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The Pink Flamingo on Harrison Street Whether it is a dead mill or tannery, a car will always be sitting in a discrete corner. Gloversville, New York, earned its name for a reason. For decades, it was the undisputed glove capital of the world. But today, the massive tanneries, dressers, stitching factories, and dyers that built this city are quietly disappearing. One of the most fascinating casualties was the former Cayadutta Tanning Company Inc. Locals called it the Pink Flamingo. Before that, it was E.S. Parkhurst & Company, a place workers simply knew as the Hair Mill. Sitting at the southwest corner of Harrison Street and NY-30A, the property spanned two parcels. A private owner held one piece of the land, while the city owned the other. Visiting the abandoned site felt like stepping into a forgotten tannery that just needed a bit of TLC and elbow grease to restart operations sans a pocketed overhead roof. Just outside the main tanning building, a junked Mercedes sa...
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Former Lionetti Oil
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In a corner of the city where history is often paved over, the elusive site bore a name that seemed to vanish from the annals of time. My research, though tenacious, yielded little more than the faint echo of its past. Diving deeper, I stumbled across a similarly named enterprise, but a trail of online records confirmed there was no connection.
The site in question was once a pulsating heart of industry. From the 1940s, it functioned as a hub for heating fuel oil transfer, its machines humming and workers bustling until it ceased operations in 1993. Yet, it wasn’t just the hum of machinery that it left behind. The ground bore the scars of its past, tainted with petroleum hydrocarbons and semi-volatile organic compounds. Remarkably, grant funds were once mobilized to cleanse this wounded land, leading to the removal of 10 above-ground storage tanks and sparking community engagement initiatives.
Fast-forward to 2018, when my boots crunched the gravel of this forsaken property. The once-guarding metal fence lay defeated, allowing me unhindered access. The land told tales of a massive cleanup; where large tanks once stood, now lay evidence of their removal, and mounds of discarded tires, construction debris, and recyclable scrap metal littered the expanse. On an earlier reconnaissance, the site wasn't as welcoming. I had scoured for entry points, only to be denied and redirected to a more promising oil facility nearby. Two vast holding areas, reminiscent of an aggregate and cement company, stood hollow. Their walls, which once cradled five metal tanks, now bore the ghostly imprints of the structures. The lone remnant of its industrious past was the transfer station office building – a shell filled with the discarded remnants of its last inhabitants and the occasional trespasser. Nature, in its reclaiming glory, sent tendrils of green vines to cloak its windows, adding an eeriness to its desolation.
However, the land has not been free from strife. After the tanks came down, its remote location, shadowed by the industrial veil of the McCarter highway, made it a hotspot for continued illegal dumping, further scarring this piece of history.
This small fuel oil transfer station, nestled along the once-bustling industrial belt of Riverside Avenue by the Passaic River, met an unceremonious end. But as cities do, it evolved. By 2020, the property found itself cradled in new hands. Sold for a mere dollar, it transitioned from the City of Newark to Silva Waterfront LLC. Today, it stands renewed, housing an aggregate material enterprise.
You can witness the site's metamorphosis during its demolition phase below.
The site after partial demolition.
The site serves as a poignant reminder that while the world moves on, traces of the past linger, whispering tales to those who dare to listen.
For weeks, I had been orbiting the perimeter of the impending demolition of the Church of St. Michael and St. Edward, a once revered church in the heart of Fort Greene, like a moth drawn to a flame. The neighborhood, a patchwork of tight project housing, seemed indifferent to the fate of this historic edifice. The intel I had received suggested that entry was as simple as scaling a wooden fence, yet the timing had never felt right. Until one day, it did. With a mission in New Jersey looming, I knew it was now or never. The demolition was advancing at a startling pace, the church's twin steeples already reduced to rubble. The skeletal remains of timber beams and rusted steel frames peeked out from the ruins, a testament to the relentless march of progress. Summoning a surge of courage, I seized a moment of quiet in the bustling housing project and vaulted over the fence. My heart pounded in my chest as I slipped unnoticed into the church grounds. The once grand entrance now stood as...
Rockaway Metals Products (RMP) began as a sheet metal fabrication factory beginning in 1961. RMP occupied the site from 1971 to 1987 leaving a plethora of hazardous waste materials onsite. From 1990 to 2004 the building housed various tenants which even included an auto repair shop. Rockaway Metals a manufacturer of filing cabinets and other metal products closed down in 1987. It was leased a few years ago to different owners who did not manage the 4.85-acre parcel. The 155,000-square-foot building has long been an eyesore and trouble in the neighborhood since its closure. A coastal storm in March 2018 blew debris materials to adjacent properties. Rockaway Metals was acquired by Nassau County in 1995 by tax deed. The county has held onto the property for 22-plus years. In February 2011, the site was damaged by fire and condemned soon thereafter. For more in-depth legal ownership of the property, you can read more below in the source list under U.S. v. 175 INWOOD ASSOCIATES LLP. ...
If you walk down East New York Avenue, it is easy to miss the old police station that once watched over the block. Your eyes go first to the Howard Houses, those tall brick towers that rise on the left like a wall. The former precinct squats beside them, low and dignified, its stone face worn by nearly a century of weather and worry. By the time I began paying attention to it, the building already had an expiration date. The city had picked it as the site of new affordable housing. Demolition was set to begin in full in November 2025. On paper, it was a win for a neighborhood that has carried more than its share of struggles. For the building itself, it was a quiet death sentence. I wanted to see it before it went. The main trolley line that ran down East New York Avenue was the Bergen-East New York Line, operated by the Brooklyn-Manhattan Transit Corporation (BMT). It served as a key east-west route in the Brownsville area until many city trolley lines were converted to bus routes sta...
I was driving towards what used to be the Consumers Park Brewery when something caught my eye—the wooden gate doors of the old auto parts store were wide open. Someone had broken in. The building had been vacant for years, even as new construction surged all around it. Right next door, a fresh, modern structure had risen, but this place remained untouched—a relic of the past hollowed out and forgotten. I pulled over without hesitation. These moments don’t come often. A while back, another shuttered dealership had been left open for months, its entrance exposed. Graffiti artists had made their mark on the metal gates, turning the abandoned space into an urban canvas. I had thought about exploring it, but before I could, the gates were suddenly chained shut overnight. The opportunity was gone. Not this time. This time, I wasn’t letting the moment slip away. I stepped inside, finally getting a look at what had been hidden behind those rolled-down gates and green plywood barriers. An...
In my extensive ventures across various businesses, churches, factories, and plants, I've encountered a plethora of remnants from bygone industrial eras. Yet, none have left as profound an impression as the sight of the leftover machinery at the former Potter Hill Mill. Nestled amidst its surroundings, these aging relics stand as silent witnesses to a vibrant industrial past, their once-potent functionality now subdued by the relentless march of time. The manufacturing equipment, once the lifeblood of cotton goods production, remains steadfast, firmly bolted to the floor, slowly succumbing to the relentless embrace of rust and decay. It's a scene frozen in time—a rare glimpse into the mechanical marvels of the 1800s, preserved in their original state, untouched and unscathed by modern interventions. As I gaze upon the weather-worn structures and rusted machinery, I'm struck by the poignant juxtaposition of past and present. The former textile mill, once a bustling hub of...
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