The old house where I used to live in East Texas has burned down. Nobody knew about it until my cousin Melissa called my dad from Omaha while she and her husband were down there. We don't know when it burned or how it happened, only that it's gone and nobody said anything to us about it. My dad's grandparents built that house in 1950. My brother and sister and I all lived there when we were little, with my mom and dad when they were still married... from December of '76 until the spring of 1984. I have good memories and bad memories of living there, it was in that house where I spent my childhood. In 1990 my grandma and I spent the summer renovating it, fixing it up, painting it, laying new ceiling tile, making it livable again so it could be rented out. That was it's last breath of life. It's gone now, and nobody will ever make any new memories in that house ever again.
I don't know exactly how to feel about this. I remember joking once about how I'd like to just burn the place to the ground. Now some stranger, infinitely removed from our connections to the place, connections forged by family and feelings, both good and bad, have robbed us... I'm not sure what was taken, but something beyond wood, glass, brick and concrete is definitely missing. I can feel it.
I'll be in East Texas this week. I'll go take a look at it. I'll probably grieve a little. I wonder what that will be like.
The date of the picture, July 24th 2005, was one of the last times anyone attempted to take care of that land. That's me mowing the lawn. Goodbye old house.
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