Plasticville, U.S.A. ca. 1957

Posted up along the tracks in Plasticville. I’m tryin to catch the sun rays at the right angle for the perfect tan. So, I notice the sun sets on the front steps of the hospital and I find my way there every time I am on that end of town. I sit on the steps and reflect on all those things that I have the opportunity to tackle the next day I awake, God willing. This is my think tank as the Union Pacific rumbles behind the scenes, along the sleepy slopes of Plasticville. I find my way around the side of the building, following the sign for “ACCIDENTS”. The daylight follows this pathway. Maybe I can be of service to those in need while I sort through my thoughts and catch my suntan. I kid you not, these are the times when I find patience and perspective. When I can lend a hand to others who might be in a panic.

My Pops and I revitalized Plasticville the Saturday after Thanksgiving of 2018. It was a day long due. I did not see Plasticville for about 35 years. Now, it’s back baby. The vibe is in the air, the trains are still on time and the tracks still shine against the sunrises and sunsets. The whole of it reminds me of the industrial city that once was Armstrong World Industries in Lancaster, PA ca. 1967-1985.

Onto the Footbridge:

Onto the footbridge. Evening after evening, my Mom and I drove the car to the base of the footbridge that spanned the rail lines next to Armstrong. The steel rails underneath the bridge always illuminated by a moonlit sky. We waited here, in this extra employee parking lot. We waited. We wait for the man. The man who became my hero after years of being his trainee. We wait at the base of the footbridge. My Pops punchin that overtime clock. He usually brought a soda in a white Styrofoam cup. He crossed the bridge, on foot, with Coca Cola in hand. Hands that put in the work that kept our household churning. He’s on his grind, the paper chase. For love of better things for the ones he loves. For the example he probably did not recognize he was delivering to me. Overtime work at Armstrong World Industries.

This small industrial city breathed cash flow into Lancaster. It brought the manufacturing world to our doorstep. It brought Vietnam Vets home to jobs. Gave us food on our dinner table. Gave us light through its billowing smoke stacks and parking lots filled with employee vehicles. The lot was never empty because the workers pounded on through the night, on all shifts, at full throttle. The good days were here. However, time has outsourced Armstrong, the minilopolis is gone.

The footbridge remains as an artifact to an era of production that has since been shipped to other places. The Armstrong office building stands. Rail lines and footbridge are ghosts, gone. The Titans that made the infrastructure of the American Dream. I’m wondering of my generation, how many others miss the metal skeleton of the bridge? My reflections revolve around my Pops. Waiting, with my Mom, in the 67 Mustang for him as he clocked as much overtime as he could handle and then some more. I was so young. The soda was my treat from him. He would kiss my Mom in the car. Lionel Richie singing on the radio in the backdrop. I sipped the Coke. Pops was unknowingly schooling me on the paper chase. I was being schooled on the essence of work ethic, good judgement, good manners and professional etiquette. While the game was in the bottom of the ninth everyday, my Dad wanted the ball. For Mom and I, he daily made the catch, hit the shot and jacked a home run so we could win, we could eat and we could ride out. True player for real. Crazy respect for my Mom and Dad, they gave me the tools.