Those walls can no longer talk

Dear You,

For over twenty years I owned a cottage in New England. Ahh, the memories! At one point I even dreamed of retiring to live there -- a sort of poet's life. Very romantic, you know?

Dreams, however, are just that, and when the reality of My Current Situation sank in, the For Sale sign went up. The buyer seemed little interested in the story of the house, which was (to me) a very good one. The structure was nearing its second century. Built in 1910 from wood recycled from the old Harvard University football stadium, it had been the summer place for its builder and family for many years. Then a young couple bought it, winterized it, and added a dog and two children before out-growing the confines. I was the third owner.

I drove past it a year after the sale and found the house in a pile. Sticking out of one side was the vacuum cleaner I'd left behind; out of the other, the propane grill that I'd left on the porch. And nearby was rising the house that would replace the little cottage -- 4br/2.5b/2-car garage with pool in the back.

It's vanity to think we build monuments to ourselves. It is not, however, too vain to think that tangible evidence of our memories might last at least as long as we do. But not in this case, and not for me.