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I was born in Berea, Ohio, a small, self-sufficient town on the west side of Cleveland. It was the kind of place where everyone knew your name, and every store in the downtown triangle served a vital purpose. We had hardware stores, banks, men’s clothing shops, candy counters, and even a couple of dentist offices—all independently owned, all bustling with life. Each business supported a family, not just by providing a paycheck but by funding education, building homes, and raising children.

In high school, my father worked six days a week in the family meat market his father owned—a narrow storefront in the heart of Berea. Just blocks away, my maternal grandfather owned a barbershop. He worked tirelessly, too, but still found time every Tuesday afternoon (when the town observed its traditional half-day) to cut hair for children at the Berea Children’s Home—never asking for a dime. That was the spirit of the town: work hard, give back, and build a life where family and community were inseparable.

That kind of authenticity is hard to find today.

By the early 1970s, Berea—like many small towns across America—was swept up in what was then heralded as “urban renewal.” Boards and advisory groups, often disconnected from the economic and cultural lifeblood of the town, decided modernization was the answer. Half the town was razed. Two-thirds of the original triangle vanished, replaced by bland condos and impersonal development. They eliminated the soul of the town in favor of square footage and surface aesthetics. My father captured the backs of those old buildings in a painting I still treasure—proof of what once was, even if today’s residents have no frame of reference for what they lost.

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but it also comes with a shelf life. People forget the past when there’s nothing left to see.

Today, aside from the senior citizens who lived through it, most people in Berea have little or no memory of what once stood there. For many, those condos might as well have always existed. My father’s painting might hang on the library wall or be sold as a print at the Berea Historical Society, but to the younger generation, it’s little more than an image. They have no recollection—and worse, no capacity to care—because they lack the reference points. It’s like the old saying: every time an old-timer passes, it’s as if a library burns down. And when we demolish old buildings without pause or preservation, we commit the same kind of loss. A town’s memory vanishes with the swing of a wrecking ball.

Even in picturesque towns like Saluda or Tryon—places steeped in history and mountain charm—the winds of transformation are blowing. Buildings that once served generations are now eyed for redevelopment. These towns, once full of purposeful activity, risk becoming weekend curiosities—pretty to look at but far removed from what they once were.

And layered over this cultural erosion is an even greater invisible threat: the internet. The rise of retail giants like Amazon has redefined how we shop. Everything from socks to shampoo to school supplies can arrive with a single tap. Even grocery shopping is shifting to delivery models. “Shop local” has become more of a tagline than a practice when even a tube of toothpaste can be at your doorstep in a day. For small-town merchants, that’s a devastating reality—fewer customers on foot, more boarded-up windows.

To be brutally honest—and I include myself in this criticism—I used to complain that small shops and galleries should expand their operating hours. But even that may no longer be the solution. The days when everything you needed could be purchased just down the block have given way to the supermarket, and now to Amazon. The whole ecosystem has shifted.

Still, we must protect what remains: the buildings, the spirit, the character of what came before.

Because a town is more than its buildings. It’s the people inside them, pouring their lives into the work—day in and day out—not just keeping doors open, but building legacies.

So save our old buildings. Respect our old character. And be careful not to remove the past—for once it’s gone, it never comes back.