14 April 2006, two days before my dad died, escrow closed on the home where I’d spent the majority of my life, where I’d lived over twice as long as I’d lived in my childhood home.
We were without question out of the bucolic ville and into the City.
We’d drive by when we were in the area. The tall poles with orange netting showing the outlines of the house-to-be went up, then tipped and tilted after the winter storms. The renters who moved in shortly after escrow closed moved out around the time the orange netting went up. Bellecourt was vacant, tree fall littering the circular drive. The house that his nibs and his father had helped build was in limbo, just waiting for permits to go through before … before what? We were hoping maybe it would be just a remodel, yes, a major remodel but maybe one where the bones of the place were still visible if you squinted just right. Maybe?
Months. A year went by. Maybe the buyers had run out of money. Maybe they’d changed their minds.
I drove past the old place last week to find cyclone fencing around the entire acre property. A construction truck parked out front. Port-a-potty for the crew. Came home and told his nibs that the house was still standing though.
His nibs just got a note from old friend that his wife drove by and the house has been demolished, scraped, gone-gone-gone in preparation for the new construction.
*sigh*
Even if we win the lottery, we can’t go home again.
Ever.