Unfortunately inspired by TV

This past year, my family finally leveled my grandparents' home.

Or shall I say my grandparent's home? Maybe.

My grandmother was married twice. With my grandfather, Paul, I don't know where they lived as newlyweds. No one talks about that.

I do know that my grandmother, aunt, and father lived with my great-grandparents and my great-aunts and uncle when dad was young. Then my great-aunts got married, all but one, and my great-uncle married my dad's cousin from his dad's side.

Wow. That's the most accurate description I've ever done of it. My dad's uncle from his mom's side married his cousin from dad's side.

Then my grandmother married the cousin's mom's brother. If you follow.

It was the depression, and my dad was still in single digit age. They lived on a couple of rented farms, but finally bought the old...Wetterland place? I think.

I have no clue who the Wetterlands were. Suffice to say, I met the daughters of the guy who built it, once, when they just drove into the yard and announced themselves, when I was in single digits myself. I listened, because their dad had built the barn and they'd lived in my Grandma's house, and it was kind of interesting.

They were grown-ups, so they ignored me, of course.

One of the sisters described cleaning the South window and finding a WHOLE QUARTER once.

Being I would have loved to have a quarter myself, I thought that was cool.

The house was a typical homestead. It wasn't the first house--I accidentally blew that up, but I've talked about that before.,

It was the first House. About ten by twenty, two stories, four rooms. My grandparents built on twice. First when they moved in, they put in a proper foundation with a cistern, and a kitchen (huge) and dining nook (tiny) plus another room above it. Later they put in an entry and a bathroom, once they could have plumbing that was powered by electric pump; that was in the late 1940s.

And my dad still lived there.

He didn't marry my mom until he was in his late 30s. He was going to marry His Girl, but he was drafted in WWII and she moved East and married someone else.

So he raised hell for a decade or so.

While living at home.

My parents lived in town for a while, then moved out to the farm once my mom decided she could live within sight of her in-laws. A dubious decision.

Our house was built in 1969, when I was a year old and our little trailer (yes, I'm truly trailer trash) was way too small.

And the grandparents lived in their house until their deaths; my step-grandfather in 1979 and my grandmother in 1981.

My aunt came from the state of Washington, for the funeral and to fuel her own grief and guilt over leaving. I could bitch for a long time about her, but I won't.

Not right now, anyway.

She went through my Grandmother's posessions, and we let her. She took what she wanted.

She even took some of OUR stuff that happened to be there, and we let her.

(See why I'd like to bitch about her?)

We took some things out. My brother and I each took a dresser. I took a bed. We took special decorations, pictures, etc.

We took the TV. It pupped out in a year or two.

Once, my mom asked me to go over and get something. I don't remember who was over, but it was not that long after Grandma had died.

I turned out then kitchen light, which was an unforgiving flouresent thing at the best of times. I started to go upstairs for something I thought I wanted, but I felt...warned away, is the best description.

Finally I just looked in the kitchen cupboard for whatever it was Mom wanted, turned out the light, and left. Quickly.

I told Mom never to send me over there at night again. She apologized.

And she never sent me over there again. Ever.

Not that I never went there again, because I have. But never at night. It's easier to ignore things in the broad daylight. Even then, I never stayed long, because I wasn't supposed to invade that space.

Not yours. Not here. GO.

My dad worked for several years, taking the house apart piece by piece, starting with the last things that were built. First the entry and the bathroom, then the kitchen/dining area and what had been his own room.

He left the original house for a couple of years; his health has been deteriorating.


Last spring, The Boy did an inspection and said it had to come down because it was a serious safety risk. The floor had sunk but 18 inches while the walls were still standing...perilously. He and I were elected, last June, to go in and get all of our stuff, because Mom claimed it was all ours.

Oh, bullshit, Mom.

Evidence: I came home with one jeweler's box, and that by accident.

We did, however, remove my Dad's crib and some other worthwhile linens and such. Nothing of worth; nothing we wanted.

Our scavenger hunt was cut short. My brother, The Boy, had other commitments. We were able to empty the second floor and take a perusal of the first, and found nothing of worth.

To us.

The plan was to hook the tractor to the house and pull it down. When they went forward with the plan, apparently it didn't work that well. The major supports broke instead of bowing over. My nephews fired their potato cannon at the windows and they just blew nice, round holes in them instead of shattering them.

The house didn't want to come down.

I would have expected nothing less than that from the house that told me, very clearly, to vacate, back in 1981. The house that has come back to my dreams repeatedly since 1981, but not since this fall.

My parents finally just called the local fire chief, Lonnie (I used to babysit his kids) and had them do a drill.

I'd like to think there's a video.

I'd like to know that house will never invade my dreams again.

Ever.