This was taken in 1986 or so. Four generations look to the camera. My grandfather, my mother, me, and my oldest son. My son is 28 now, about the age I am in the picture. My grandfather is gone. The last time I stayed at the old place was when I went for the funeral in 1992.
I thought about this today because I was looking at a blog that used Google Maps street view, and I wondered, so I went looking. I found this. This is a screenshot of the same house taken from the street view.
My earliest memories are here. All I remember are wispy bits of being in the kitchen, of the way the closets smelled of cedar and mothballs, of sitting on the back steps.
I went there every summer, even after we moved away. The woods behind the house seemed to me to stretch forever. I learned to reload in the basement of that house. I learned to shoot, both in the back yard, and at the club my grandfather was a member of. When I was a boy, I used to think that one day I own that house. I wanted it, wanted the memories connected to it.
Put the bead on the bird and pull the trigger.
-My Grandfather, summer of 1965