I was sad when they tore down the old house—the abandoned house down the street where the grass had grown chin high and vines sprouted out of the corners and nostrils. I have an attachment to things like that. Things “with character,” as Mom likes to say. No one lived in the house but the house lived with everyone else. But I guess all things have to go eventually. And after a certain age everyone gets used to seeing things go. “It’s a shame,” Grandpa said, raising a grin and a soda. What a novelty it was, that old house.