The rolling hills, the luscious woods, the history and lore, What natural beauty could exist, for not to be adored? I spent countless lifetimes wandering, learning of the trees, That it came as a surprise to me, the secrets of the siege,
Industry had taken over, balking through its teeth, Its soldiers marching forward, o’er oak leaves underneath, The farms dispersed, and reassembled onto Northern ground, As waves of change would whisper with the lapping of the Sound,
A city boomed, with sweat and soot, a mark upon this earth, But nothing can be permanent, of love, of life, of worth, The vines, they tore through brick and stone, the grass it split the seams, For nature always wins the war, with promises agleam.
–Ansonia by Jonathan A. Neary
“Once upon a midday dreary,” I pored, tall-boy clenched between my fingers as I examined the wave of deja vu washing over me with the steady soaking rain. It was one of those drizzly afternoons where being outside was tolerable but not necessarily comfortable. “Woah… I think I’ve been here before… In this exact parking lot… Like, years ago!”
“Outside my apartment?” Aileen quipped. I chuckled and affirmed, certain that I had pulled off during a trip to New Haven to see her friend — the reason I had met her in the first place — before picking up some of my college buddies a mere two miles up the road. I had pulled down a side street and into this pot-hole infested gravel lot beside the train tracks to update my phone’s GPS. Yes; I had definitely been to Ansonia before. I was in a haze during that trip, and it would appear the city preferred me in such a state, though for different reasons this time around.
John and I had gotten drunk the night before, and it had taken very little convincing by Aileen for us to agree to a race at first-light to Port Jefferson Ferry — after sleeping a spell to sober up — and crossing the Long Island Sound into Bridgeport, Connecticut. Since we had arranged to get picked up at the ferry slip, I left my car in the parking lot in Port Jeff, and at 8:30am John and I ordered a couple of drafts from the boat’s bar, and stretched our legs on the deck in the morning mist.
“Now that we’ve got the cups, we can top-off in the bathroom!” I joked, pointing to my backpack, which was full of aluminum stragglers from the previous night’s 18-pack. The dense fog clung to our sweatshirts and cloaked everything in silver, reducing us to blurry figures from the far ends of the deck, so it wasn’t long before we sought our refills from the comfort of surveillance blind-spots, licking the salt from our lips between sips. Being the first time on this particular ferry route, the emergence of landmarks, beaches, and lighthouses came as pleasant surprises between the clouds. The notion of venturing over state lines, including a voyage over choppy water, filled us with jubilance, intensifying our morning buzz as I snapped away with my camera.
By the time we ploughed into the mouth of Bridgeport Harbor, we were dizzy with anticipation and lukewarm backpack beers. Above the PSE&G power-plant the sky was menacingly heavy, proving the overcast weather wouldn’t dissipate anytime soon. Somehow it was fitting for the city we were destined to introduce ourselves to, which lay a 20-minute drive to the West. Dark and inauspicious to the naked eye, the pent-up energy was an overwhelming surge which consumed us.
The first thing to grab my attention once we had settled was the faded green paint of a dilapidated Farrel Corporation factory, which once produced bayonets and cannon barrels for the American Civil War before expanding from a New England foundry to a corporation with a pre-money valuation of $52.1million during its IPO in 1992. “It’s spectacular!” I marveled, already entranced by the urban decay. Before we even reached the door to the apartment complex, I was clutching my camera with my free hand, my heart skipping beats as I salivated at the opportunity to explore an industrial-revolutionary relic.
During its heyday, Farrel built propulsion gears for the United States Navy, including a rapid reversal system which would enable ships to shift gears without slowing down first, leading them to receive the Battle Effectiveness Award for their efforts in 1942. They later switched to manufacturing process equipment for plastic plants, with thousands of employees, effectively driving the economy of Ansonia.
By 2016 it was rumored that Farrel was down to 300 employees, and by 2020 it was reportedly down to 100, leaving ample acres of abandoned buildings in the wake of a recession. This was a paradise for someone who found solace in nature’s reclamation of industry, and I didn’t intend to let a solitary second go to waste. After dropping off my belongings, with Aileen heading off to her job as a nurse at a local hospital, John and I cracked a couple of road sodas and took to the tracks, heading North along the rails as we explored.
Along the main drag, the factory buildings blended together in a seamless fusion of lumber and steel, leading to the convergence of past and present. We stumbled upon a bright yellow tractor-trailer parked beneath the failing rafters of a large factory room, undoubtedly serving a greater purpose in the decades before becoming a shattered car-port. The truck was surrounded by chain-link fence and a small outcrop of still-occupied shops which had since replaced the larger facilities.
On the outside, the railroad led to various dead-ends like rusted coffins, and Mother Nature’s vines had begun to strangle the bricks and lead chips which had crowned this man-made throne. Architectural mortality is measured by demand, and the human race had dubbed this ensemble a vestige of war with the evolution of society. Where scores of men once stood, bold and proud, the Earth had put her foot down in defiance of domestication.
I wandered all day, drinking, snapping, and stepping over debris, amazed by how intact this little city had remained in the face of revitalization, but the fatigue was inevitable after the previous night and the early morning journey–a mere four-hour endeavor which had been accentuated by nursing a hangover with a little hair-of-the-dog. The following day, I continued my brief excursion en route to a fast-food pizza joint, where John and I hoped the grease would hold some urban-legend medicinal cure-all to our state. Trekking down a side street parallel to the main drag, we were enamored by the stone slabs that decorated an administrative building of the American Brass Company, full of toppled filing cabinets and littered with stained papers strewn across the floor like confetti.
On the trip back we shifted over a block to check out the “front,” and subsequently the brunt of the operation as it stood today. There were endless rows of fence and retaining pools locked behind gates with welded padlocks, one of which bore a skull and crossbones. Most of the doorways were sealed with mesh and plywood. How could the face of Main Street take on such a haunting persona? I snapped a shot of the building across the street from the apartment – what most would consider an eyesore, but was a bedroom view I somewhat envied. We adored the scene as we contemplated the trip home, wondering when we would return.
As we pulled away from port the dark energy was slowly subsiding over the power plant, and for a brief moment I was worried our Ansonia adventures would share the same fate of its architecture. The clouds were clearing as a modern reality awaited us, but I was determined nevertheless. It would take a while, but we were smitten, and from the comfort of our couches we patiently awaited our next opportunity to invade.
Almost one year later, my chance to visit “Amnesia”–or whatever nomenclature I had proclaimed it to be on the balcony where John and Aileen syphoned nicotine–would present itself in the form of a wedding ceremony. Once again, John had been involved in the boozy decision to stay at Aileen’s apartment, though this time he got a head-start, as I would be arriving almost a day later. I drove solo to the Port Jeff Ferry after work while he was already marinating at the “Copper City” bar, when I once again adored the moisture of the silver fog. This time accompanied by nightfall and a barrage of songs by Serena Ryder, Florence + The Machine, Atlas Genius, and Silversun Pickups, I slammed warm “Silver Bullets” alongside the smokestacks as I battled the onset of a cold.
Arriving late, on the last boat, once again Aileen dropped me off before taking off for the night-shift at the hospital, leaving me alone with an intoxicated John, whom I intended to compete with by the time the last of my beers set in. We possessed her key and the ability to retreat within the safety of her four walls whenever we chose to, but the main drag seemed to beckon us, as we stepped onto the stained concrete and took in the midnight air. To the left, beneath the floorboards we temporarily called home, was Copper City, which had long-since closed for the evening. To the right, an antique store boasting a knight in shining armor named Traci’s on Main, offering up treasures and fresh-baked pastries. Beyond the knight was another bar named Crave, which was hosting an employees-only event, including music over the sidewalk speakers.
“Change the song! Shut up! Please play something better!” John screamed against a cover of “Let the Good Times Roll.”
“They’re getting their swerve on!” I announced, sparking a simultaneous protest of alcoholism, which we both proclaimed to be “the Devil,” between sips of our own libations.
Crave retaliated by playing Harry Nilsson’s Jump Into the Fire, tauntingly cranking up the volume in the opening verse, before switching to “Without You,” which they put on a loop as John marched up and down the street while attempting to dance, bouncing and twisting while throwing his arms up in a sloppy-yet-rhythmic waltz. The bartender and “patrons” laughed and cheered, amused by the solo parade.
“They’re laughin’ at ya man!” I jeered.
“Good! Open the f*ckin’ door!” He demanded, to no avail.
“You lookin’ at me?” John inquired of the chivalrous mannequin perched in front of Traci’s, hoping the lifeless statue would share more sympathy. “You want my number?” he antagonized, quoting a television show, before reminiscing about our last visit where I had taken a nap in the rocking chair on the same deck. What can I say? I have an affinity for sleeping anywhere, anytime, especially when travel and alcohol is involved.
As we laughed and carried on, now well beyond 2AM, two prostitutes stopped to converse with us. They immediately identified that we were not their target consumer; they nevertheless took the time to interact and exchange pleasantries, sharing their “names” and lighthearted discussions of the weather and the status of our evening. They wore form-fitting clothes and a wall of body-spray which permeated the stagnant air, but their dynamism was genuine. Their personality was both typical and conducive to the atmosphere of Ansonia; despite the rampant decay and urban setting, the people we interacted with possessed the customary charm of New England. In some ways Ansonia was the affirmation of humanity in the darkest corners of society; it made me feel complete by the time I fell asleep on the cat-infested futon overlooking the scene later that morning.
It was during this trip I took stock of the large concrete wall toward the Naugatuck River, undoubtedly a response to the historic floods of 1955. Due to the back-to-back Hurricanes Connie and Diane, and the Kinneytown Dam failure, the lower valley was decimated, leading to the death of 87 Connecticut residents, and the rescue of hundreds more by the National Guard and civilian efforts. The catastrophic situation prompted a fly-over assessment by President Eisenhower, and the event still drives the efforts of municipal government, resting heavily on the minds of old-timers who endured the rising waters and loss of life and property.
According to the “Report of the Connecticut Flood Recovery Committee,” 668 dwellings were eradicated, and 2,460 were severely damaged. Additionally, the state incurred over $88 million worth of industrial damage, over $45 million worth of commercial damage, and over $36 million worth of public damage. Furthermore, 922 farms reported losses, which remained the traditional backbone of New England’s economy. At the time of the event WABC’s correspondent George Phillips reported at least four feet of water on Main Street, as well as the survival of motorists fleeing their vehicles on the Maple Street Bridge, just a stone’s throw from the apartment we had temporarily dubbed our home-base.
The following day we indulged the local economy by finally engaging Traci’s on Main, the bearer of the knight and a loose collection of antiquated heaps in the window. Once you stagger past the traffic lights, ornamental lamps, and various artwork, you’re free to place an order for breakfast: bacon-egg-and-cheese on a brioche bun–plus or minus a few key ingredients. If ever there existed a sandwich worthy of reminiscence some several years later, this would be it. The hand-made buns were fluffy with a chewy crust, and the eggs and meat were cooked to perfection, with the cheese satisfying the tastebuds. It would be a sin not to mention the cupcakes while I’m at it, the perfect balance of sweet and savory. Whatever Traci put into her work, it was nothing short of magic.
With full stomachs we once-again took to the streets, starting with the abandoned building across the street, which was under heavy renovation, abutting the Salvage Alley. It seemed that with the diminishing past its nostalgia was a booming industry. The behemoth of a warehouse had initially captivated me upon our first visit, but I had been waylaid by its neighbors at that time. On this trip, however, I was willing to look beyond my green-paint-blinders and branch out in a new direction.
Weaving right, then left, then right again, I wound up in a graffitied corridor. the satellite rooms remained accessible through broken windows, and the bricks wore a solitary name tag, which seemed fitting for the playlist that had accompanied thus far, especially Serena Ryder’s: “baby blue, oh baby blue, come here I’m gonna smear another color over you; get out of bed, you little sleepy head; your black and white needs a little bit of red.”
We continued venturing for the rest of the day, perusing the arcade storefronts which housed a thrift and liquor store; our “two favorite places,” we joked, stating that Ansonia indeed had it all. The Southern end of the main drag was more modernized than the ruins to the North, even hosting a Big Y for all our tall-boy needs. As a kid growing up off-and-on in Connecticut, I remember the Sunday and “after eight” alcohol laws, which restricted sales via curtains draped over the beer shelves at the local grocer. The times had changed slightly, but the hours were still enforced to some degree, especially if you weren’t on the guest list at the local Harry Nilsson soiree.
Despite the city’s enchantment, I still had other plans on the docket; I would be attending a wedding in nearby Meriden, where I would reconnect with the college friend who had caused me to stumble upon Aileen’s parking lot years ago. And, as luck would have it, the reception would introduce me to a local history buff, and fellow explorer that evening, becoming a segue to my introduction to Fairfield Hills Hospital.
Unfortunately, such a peak would be met with the bitter-sweetness of the morning after our excursion. John and I would be catching the commuter train back to Bridgeport before first-light; offering a chilly banter of episode recaps as we sat on the concrete platform. Wishing-well our sleepy eyed counterparts from beside the river walls, the vibration in the tracks informed us that once again, it was time for us to go; the ferry back across the Sound would be waiting.
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