The air in the prairie, in the city, is not as clear as the air by the sea. Full of dust and pollution, it lends a different quality to the sky, a warmer tone, perhaps, a haziness, as the sky darkens into night. Against the pale orange and grey sky stands one of the city’s landmarks. I was momentarily confused when I first saw it, months ago now. “I didn’t know Morrison’s was here,” I thought, thinking of the supermarket I would often go to in the UK. But of course, this wasn’t a supermarket. Morrison’s Corn-Kits has been manufacturing ready-to-make cornbread mixes for nearly a century; it has been a mill for even longer. This is one building I don’t mind rising above the horizon. Despite still being in use, it has a neglected, abandoned quality to it; a nostalgia for times past. Some buildings seem to have grown out of the land–something about their design, their age, I can’t quite put my finger on it–so that it feels as though they have always been there, or, at least, belong there. When I see Morrison’s Corn-Kits, I feel its connection to the land and the community. It is rough and bare, as the land the farmers would have tended to grow their wheat, their corn, to bring to the mill. And yet, it also feels like some version of Dr Eckleburg’s eyes for North Texas, watching the city’s comings and goings in this dry and flat dusty land, keeping its judgment to itself.
Photo: Morrison’s Corn-Kits in Denton, TX.