We Americans are more rootless than other people, moving across the continent for school, for a job, to change jobs, or to keep the same job. We become separated, sometimes forever, from the towns that raised us, that taught us to read, or to ride a bicycle. And as we change, the towns age, die, and are gradually reborn. The abandoned poolhall you walked past everyday vanishes one morning, the sporting goods store that sold you your first basketball closes up for good. The town you remember slowly transforms itself until every last sad old corner is bulldozed flat, built up again, and the streets you knew disappear from view.

I am drawn to the melancholy beauty of the old, the worn-out, the run-down and mostly forgotten. Looking at these places, I wonder what memories they hold. Maybe someone kissed here for the first time, or learned to play the trumpet in that house.

A man who has lived in Terre Haute since the 1950s told me that when he first arrived this town had a seedy charm. If you look for it, that charm still lingers.