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Urban Renewal

A Former Boomtown Left Behind By An Over-Promised, Under-Delivered Federal Program

By Rick HaneyPublished 7 years ago 5 min read
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A blended look at Bangor, Maine, then and now. Courtesy of Ghosts of Bangor

In every city lies another city. That's where you'll find the ghosts.

Well, not real ghosts. More like forgotten identities.

Around here, people always seem to get glossy-eyed about the old days. Not in the "things were better when I was your age" sense, but more along the lines of "This place used to have a lot more charm... until it sold itself out."

You see, the term "Urban Renewal" has haunted this old lumber town for the better part of six decades. There is no question it has a negative undertone adhered to it, but the federally conceived, post-WWII clean-up effort presented itself to be promising. It promised the demolition of old, decaying properties, and the construction of new, modern areas destined to encourage economic growth and new business opportunities.

Except that's not what it did at all.

Bangor is an old river town, known world-wide in the early to mid 19th century for its lumber and shipping trades, made possible by its proximity to the Penobscot River. Sawmills lined its banks for the better part of the 1800s, and the harbor was so busy that one could cross the expansive waterway by foot, on the bows of anchored ships. Upon the arrival of spring, Bangor thrived. The mighty woodsmen left the northern forests and descended upon the town, eager to shake out the splinters of a long, arduous winter. They flooded the saloons, gambling rooms, and the notorious houses of ill repute. Theirs were earned vices, and they were all there for the taking. Bangor had it all in those days, and despite its penchant for some raucous behaviors, it also boasted magnificent homes, glorious houses of worship, and abundant opportunities for laborers and manufacturers. Perhaps this is why many dubbed it the "Queen City Of The East." It has long been argued that some of the most beautiful homes in America were built from the logs that floated downriver, to be cut and milled on the banks of the Penobscot.

But by the 1870s the booming timber industry, which allowed Bangor to claim its place as the busiest lumber port in the world, had begun to decline as lumber barons and the woodsmen in their employ saw new opportunities in the west.

Such a quagmire left Bangor, thought by many to become the next San Francisco, in a severe identity crisis. It is my belief, amongst many others, that it has yet to recover.

Growing up here, I was pained by the amount of "holes" in Downtown Bangor. It seemed that the landscape was peppered with empty lots that were once occupied by buildings of old, beautiful architecture. It didn't add up. I spent hours upon hours comparing older structures to new; I wondered why some of them looked so enchanting, and some of them lacked character entirely. I also wondered why half of Exchange Street, at one time lined with hotels, theaters, and saloons, now looked like a nondescript strip mall community from the 1980s, while the other half harkened back to an empty, Art Deco version of Clark Kent's Metropolis. It was this part that fascinated me the most. My grandparents often spoke of Bangor's old days, fondly recalling its dance halls, roller rinks, theaters, and fancy storefronts. To this day I look at some of the old buildings, wondering how much time my grandparents spent in them in the years before I arrived. Back then, there were no shopping malls. The first strip mall didn't arrive here until 1961. There was downtown, a vibrant river that ran through it, and there was farmland. Other than some bordering neighborhoods, and an Air Force base that served its purpose from the second World War into the late 1960s, there wasn't much else.

So along comes Urban Renewal in the 1950s. After the war, the Federal Government developed a program granting funds to focus on cleaning up American cities. Funds would be allocated to cities willing to commit to tearing down the old in exchange for building up the new. The problem, at least as far as I can tell, is that it fell flat in its implementation.

Why did this happen?

For starters, American cities, in the years following the Great Depression and World War II, had been somewhat neglected. There was little focus on infrastructure, and with city cores weakening, people began to focus on the suburbs. They moved further west where many communities were still young and vibrant. Bangor, a community in which few would argue was young and vibrant, quietly sluiced downstream without farewell or fanfare, as a forgotten old lumber town.

Adding insult to injury was that historic preservation, in those days, didn't carry the weight it carries today. It only applied to really historic places like Boston, Philadelphia, and Williamsburg. Bangor, with its dilapidated tenements and decaying old whorehouses, wasn't seen as worthy of preserving. So when the opportunity arose to bulldoze the blight, people jumped at the chance.

And they did so recklessly.

Throw that into a cauldron already boiling over with unrealistic development expectations, politicians who were savvy in redirecting funds to their pet projects, and no discerning between what can stay and what must go, and you had yourself a blunder so far reaching that people would still be lamenting over it fifty years later.

As I write this, I am also navigating through images I have created for a project I've entitled "Ghosts of Bangor." It began as an experiment in Photoshop—a program which I have yet to really master—but has since blossomed into a visual lesson in local history. I'm quite proud of my completely unintentional accomplishment. I've learned more about my roots than I could have possibly imagined, and it's my hope that those who follow my work might also learn a thing or two about their roots. I've met some fascinating people, each with their own histories and tales of days gone by. Perhaps Ghosts of Bangor will heal some of the wounds left behind by Urban Renewal. It may not, but at least in some regard, we can put some of the missing pieces back in place, if only in a surreal sense. I believe it helps to put things into context, and perhaps younger generations will be the ones who benefit the most.

With any luck, perhaps they'll reflect upon my work when the next Urban Renewal hits.

The St. James Hotel, built by lumber baron Rufus Dwinel in the 1800s, was razed in the 1960s Urban Renewal effort. The Masonic Building to its right, which housed hand made silver crafted by Paul Revere himself, survived Urban Renewal but was destroyed in a fire in January 2004.

Though it survived Urban Renewal, pictured here are the icy remains of Bangor's Masonic Temple, January 2004. Tragic, yes, but it's also one hell of a photo. Photo credit: Jeff Kirlin

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About the Creator

Rick Haney

I'm a writer, voice actor and musician living in the land of lobsters, Moxie, and Whoopie Pies. If you don't know where that is, it's the only one-syllable state in the union.

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