The Old Place

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.

The house passed out of the family and I do not know who owns it. It doesn’t matter. I have the important things. I kept the memories.

Put the bead on the bird and pull the trigger.
-My Grandfather, summer of 1965


One thought on “The Old Place

  1. This was a very touching and thought provoking post. I like the close, about the memories.

    And your Granddad's advice about shotguns isn't bad, either.

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