The author, John Marek, is a writer and CEO of the Anson Economic Development Partnership.
It is one of the more common tropes of science fiction; intrepid explorers come across the remains of a derelict spaceship drifting in the void. Once bustling with activity, these empty husks float aimlessly through space, their crews long vanished and purpose forgotten. The “Juggernaut” Engineer ship from Alien and the Event Horizon from the film of the same name are classic examples of the sci-fi derelict. These creepy relics both fascinate and frighten space travelers in films, and the action within often plays out like a haunted house story in space.
On planet Earth, explorers who like myself venture into struggling rural communities may encounter similar scenes of abandonment and decay in the form of vacant shopping centers. These retail relics were once anchors for local economic activity, now left to slowly crumble. Their vast parking lots, empty storefronts and fading signs evoke the same ghostly feeling as a sci-fi derelict. While many of the malls of the ’70s and ’80s share a similar fate, those are primarily found in larger towns and cities, while the outdoor shopping centers of the ’50s and ’60s are more likely to be found in smaller communities.
In many small towns impacted by the decline in manufacturing and agricultural jobs, shiny commercial developments were built during more prosperous times. Grand outdoor shopping destinations sprouted up to provide jobs and modern conveniences. These typically featured two or three anchor tenants, usually a discount store chain and a grocery chain, with perhaps a pharmacy or specialty clothing store, and a number of smaller locally owned complementary businesses like hair salons, restaurants or shoe stores that relied on the foot traffic generated by the larger retailers. But as the local customer base dwindled in the economic headwinds of NAFTA and GATT, these establishments eventually went out of business or moved to a new location. Owners boarded up windows, cordoned off sections and scaled back staff.
What remains are massive concrete husks surrounded by fields of cracked asphalt. Occasionally, a Dollar General or Tractor Supply may move into a tiny corner of the space, along with a tattoo parlor or CBD shop, offering the somehow sadder sight of a dozen cars in a parking lot designed for hundreds.
Some communities have found creative ways to utilize abandoned retail space. In my hometown of Port Clinton, Ohio, the county purchased a dying shopping center and converted it to government offices with a small retail component. Other towns have successfully turned decaying retail space into gyms, schools, senior centers, event venues and even, ironically, seasonal haunted houses. But, especially in very rural areas, many of the promenades that once saw joyous Christmas shoppers and back-to-school sidewalk sales are now relegated to whirling litter and weeds growing up through the cracks.
Space derelicts and retail relics share not just visual similarities of abandonment, but deeper symbolic ties. They represent the pride and ambition of the past, from a time of growth and prosperity. Now they sit obsolete, neither destroyed completely nor restored for new use, their lingering presence casting an eerie shadow over surrounding community as it struggles with economic decline.
While the imagery of abandoned interstellar ships excites the imagination, rural communities cope with the blight of thousands of real life derelicts dotting the countryside. As symbols of unfulfilled promise, these retail relics reveal the harsh realities many small towns now face in forging a sustainable future. Though not as exciting as stumbling upon an alien vessel, efforts to repurpose decaying shopping centers could similarly help transform and revitalize whole communities.