The Sadness of Old Buildings

By Gary E. Anderson

Imagine a weathered photograph, its sepia tones hinting at a forgotten era. In it, a general store stands sentinel in Windyville, Missouri. The paint peels like sunburnt skin, revealing the wood beneath, each grain a testament to years of harsh winters and scorching summers. The windows, once bright and welcoming, are now clouded with dust and neglect, their vacant stares reflecting the emptiness within. This image, evocative and poignant, encapsulates the essence of the sadness of old buildings.

For years, a friendly, yet persistent, debate has simmered between myself and artist friends from the West Coast, centered on the very definition of a compelling subject. We find common ground in the simple beauty of nature – the vibrant hues of apples and oranges, the sweeping vistas of majestic landscapes. But the harmony dissolves when the conversation turns to their fascination with dilapidated farm buildings.

They see romance in the ruins, a certain rustic charm in the decay. Their canvases depict farmhouses teetering precariously, their weathered boards leaning at improbable angles, as if frozen in a perpetual state of collapse. Barns, their roofs caved in and their walls riddled with holes, become objects of artistic fascination. And people, captivated by this romanticized vision of decline, purchase these paintings, hanging them proudly on their walls.

But my perspective is starkly different. I find myself unable to share in their artistic appreciation. Instead, when I gaze upon these abandoned farmsteads, a profound and unsettling sadness washes over me. Each boarded-up farmhouse, each crumbling barn, represents more than just physical decay. They are silent monuments to shattered dreams, testaments to the dashed hopes of families who poured their hearts and souls into the land, only to be defeated by circumstances beyond their control. These aren’t just structures; they are the ghosts of lives lived, of futures that never materialized. The sadness of old buildings is palpable, a heavy weight on the soul.

This feeling intensifies whenever I encounter a small town that was once a vibrant hub of activity, bustling with life and energy. Now, however, it stands desolate and lifeless, slowly succumbing to the relentless embrace of the earth from which it sprang. Time and neglect have taken their toll, leaving behind a skeletal reminder of what once was. Just last week, while meandering along a forgotten back road (a common occurrence, I confess), I stumbled upon just such a ghost town.

No sign marked its name, no indication of its past glory. Only three buildings remained, huddled together against the relentless prairie wind, their silhouettes stark against the vast, open sky. Despite their dilapidated state, faded letters above their doors offered glimpses into their former functions. The first, clearly, had been a general store, its shelves now bare and its counters coated in a thick layer of dust. The second, a garage, its rusted tools and discarded tires hinting at a time when automobiles were a novelty, a symbol of progress and prosperity. But it was the third building that truly captured my imagination. On its side, painted in faded, almost illegible letters, was the word "Hotel."

Hotel? The very word seemed incongruous, a jarring anomaly in this desolate landscape. What could have possibly drawn travelers to this remote outpost, warranting the need for a hotel? There appeared to be nothing of interest in the surrounding area, no natural wonders or historical landmarks to attract visitors. If ever a place could be described as being in the middle of nowhere, this little town undoubtedly qualified.

And how, I wondered, did people even reach this isolated village to stay in this mysterious hotel? No railroad tracks crisscrossed the landscape, no indication of a bustling railway stop. Only a single, narrow road snaked its way through the town, a lonely artery connecting it to the outside world.

The presence of the garage suggested that the town was still alive during the early days of the automobile, but cars have been around for a considerable time, and that alone didn’t explain the existence of a hotel in a town comprised of only two other buildings. The unanswered questions swirled in my mind, adding to the growing sense of melancholy.

Perhaps this is precisely why my artist friends find such intrigue in these old buildings and farmsteads. They represent a profound sense of mystery, a collection of untold stories, secrets buried beneath layers of dust and decay. On that point, at least, we can agree. But no amount of artistic interpretation can convince me that these lonely, desolate scenes are picturesque. The sadness of old buildings overshadows any perceived beauty.

I can scarcely bear to look at these forgotten towns without being overcome by a deep, almost inexplicable sadness. What stories lie hidden within those forlorn storefronts? What brought people to this little town, prompting them to seek lodging in its humble hotel? What about the rusted skeleton of a combine, its metal bones bleaching in the sun on the edge of town, a silent testament to the agricultural struggles of the past?

I don’t know the answers to these questions, and I likely never will. The ghosts of the past remain silent, their secrets locked away within the crumbling walls of these forgotten places.

So, while I appreciate the artistic merit some may find in these scenes, please don’t try to persuade me that such a scene is something I would want to hang on my wall, to gaze upon every day. The sadness of old buildings is too pervasive, too deeply ingrained in their very essence, to be easily dismissed.

The image of an old playground in Nekoma, Kansas, further amplifies this sentiment. The swings sway gently in the Kansas wind, their seats empty, their purpose forgotten. The teeter-totters stand motionless, their once vibrant colors faded and peeling. The laughter and joy that once filled this space have been replaced by an unsettling silence, a poignant reminder of the children who have long since moved on, leaving behind only the ghosts of their youthful exuberance. The sadness of old buildings extends to the spaces around them, the silent witnesses to lives lived and lost.

© Kathy Alexander/Legends of America, updated December 2021.

Also See:

• Emerging Ghost Towns of the Plains
• Ghost Towns Across America
• Cemeteries – Outdoor Museums of the Forgotten Past
• Architectural, Buildings, Bridges & More Photo Galleries

About the Author: Gary Anderson is a freelance writer, editor, ghostwriter, and manuscript analyst, residing on a small Iowa farm. He has published over 500 articles and four books. He has also ghostwritten a dozen books, edited more than 30 full-length manuscripts, produced seven newsletters, and conducted over 800 manuscript reviews for various publishers across the nation. The Sadness of Old Buildings is excerpted from Gary E. Anderson’s book No Smooshing!