I live in a small community that's constantly changing. Yes, some of the change can be filed under gentrification, but a good deal of it is subject to the changing social, economic, and technological shifts occurring in this early part of the 21st Century.
Old businesses, like the outdated means of communication and means of purchasing goods and services are dropping by the wayside. Their replacements are not always progressive, but they are hard to ignore. Just the other day I saw an older woman write a check to pay for groceries. In an age when a phone app or the swipe of a plastic card is commonly used to buy a cup of coffee, this seemed like such an anomaly. I half expected the cashier to take the check and ask, What's this?'
Maybe that's a little extreme, but rest assured, that day is coming.
We do so many things interactively with our phones and computers. Our phones are our computers now, aren't they?
At this point in my life, I've made some decisions about reading and writing with regard to the technology available. While I know it's neither good or advisable to ignore what I don't like, nevertheless I'm going to stick with books and records as long as I can. I like the look and feel of them. They are more than just words on a page or screens or sound coming from somewhere. They are entities that I want to have and hold.
We like to document the loss of places that have vanished in space and time. My community is filled with homes and buildings that have been repurposed a few times over the years. Just this morning I noticed a restaurant that closed down a few months ago will soon reopen as a bottle shop featuring beers and wines of the northwest. The space was once a tavern that looks and feels like it's origin in the lumber industry as a local tavern. It's got one of those beautiful ceilings that always grabs those who chance to look up. I love that it now looks down on millennials drinking pinot noir when once it sheltered flannel-clad lumbermen.
The Beatles sang about "Places I'll remember all my lifetime." Though gone, we do recall the people and things that occupied these locations. Some spaces remain permanently in the mind. The old Polo Grounds, the house I grew up in, and racetracks like Bay Meadows, Hollywood Park, and Longacres.
I never went to see the Giants play in New York though I have early childhood memories of Willie Mays playing in the Polo Grounds. The house I grew up in is probably still standing but looks nothing like I recall, though in my mind I see it perfectly and could navigate each room in the dark from memory.
When a racetrack dies, all the memories come rushing back. Something about an empty grandstand and the stillness of a site that once was filled with color and movement.
Longacres, near Seattle Washington was the quintessential mid century racetrack. With equal parts country and art deco, it's pastoral setting and classic green/white color scheme made it a template for all the hope and promise...luck and excitement it dished up for years. I went there once in the 1970s while passing through the area. The day was stunningly beautiful. It was a week day so the on site crowd was smaller than usual and I wandered upstairs to a private box in the grandstand. There was nobody around and as the crowd began to fill in before the first race, I decided to make myself comfortable as if it were my box and I belonged. I just wanted to watch a race from this prime location. I had no intention of trespassing. Looking over the railing at the horses on the track, I sensed two people enter this box of 6 seats. In my mind I rehearsed what I would say, and how I would apologize, but before I could say anything, one of the two men behind me asked, "Have you seen Richard this morning?"
"No, haven't seen him today," I replied realizing they mistook me for someone they knew. Sensing I belonged, I relaxed and remained until the horses of the first race crossed the wire. My two new friends departed shortly thereafter and I decided to move along as well. I'll always remember Longacres as a very friendly place.