Our house is about to be torn down. Well, it’s no longer ours, but it’s where we lived the longest together as a family, where my babies grew up, and where we enjoyed what I have come to call our “blossom years”—the decade when growing old didn’t even occur to us because we were too busy. Our parents were still alive. We entertained endlessly. It provided a rich family life that lasted until I tired of old-home maintenance and decided to make history on another piece of dirt.
A later buyer didn’t love the house. Some of the best trees came down, including one that held a tree house we built from a sonogram crate. The pool went to hell, the tennis court cracked, and birds flew in through broken windows. I had to stop driving by.
Now comes word that a new family has bought the house, without even looking at it. They bought it for the dirt, of course—and it is prime dirt. They will tear down our old house and build their own. And here’s the happy ending: I couldn’t have chosen more perfect people to occupy my old plot. I’m told they plan to build a completely green home. Not too big, not too bawdy. A self-sustaining, energy-efficient house sans pool. Our past couldn’t have found a better future.