The old hotel doesn’t like to show its age. Indeed, if it had a few paint job and soft remodel it would be fit to open–that is, if there was a need for it in this tiny rural New York town.
A switchboard to control the flow of electricity into the plant from the city and generators.
A calendar and comic strip decorate the current pattern shelf in the building which was a coffin factory.
The last time the city sealed this door, they must have been changing out old road signs.
Rubber dock boots still sits under the desk in the dock office, near keys to rusted locks and files of fired employees.
A stencil instructs the first and third shifts to ask security for access. Security was out during all my visits, except one mishap where a strung-out local chased me with a truck. Having spent a decade exploring the U.P., I was not caught off guard.
Watching the comings and goings of doctors, nurses and new patients was a mainstay of asylum routine; one can find it easy to imagine pale faces pressed against the block glass windows, staring out at the world moving past them.
The office was redder than the rest of the building.