The Industries We Left Behind

Creative destruction

I remember spooling a roll of film into a camera, then manually moving it forward, every snapshot, every cherished moment, was captured and imprinted onto this tiny spool of emulsion-coated plastic, a chemical alchemy. Kodak wasn’t just a company, it was a dominant monopoly, bringing our memories to life on printed paper. For decades, these film reels weren’t just technology, they were timeless heirlooms. On every occasion, the click of a camera shutter echoed through living rooms, weddings, and vacations, shaping how we framed our lives and preserved fleeting moments.

But then at the turn of the 21st century, came the digital deluge, pixels swept away grain, algorithms dissolved chemistry, and the darkroom, that cloistered temple of light and shadow, a converted cupboard on my parents landing, became a place to store cases and other seldom used bric-and-bracs. The shift to digital photography not only democratized this process but also transformed it into something instantaneous and disposable. Where once photos were deliberate, each frame a small investment, now they are infinite, a flood of pixels archived in the cloud. This evolution raises questions: Have we traded permanence for convenience? And in doing so, have we lost the ritual of cherishing a moment, now buried under the ease of swiping past it?

Kodak, once invincible, now stands as a cautionary monument to hubris in the face of change, a giant felled not by the weight of its competitors, but by its own inability to see the tidal wave of transformation that was digital photography. Kodak was more than a corporation, it was a cultural phenomenon, a lodestar, shaping not just how we captured memories, but how we cherished them. Its rise and fall encapsulate the delicate balance between innovation and inertia, and the poignant reminder that technological dominance is never a permanent condition.

Then there was the typewriter! Its keys clattered like a mechanical heartbeat, marking time for writers with ambitions as sprawling as the novels they hammered out. Hemingway drank with his, crafting essays that bristled with life. Orwell battled tyranny with his. The typewriter was not just a tool, it was a companion, albeit one without memory. Yet its demise, at the hands of personal computers, signals more than a technological shift. It reflects a profound transformation in how we conceive, create, and preserve the written word.

The Melancholy of Utility

Milk, that humble staple of childhood, once delivered by men (occasionally women) in crisp uniforms who knew every family’s quirks (milk delivery was a job I held while at school), it was more than sustenance, it was a ritual of trust. The milkman, with his clinking glass bottles, was a fixture of urban life. Then refrigeration arrived, supermarkets sprawled, and the milkman became a ghost.

And landline telephones, once the nerve center of every household and business, connecting families, friends and business conversations through copper wires. They’ve now faded into obsolescence, replaced by mobile phones that tether us to a perpetual digital agora. Similarly, consider the switchboard operators, those unsung heroes who once manually connected every call, their meticulous choreography of wires and plugs an essential part of daily communication. With the advent of automated systems, they too faded into the background, leaving behind a world fundamentally reshaped. The decline of such roles isn’t just a story of technological replacement, it’s a shift in how we experience connection, untethered and transient, yet paradoxically more constant than ever.

The Human Epilogue

But let us pause here to ask: What of the people? The craftsmen, the operators, the deliverers who infused these industries with purpose? Their obsolescence is not merely technological but deeply personal. The telegraph operator, pressing the keys to send urgent messages across continents, now confronts a world of instant WhatsApps, texts and emojis. They reskilled, retrained and moved into new roles.

Progress

Things that are more or less obsolete. Home Video Rentals. Carbon Paper. Telegraph Services. Compact Discs (CDs). Beeper/Pager Industry. Ice Delivery. Coal-Based Heating. Vacuum Tube Electronics. Manual Switchboard Operations. Sewing Machine Manufacturing (for home use, now a niche hobby). Reel-to-Reel Tape Recorders. iPod. Milk Delivery Services. Encyclopedia’s (Printed). Linotype and Hot Metal Typesetting. Home Radio Kits. Telegram Delivery. Asbestos Industry (yay). Cassette Tapes. Airships (Zeppelins). Telex Machines. And many more.

From the Ashes

Remember slate records? Along came vinyl, that curious disc. The LPs that once languished in thrift stores now spin again, a phoenix of warm analog sound. It is proof, perhaps, that obsolescence is not always final. Nostalgia, or is it rebellion against perfection, has resurrected this staple of my youth. There’s something deeply human about analog, its imperfections, its tactile engagement, its insistence on slowing us down. Vinyl isn’t just a format, it’s an experience, a ritual. In an age of pristine digital streams, vinyl’s resurgence speaks to a craving for authenticity, for a connection to the past that feels warm, flawed, and wonderfully alive.

A Warning to the Laggards

The industries of today, as steadfast as they seem, will join the pantheon of the forgotten. New technological breakthroughs are threatening to upend logistics, healthcare, and even creativity. Just as Kodak’s failure to adapt shattered its dominance, companies today face a similar crucible. Can they pivot in the face of AI’s relentless march, or will they falter under the weight of their own inertia? The parallel is striking, a reminder that technological disruption spares no one and that survival demands not only innovation but foresight and humility. The lessons of the 20th century’s fallen giants are clear. Adapt, or be left behind.

Reluctant Elegy

The industries we have lost are not just case studies in economic evolution. They are stories, messy, poignant, alive. Each shuttered company, each dismantled typewriter, is a chapter in the endless saga of human reinvention. Let us eulogize these lost worlds not with regret but with a fierce curiosity about what comes next.

Progress is an unrepentant playwright. Its scripts are not always kind at first, even often brutal, but always compelling and improving what was before. Yet, in the cyclical nature of obsolescence and reinvention, we find a deeper truth, human ingenuity thrives in the voids left behind. For every industry laid to rest, another rises, shaped by the same restless spirit that refuses to accept permanence. This is the story of humanity. Persevering, building, adapting, and ever-curious.

Be true to you.

Colin