They demolished the house across the street from us. We weren't surprised when a truck arrived hulling a flatbed with a Liebherr excavator. The house was sold last year to a developer, after all, so if anything we were anticipating that moment for some time. What I didn't anticipate, however, was the sorrow I felt watching the house come down.
Like ours, the house was built in the 1950s. An older couple lived there, and there they had one son. They moved in on the snowy day Johnson was inaugurated, a neighbor told me. Yet in just two afternoons, 50 years of memories were torn to the ground.
There was nothing architecturally or historically important about the house, and it wasn't my family that lived there, that made the memories within its walls. This shouldn't be making me so sad, I thought. Soon a new house will stand in its place; it will be beautiful and good for our neighborhood. And I'm anxious to meet the family that moves in, to learn the type of memories they hope to create in their new house. But in the moment, watching the living room fall bit by bit, it was hard to envision so much hope amongst so much rubble.
I admit I'm a sentimental person. I'm also pretty practical (unless I'm shopping, Jon would say). We have lived in our house for nearly three years and, following Cecile's arrival, have quickly maxed-out our space. And so like many Arlington residents, we, too, plan to expand in our current space rather than move. The project excites me. (Like, REALLY excites me.) Whether we tear-down and build anew or simply expand will ultimately come down to numbers. But after seeing the old rambler across the street taken apart piece by piece, wall by wall, I really hope we can commit to an addition.
So there: I've gone on the record. We'll be busting this joint up, people. Stay tuned for project updates ... with intrest rates where they are, they could be coming sooner than later!
