The Sivertson’s sign seems like from a different time. I’ve never seen it lit, but I bet it’s beautiful.
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One of the four fire alarm panels in the power station.
Before developers saw to cut and cut the flour mills inside Pillsbury, they stood at the ready beside various purposeful chutes the traversed the floors of between sorters. These machines were belt-driven by the power of Pillsbury’s Mississippi headraces and turbines, the force of which notoriously shook the building’s foundations themselves. The wheels would change the grade of the flour, or the size of the dust produced from crushing the kernels.
Somewhere between the grain elevator and the distillery.
Looking across the whole milling operation from its dedicated powerhouse stretching across Eagle River.
Elevator B, used by a local farmer, stands behind an old farm truck at the edge of town.
Jars like these were used to measure the volume of fluid pumped out of TB patients’ lungs.
It was obvious which parts of the hospital were the newest, by their relative utter self destruction. It’s comforting to the Cubical Dwellers, I think, to know that as soon as the power and plumbing are disconnected that all hell will break loose and dismantle their suspended ceilings, drywall boxes and fluorescent suns in no time at all.
A crack in a window in a wall. What’s this doing here?
One of the former sanitorium common rooms. Its interior is at the end of one of the wards and is lined with glass brick.