…that you can never go home.
And maybe they’re right about that. I got a tip from an old neighbour that the house I grew up in had been sold and in the process of being torn down.
This is commonly referred to as “progress”. Someone purchased a plot of land in the 1960’s, built a small but strong house on it, and lived there for many years. The land appreciated in value, the occupants got old and died, and they handed the house down to their son. He had no use for the house, he wanted money, so he sold it to my parents. They bought it in 1981 for $30,000. I was four years old.
I lived there until I was twenty four, when I moved out and into a townhouse with my then-girlfriend, now-wife.
There are a lot of memories in that house; some good, some not so good, but all mine. Ours.
My parents sold the house in 2003 and moved two hours south, where the housing market was considerably cheaper.
Now, in 2014, it is being demolished and they’ll probably squeeze two or three two-storey townhouses onto the block. The entire suburb is full of that sort of thing. The soul got ripped out of the area many years ago.
Here is the house I grew up in, sans roof.
I took my wife and six year old daughter out with me. I was telling my daughter that this was where Daddy grew up. The moment seemed lost on her.