I can’t help but think of the people who once grabbed the wheel and tooled down the road, sailed across vast waters, hopped a bus, or took to the rail. To work, to school, to the grocery, to Christmas dinner with the family. I wonder where my first car, an old green Dodge Polara with a dirty white vinyl top, is now? It was huge and ugly, but it got me where I needed to go for several years. It had a serious issue with overheating that no mechanic could ever solve. The only recourse was to drive with the heat on high, year-round. It was a killer in Indiana through July and August every year. I wonder, did someone resolve that issue and restore the car? Or more likely, is it slowly rusting into nothingness in a junkyard somewhere in central Indiana? I’ll never know and it doesn’t really matter. All these vehicles mattered to someone at some time, but no longer.
For some reason, abandoned amusement parks have more of an apocalyptic feel than other places or things. Giggles and grins are silenced and wiped away; screams of delight hauntingly echo in the derelict spaces. The thrill of adventure now only half-forgotten memories of a time long ago.