You can remove a house, but not the memories
In 2014, the sign read, “For Sale.” It was located in an older neighborhood of Bethesda, Md., a suburb of Washington, D.C.
It was posted on the same house where I had lived as a child in the 1950s. Nothing fancy, just a two-story brick structure built in 1944. It was 2,548 square feet — including the basement, along with a single-car garage.
The last owners had done an excellent job of keeping up the place with a remodeled kitchen and other popular amenities. It sold for $680,000.
We all have memories of places where we grew up. It seems as if part of our souls are left behind. Of course, we always have the option of returning for a visit.
In 2017, I cruised down my old narrow street to find a shocking scene. The neighboring houses looked the same as they did in 1954. But mine was gone — vanished — just as though it had never existed. There was a sudden feeling my eyes must be lying.
Maybe I’m on the wrong street. Maybe if I blink and check the address several times, I can alter this perception. I question my own memory. Perhaps those few short years of my childhood never existed.
But everything checks out. In place where my former abode once stood, now sits a strange monstrosity with a Victorian-style turret and a Roman-style single column — the latter which rises two stories and holds the roof of the front porch. A two-car garage is now located to the right and paving stones replace a recently poured concrete driveway.
The architecture and stucco sides on the new dwelling look so out-of-place among the other ‘40s-style brick homes. Some other houses nearby have met similar fates, but I never dreamt it would happen to mine.
Price of the new custom creation? How about $1.3 million? It’s hard to fathom a developer paying almost $700,000 for a home in great condition, tearing it down completely, hauling the debris away and starting over from scratch. But that’s exactly what happened.
What’s really disturbing about all of this is the hypocrisy of this community. Bethesda has always been a progressive locale and promotes environmentally conscious activities.
But it doesn’t seem to bother these folks to permeate an overused landfill with the remains of a perfectly good home — just to satisfy the ego of a self-indulgent owner.
At the same time, they tell the rest of us we’ll be fined if a loose bottle cap is found in the wrong trash container! But hey, that’s life.
“So what’s the big deal?” you might say.
It’s just those memories can never be relived in the physical. The place where my father and I played catch in the backyard. The basement where we shot hoops and painted my bicycle all have disappeared.
There was the stairway where my “Slinky” mysteriously descended. How about Mom in the hallway, buttoning up our jackets on a cold winter day until we looked like the kid in “A Christmas Story?” There was my room and looking out the window in anticipation another beautiful spring baseball day.
On the darker side, there was the inebriated businessman who almost ended up in our living room. But fortunately, his ‘50 Dodge was stopped by a large tree in the front yard.
That tree, of course, was a casualty of developmental “progress.” his house also was where we rode out Hurricane Hazel.
But all of these thoughts now are mixed with landfill dust, along with many other memories.
OK. So I’m just being sloppily sentimental. People have a right to do what they want, with their own property, right? The new owners should be very happy abiding in their modern dwelling. Their six-figure government salaries will easily make the mortgage payments, and Montgomery County officials will love the home’s new property tax base.
But someday, when I’ve crossed over to that great suburbia in the sky, these same people just might hear footsteps or a Slinky traveling up and down their stairs on a dark and spooky night.
They won’t know it, but of course, you will. You’ll know whose spirit will be roaming those hallways — just searching for a particular piece of his long-lost past.