It's amazing how much a person doesn't see. We drive here and there and barely notice things not associated with obeying all the traffic laws. I suppose that's good, in a way. Of course, we'd notice so much more if we walked instead of drove...
The thought made me laugh a little.
Last week I took a different way home from church--not my usual route--and I notice a big nothing where once stood a house. A house I, at one time, was a welcomed guest when visiting friends.
It's cliched to say "things were different years ago--the town was so much smaller," but it's true. I first became aware of the house when the Sopers moved in. Their son, a year younger than me, was my best friend. They moved from a small, almost tiny, pioneer rock house across the street. They then moved next door the south, then eventually built a beautiful home in a vacant lot next door to that.
When the Sopers moved out, the Salimbenes moved in and they lived in the house for years. That's the last time I knew who lived in the house and that was decades ago. For the life of me, I can't remember what the inside of the house looked like. It doesn't matter now--the building that once was is no longer.
I remember the huge tree in the front yard, a tree where one of the Salimbenes (I believe it was Julie...) fell while climbing and was hurt--she could have been killed the tree was so tall. Whoever owns the property now and is building a new house kept the tree--something I'm glad to see happen.
I snapped a few pictures as I drove past the house. It's been a while since the existing structure disappeared forever. The basement has been dug and the foundation poured. Soon a wooden skeleton will rise followed by walls, floors, windows, doors, and a roof.
There's a good chance that I'll never know or meet the people building the new house they'll soon call home. It's not practical to think so. But as a child who biked and walked everywhere, I knew the people who used to live at that address. Now, the house is gone, my friends have moved, and all that remains are the memories.
