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This special 7 Minute Stories Cinema collaboration takes you to a small-town Super Kmart, a once-thriving hub that slowly faded into obscurity—only to be reclaimed by an unexpected new population. In this episode, Aaron reflects on a childhood filled with late-night runs, hypnotic store music, and one final transformation that turned an abandoned parking lot into something truly unforgettable.
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Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Calafato
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Theme Music: thomas j. duke
Additional Soundscape Design: Isaac Gehring
TRANSCRIPT
Aaron Calafato:
The Death of Super Kmart… But What About the Seagull Zoo? (7MS Cinema)
Hundreds of seagulls began to take over one of America’s most popular stores—and it all happened in my hometown. I’ll tell you the story, right after this.
Before the seagulls arrived, this location in my hometown of Medina, Ohio, had a different claim to fame—it was home to the first-ever Super Kmart in America. Not just a regular Kmart. We had one of those for years across the way. But this? This was something else.
I was eight years old when it opened, and I’ll never forget what a big deal it was. News coverage, local politicians, hundreds of people at the grand opening—cutting the ribbon like it was a world-changing event. And in a way, it was. This was the early ’90s, an era of economic optimism, and the convenience of a Super Kmart was unmatched.
Imagine smashing a Giant Eagle together with a Kohl’s. That might not sound exciting now, but at the time? It was huge. People could—and did—spend hours in that place. I know, because I was one of them. Some of my earliest memories are tied to that store.
I can still see myself standing in the shopping cart as my mom, wide-eyed, realized she could get all her errands done in one place. Meanwhile, I was just trying to survive the clothing section. She’d be holding up jeans for me, asking, “You can pick one or two pairs—what do you want?” I wanted the MC Hammer ones. The ones with the elastic at the bottom. She told me they were too expensive. “We can just roll up the bottoms,” she said. “Mom, people will notice!” I protested.
But there was a deal to be made. If I could just endure this, I knew we’d make it to the toy section. “Just one more stop,” she’d say. But I knew what that meant. It meant we were heading to the deli, where she’d grab a half-pound of bologna on sale for the week.
As I got older, Super Kmart took on a new life. By my teenage years, it became the final stop of the night. In a small town like Medina, there weren’t many options after 10 p.m. If you weren’t at someone’s house, you were either crushing Taco Bell or hanging out at Super Kmart.
We’d roll in after eating way too much fast food, laughing, running through the aisles, treating it like our own personal playground. I feel terrible now for the night-shift employees who had to deal with us. But at the time, it was a world of fluorescent lights, abandoned shopping carts, and this weird in-house Kmart radio station that echoed through the empty store.
And then… Super Kmart started to fade.
At first, I didn’t notice. But slowly, the parking lot got emptier and emptier. I didn’t understand business models or competition back then. I didn’t know about Walmart’s rise or Kmart’s declining strategy. But I did notice one thing: the seagulls.
At first, there were just a few. Medina is 30 minutes from Lake Erie, so how they even got there, I don’t know. Maybe one scouted it out. Maybe it mistook the vast, empty parking lot for a body of water. But once they arrived, they never left.
Dozens turned into hundreds.
By the time I left for college, the seagulls had taken over. When I moved to New York, they were still there. When I moved back to Ohio, still there. And when the store finally shut down in 2013—completely abandoned—the seagulls remained.
At first, it made me sad. But then, I realized—they were making the best of it. And maybe I could, too.
By then, I had a daughter. She was about one or two, and I didn’t have much money. So, I started taking her to that empty parking lot with a loaf of day-old bread. She would tear off little pieces and throw them to the seagulls, squealing with delight as they swooped in, fighting over the crumbs.
She looked up at me one day, eyes wide with excitement, and asked, “Dad, can we keep coming back to the Seagull Zoo?”
And I said, “Of course, sweetheart. We can come back to the Seagull Zoo.”
And we did—for almost ten years.
But now, things are changing.
I just heard they’re planning to tear down the old Super Kmart. A new superstore is coming. The community is buzzing about it, just like they did in 1991. They’ll probably keep the parking lot. They’ll need it for all the new shoppers.
But as I drove by the other day, looking at that empty building, I had one thought: I have to tell this story—to keep this memory alive for me, and for my daughter.
And the only thing I’m left wondering is…
What’s going to happen to the Seagull Zoo?
