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Blight is the pall that mistakes our cities for tombs, begging us to look away.Ī man balances a laundry basket on his bare shoulder as he opens the trunk of his LeBaron, parked at Pinky’s Billiard Parlor. Am I to measure each fracture of its concrete webbing? The first step in calculating pavement condition, according to Mahmood et al., is to “determine severity, and the extent of each distress type for a pavement section.” I see the houses to my left shoulder, their paint cracking too, and remember blight can be vertical. I ignore cracks smaller than 3/8 ʺ, am prone to approximation, am not yet sure what to do about the crocodile cracking. By the time I arrive at Valley Laundromat (and Donut Shop), a few scant paces from my point of embarkation, I’ve already genuflected six times to measure the sidewalk cracks (SC).
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I am closest to the surface across which Wilmerding’s feet glide, and I am picking through all the let-go litter. Michael’s Cemetery, I keep my ear to the ground and listen for her sound as I crouch, measure, and record every breakage in the cement. Even though she’s gone, her back now parallel and subterranean with her husband’s at St. I’ve decided to measure the avenue’s sidewalk cracks, the ones my father once leapt to spare his mother’s back.
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I begin at a four-way intersection on the other side of the creek, the westernmost point of Airbrake Avenue (just outside of Wilmerding in Turtle Creek)-a pen clipped to my notepad and tape measure clipped to the waistband of my Levi’s. “I think we can get five of this size,” one says. Their toes flex against the tile as they do candybar arithmetic. Two young girls enter the Dollar General, singles fanned out. How many times I’ve been introduced to a “machine hand” who once worked with my grandfather at the Air Brake. a pretext for a few limp handshakes.” Wilmerding, PA’s grip has often been firmer than my own. In Species of Spaces (1974), Georges Perec calls the neighborhood “a familiar space gives rise to an itinerary. I discontinue my circuit of bygone industry, trying not to read the “Commerce Street” signage as ironic, and drive toward the decrepit downtown, where I park outside the Dollar General. The Castle’s clock tower, which once signaled work shifts at the nearby Air Brake factory, has become a vestigial architecture. That’s what I’m circling, witnessing, authenticating-its reset dignity. Now, just weeks after a rash of vandalism and weeks before the public option, the vacancy seems to dignify the Castle. I’m in indefinite orbit.įor years, there has been a protracted campaign to resuscitate the glory of the old castle on the hillock, which for 95 years served as the Westinghouse Air Brake Company General Office Building. I drive around the Castle once, twice, a few times more. On a Saturday morning, the last contents of the turreted sandstone castle are dragged onto the lawn: three chairs from the old high-school auditorium, a big drum that belonged to the Polish Falcons, and an antique Westinghouse roaster stand (“calibrated to match the temperatures in your cookbook with super-super exactness”). Because irony.In Pennsylvania’s Lower Turtle Creek Valley-where there are no longer turtles in the crick (for decades, I’ve checked), no turtle soup on its cafés’ menus either-a borough surrenders its castle. Or how Death lost Harry Potter's soul, had a small mental break and took a vacation.Ī vacation as the Boy Who Lived.