It’s a story I’ve heard more than a handful of times where I grew up – an old family home built or bought by someone’s great great grandfather, with pieces periodically added over the years. A bedroom, a new kitchen, sometimes through contract work, sometimes by hand. For a few months, it’s a little foreign, but enough knickknacks and little bits of warmth get added to it so that the rest of the house accepts it as a part of its own.
This goes on for years. Decades. A generation or two. Then something happens – a general need to relocate, the banks being banks, the kids moving out – and all of a sudden a for sale sign ends up in front of the building. You can take a lot of the components of that old house with you, but the bones that held them stay.
For how long, no one knows. A home one day, an empty lot the next.