We left the depot with the promise of a beautiful afternoon sun and the idea that the depot had been a part of our childhood.
A small sign at the entrance informed us it was closed until the end August.
We drove into the wasteland of rusting metal, a collection of rusty steel pipes and a few rusty steel appliances that seemed to have been thrown out for lack of a better word.
The Depot was in a very desolate location, with a large metal door that had been ripped off a building, a crumbling wooden fence and a single metal rail that led to a parking lot.
Stainless Steel Depot, a rusty steel depot at the beginning of the wasteland article The Depot’s owner had a long history of selling his wares and it was only a matter of time before the old depot would be razed.
When I was a child, I spent many nights with my father, watching as the Depot was razed and replaced with a concrete wall and concrete retaining walls.
He would drive around the depot looking for old cars to put up and would ask me to watch as he drove them away, often with a bit of a smile on his face.
One of my favourite memories is walking into the depot at dusk, a smoky grey sky filling the parking lot and the sound of the wind whipping the metal pipes through the air.
It was a nostalgic scene.
I have always felt that the best memories of my childhood were those with family and friends.
I have never been able to put them into words, but the memories of watching the Depot burn have always been with me.
This article was originally published on The Conversation.
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