A picture. In a scrapbook.

I did a double-take the other day. Rubbed my eyes. Because one of the oldest houses in the neighborhood was gone. And it was there yesterday. I'm sure of it. And now, less than 24 hours later, the house is gone. Completely. Totally. No trace of it. It was known as the Loren place. I remember Mrs. Loren. She must have died 30 or 40 years ago. In her 90s. And until the day she died, she was out in her yard. Gardening. Her son, Vern, kept the homestead for a long time. But he didn't always take good care of the place. Or of himself. Maybe drank a little too much. And fell into ill health. A heart condition. But lo and behold, when he was in his 60s, Vern had a heart transplant. And survived. For another 10 years or so. Then the house became a rental property. And not so long ago, it was damaged by fire. And left vacant. Now it's gone. Demolished and hauled away. In eight hours. And a brand new home will go up this summer. Won't look anything like the old Loren house. Now just a memory. A picture. In a scrapbook. --Jim Broede