by Gabe Donio

On September 1, the early-morning sun shone brightly through the windows of the empty second-floor office on the right-hand corner of the former car barn located, at least for the next few hours, behind the Ranere Estates building on the White Horse Pike. The front building now houses administrative offices for AtlantiCare. They had made the decision to tear down the old car barn, which had been converted into luxury office space during the 1980s by then-local construction company owner Art Grasso.
The offices were empty now. The fixtures remained, including the circular window behind the desk, the ceiling fan and the executive washroom. It appeared that the tenants had just moved out a few weeks ago. I knew better.
In 1991, I sat in a chair in front of Grasso’s desk in the office, and he handed me a scholarship check for $5,000. When you’re 17, and someone hands you a check for five grand just for being you, you tend to remember what they say at that moment.
“Whatever you do, remember Hammonton. If you can do something for your hometown, do it,” he said as we sat in his office.
Later, I sat in the same office with its other tenant, attorney and later judge (and author of Boardwalk Empire) Nelson Johnson. He did legal work for me, and made attempts (since he then served as the solicitor of The Press of Atlantic City) to give me advice regarding journalism. We didn’t always agree, but Nelson was always passionate about his positions.
I was thinking about all this as I stood in the office right before the demolition began. I could see both men sitting behind the desk, in front of that circular window. They were long gone from this place, and soon the place itself would be gone too. A man named Brian, wearing a hard hat like mine, caught me thinking as I stood there.
“Have you ever been in here before?” he asked.
“I’ve been in here quite a few times,” I said.
“That must be weird,” he said.
“You have no idea,” I replied.
We walked through a large conference room that, half a decade ago, had hosted one of the more interesting meetings regarding the location of a town hall. I wasn’t there, but I had heard about it. Then we walked down a flight of stairs, to the front of the building, where the excavator stood. I readied my camera, and then was asked a unique question.
“Where would you like us to start?” Brian asked.
I’ve always felt it’s important to exert a measure of control over your own destiny, when given the opportunity. They gave me the opportunity, so I took it.
“Start at that corner office up there. The one we were just in,” I said.
The big excavator rolled up to the building, and struck it. The circular window popped out and landed in the dirt, completely intact. Ten minutes later, the office was gone.
That’s how eras end. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.
The fact remains that the building shouldn’t have come down, and while it’s comforting to know that a silver lining of advancing time came with its demolition, it was wrong.
And I’ll remember it.

Gabe Donio is the publisher of The Gazette.