two and two together, or they had two and two together for them, and in the spring of 1986, I went on my first trip to Florida, spending a week in a camper on Flagler Beach.

To date, this is the worst trip I have ever been on.

Day 2: while splashing about in the ocean, a riptide catches my father and sends him out to sea. Only by the grace of God, a past life as a lifeguard, and the ability to wait until the pull of the current subsided before trying to swim back to shore kept him from drowning.

Day 3: I got sick. Scratch that. I became Sickness itself. The collected solids and fluids I had gathered in the previous 15 years decided to vacate my body via any available opening. This continued for a majority of the week. And then we went home.

We never stayed in a trailer again as a family. Not that I have any quarrels with Flagler Beach, which was simply an innocent bystander to my teenage angst, but I have never been back there since.

But the one thing I got to see in my first trip to Florida was the remains of Old Florida. The Non-Condo Version. The Mom-and-Pop-Beach-Motel Version. The Orange-Stand-Off-Every-Exit-of-95 Version. It barely exists on the coast anymore. You have to go searching for it inland.

So, in this most recent trip to Florida, we crossed the Halifax and went searching for Old Florida’s bones. My first stop was an oversight from our 2012 trip: the Hawaii Motel in Daytona. I had gotten good shots of it during the daytime, but I completely missed out on catching it lit at night. We got there a little before sundown, but it was getting quite dark and I figured they would light it up. I was wrong.

We parked along the side. Laura prodded me to go in and ask them to turn it on, so I did. A young Indian man was working that night and when I told him what I was after, he gave me a knowing smile. I was pretty sure I hadn’t been the first to ask.

The hula skirt is not animated as it once was, but oh, well…

A couple days later, when the weather was supposed to be iffy at the beach and better inland, we went to see a location I had been scouting out in DeLand, along US 17. There was the Boulevard Motel, the kind Old Florida used to make with a sign to match, and just down the road, the Won Lee Chinese Restaurant, with another classic old sign in front. The sun burned the clouds as we drove, and by the time we got there, the Boulevard was bathed in natural light:

The Boulevard Motel neon sign, DeLand, Florida Here’s your postcard.

Color TV? Awesome. Hot water heat? Well, I’ll take your word for it. I also love the old Amex sign dangling off the side, which was a first sighting for me. No doubt the old place is a little shaggy around the edges, but you can see what it once was.

The next one on my tour was just a few doors down. The Won Lee had at one point been Jack’s Boulevard Diner back in the day, but when it closed, the sign was fortunately kept for the Chinese restaurant when it was re-opened in the late 70s. Thanks to @sunsetmeridian on Instagram for her information on this one:

Won Lee Chinese Restaurant classic neon sign, DeLand, FL I was happy with that much, but US 17 in DeLand had another surprise in store. As we got going south, just to see what we could see before heading back to the beach, Laura’s finger began to point and she began to make noises like a child who knows the answer to the question the teacher just asked. I spotted it, too. I also spotted a problem. The sign, for B&O Cleaners (B&O? Unintentional humor strikes again.), was neon, with peeling paint, and enough character for three signs. That wasn’t the problem. The sun, which was coming directly from the south, wasn’t the problem. The telephone pole that had been placed seven inches away from the sign? Problem.

I got out of the car and pondered. But there was no way around it. I shrugged and took my shots.

B&O Cleaners neon sign, DeLand, FL Hey! Down in front!

All in all, a highly successful trip. We even got back in to the hotel later that afternoon and got in the ocean. The ocean was marvelous. No one got carried out to sea. No one lost bodily waste in unusual quantities. Life was good. And we’ll be going back again.

Our Deck Down Under, Daytona Beach Shores, FL

Before we left, we went to Our Deck Down Under in Daytona Beach Shores. For the second time in a week. If you’ve never been, I suggest you go at least once. The restaurant is located underneath the A1A bridge back to the mainland. There’s seating outside on the deck. Dolphins and pelicans are frequent visitors. And the sun goes down in gorgeous hues. I couldn’t resist bringing my camera to gather some of this in. This is my idea of dining paradise:

Sunset at Our Deck Down Under, Daytona Beach Shores, FL

What Is to Come

Daytona Beach It was windy on the beach at Daytona during the middle of the week. Not nasty enough to pick up the sand and hurl it in your face, but enough to question why you’re walking on the beach in the first place. Laura and I had walked for a good distance, past several mostly-empty hotels until we got to Treasure Island, a behemoth of a hotel that closed down after a hurricane several years ago and never re-opened, making it a Mecca for birds and graffiti artists alike. As were looking this over, seeing the half-collapsed Tiki hut, the cracked concrete, and the sagging metal fence surrounding the area, intended to keep the general public out, I said, “Do you want to turn around and go back?”

She said, “Let’s keep going. Forever.”

And that’s when I lost it.

Daytona Beach SUV It’s always a long trip down from Pennsylvania, but always well worth it. Even our worst trip, which included blasting in Roanoke, accident delays in Charlotte and Jacksonville, and an incident where several cars were broken into at our hotel in Columbia (but not ours), has been a blessing. I love the road. I love seeing everything along the way. Sure, a plane can get you there faster, but you miss so much.

Hard year. My job is so distant from home and spending three nights apart is painful, no matter how many phone calls and texts you send to the one you love. The first year defined how much we missed each other, the second confirmed it, and third year looms ahead. You start lamenting the loss of a night spent searching through a grocery store, or cleaning the bathroom, or whatever normal people do on a normal Tuesday. This isn’t what it should be, what it could be.

And right there on the beach I lost it. And wondered why there was a good reason why we shouldn’t keep walking. Forever.

Daytona has many things, but classic signs are not one of them. The blasts of heat and the sudden rush of wind and rain sees to that. In a way, I find that comforting when we go down, because I can truly take the time to relax. Every day, the newspaper showed up at our hotel room, and I read a great deal of it, even the local stories that pretty much have no bearing on my life. I forget how much I enjoy the newspaper. Life has passed the newspaper by in favor of bigger and better things, and some places it’s disappeared completely. But I love a box score. An editorial cartoon. Even the obits are interesting, especially in Florida.

Then there was a story on Sunday in the Local section. A big one, with a big picture to match. And wouldn’t you know, but one of the key players in this picture was the sign at The Desert Inn, a 60s beaut I had yet to get. Three men standing in front of it smiling. The new owners. The paper said the old place was run down. The new owners were going to sink more than 10 million dollars into it. And try to get a national chain to buy in. And change the name.

So no more sign.

I was just in time.

Desert Inn Front Sign, Daytona Beach We got there just before sundown. I had no idea that the signs would be lit or not, but sure enough they were. I had never examined the place before, but it’s massive, far bigger than most. Three signs, one in the front, one back and in front of a main parking lot, and one great big one at the top, which was not lit. Whatever was next door had been blown down in a storm and was just an empty spot. We slid into a parking lot along the side, vacant as the vacant lot next door, and considered what it must take to rebuild something this large and neglected. I almost couldn’t blame them for renaming the place and getting rid of the old signs, as beautiful as they may be.

Desert Inn Side Sign, Daytona Beach I snapped away for a good while, as I usually do, and in the midst of this, as I thought I had gotten all I could get, the sun blasted out of the clouds in all its golden magic-hour glory. And I had a window of opportunity to get the massive top sign. I sprinted back to the car and fixed my 75-300 lens on to the Pentax K5 and hot-footed back to a better position.

Desert Inn Top Sign, Daytona Beach

A good send-off, I thought.

Laura could see the look on my face when I got back to the car. And she was happy because I was happy. But all of these things serve as a reminder that there is always something greater, far more important. We continue, despite hardships and stresses and failures. In time, things come to us, opportunities, and we take them, because we were meant to. Maybe things change around us and things get in our way, but we walk on together, because this is truly good, hand in hand.

Forever.

Gone Fishin’ (for Signs)

I suppose the mark of whether you are a good employee is the amount of work that piles upon you the last week before you go on vacation. Whether this is true or not, I don’t know, but since I’ve been vertically and horizontally swamped this week, I choose to believe that my work will be missed. Which brings me sideways to my point: next week I’ll be on vacation.

My family has been vacationing in Daytona Beach since the mid-80s, when my grandparents moved to nearby Ormond Beach. The last two years have been spent in New Smyrna Beach (please read as New Sa-myrna Beach, to sound like a native). And last year, we ran into one of the drearier Novembers Florida has had in recent memory, so there was little beach time and much more fishing for signs.

During a brief amount of sun I managed to get to Shangri-La. Or at least, the motel version. This was a real old “motor court” style of place, with the individual cabins a la It Happened One Night. While I was snapping away merrily, a woman came out of one of the cabins. Turns out she’s one of the owners, and she let me know a little bit about the place. The sign has been out of order since a hurricane hit the area a few years ago. It might work, but when they tried it, there was some electricity arcing going on, so they felt it best to leave it off. The cabins, of course, are a rarity, and apparently the local architectural college has students come by on field trips.

Hall Machine, New Smyrna Beach, Florida

Just down US 1 is this beauty, which is essentially a bunch of walls of fading sign-painterly goodness. I ran into the owners this time as well, but they were a little more skittish. Apparently, they’ve been getting flak from the local powers-that-be for not cleaning up their appearance. Quite honestly, it’s some character of old Florida that I can’t get enough of, and told them so. They were pleased with that and let me take shots to my heart’s content.

Back in Daytona. Love this place, and I hit it just right, during a fleeting moment of sunshine. I think I ran into the owner again, but this one didn’t talk. He just stared at me at an angle and generally looked like he might bark at me if he were a German Shepherd. When neon hula girls are at stake, no amount of stinkeye is enough to keep me away.

There’s very little of old Florida signs left, unfortunately, so I’ve pretty much tapped that resource out. Unless of course, you know of any places I need to go (hint, hint). If so, please comment on this post.

Ugly/Beautiful

What is it that draws us to abandoned and broken places? Is it simply just because they are different from the everyday, or do they cause interesting questions in the mind of the viewer, or is there something within us that feels a kinship with its lonely and broken appearance. Perhaps all three.

Izzy’s Allentown, PA (post-fire, now torn down)

The Orange Car, Allentown, PA

It wasn’t a good weekend last weekend. My computer of six years took a sudden and irrepairable nosedive on Saturday. On Sunday, my car started hesitating while shifting gears and my check engine light came on. The fun continued yesterday, which started with me in the dealership, went on to work, where everyone else was also having a bad day, and finished off with me dropping my B&H catalog in the toilet (don’t ask). My brother-in-law posted something on Facebook about having a horrible day as well.

You never wish a bad day on anyone, but it was nice to know that I wasn’t alone.

11 and 15 Fuel Stop 11-15 Fuel Stop, Liverpool, PA

A few months ago, I stopped by an old gas station along US 11 and 15. It’s been closed for as long as I’ve been driving along that stretch of road, but its hand-painted sign along the top has always intrigued me. I finally had the time this trip through so I pulled off, and for the first time, I took a good long look at it. Pretty desolate outside, but inside was a scene from one of those abandoned places urban spelunkers all flock to:

Inside 11-15 Fuel Stop, Liverpool, PA I began to think of this place yesterday, when I was going through my set of circumstantial turmoil. I thought of every dark, depressing place a person can come up with. And it just didn’t ring true. Turmoil hits us all, sooner or later, as does depression. But they’re not the same thing. Turmoil happens, conflicts happen, but if you handle them the right way, you learn and grow. Depression is its own thing, and turmoil just prolongs it.

Depression is the above picture, a spreading disease. Turmoil can look rough, but it’s alive, active, still hopeful for a chance. And turmoil, once conquered, becomes one of your greatest allies.

I look at these pictures of the 11-15 Fuel Stop and think about how unusual it is. I think about what must have happened here to make it look like this. But mostly, I think of what has been overcome. I have been here and I have moved on. May we all have turmoil and work through it. And as the great philosopher Kelly Clarkson says, “What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.”

Save the Drive-In

In passing by a storefront in Lewisburg just recently, I saw a flyer for Project Drive-In, an initiative started by Honda. Many of the few existing drive-ins have found themselves in a good amount of trouble lately, owing to the fact that the film industry is ditching film in favor of digital. The two closest drive-ins to Lewisburg, the Pike in Montgomery, PA, and the Point, in between Northumberland and Danville, are among those in danger.

Pike Drive-In, Montgomery, PA

Also, another one of my favorites that I just went by this last weekend, the Fingerlakes Drive-In just outside of Auburn, NY, finds itself in the same predicament.

Fingerlakes Drive-In, Auburn, NY

Kudos to Honda for championing this cause. You can visit their Project Drive-In site at projectdrivein.com

Somewhat related is my latest video, taken this summer. I took a trip down US 209 from the Lykens Valley to Tamaqua and stopped by to see if an old buddy of mine was still around. The sign for the Temple Drive-In caved in more than a year ago, and its twisted appearance is absolutely fascinating. The Temple has been closed for some time now. Its last-gasp effort to keep itself open was to start showing X-rated movies in the late 80’s. I guess they over-estimated the market for outdoor porn and soon closed for good.