Well, it's apparently over with. The house I grew up in finally sold today, my brother calling to confirm the signing of the papers this afternoon. I'm pretty sure that the three lots that made up our property will be split up, the old 1926 house and the detached garage demolished and most of the old orange, avocado, mango and other trees will be pulled up and thrown into the landfill.
It's a bittersweet event for me, but then most events are. I've always tended to get emotional over inanimate objects with no perceivable soul. I've said goodbye to a 1971 Ford Maverick, a 1978 Pontiac Grand Prix and our 1998 Toyota Sienna over the years and gotten misty-eyed each time when I bade them fairwell. The house is a little different, granted, having been in our family since 1944, first purchased by my grandfather, then my parents after his death in 1948, then sitting silent and empty since my mother was moved out to a home up in Tampa after my father's death. Still, perhaps it is a bit foolish for me to get sentimental over a tiny (by today's standards), un-air conditioned, dusty old relic with jalousy windows and a single bathroom that was certainly not soundproofed.
I'll certainly enjoy the half of the sale proceeds (after taxes, of course) that I'll be getting soon. I'm sure my parents never would have guessed that the old place, in a run-down, ungentrified neighborhood in Sarasota, would ever have sold for what it did today, but I think that, wherever they are, they're happy that it did, just about the last asset they can pass along to their two sons to help with their financial security. After all, they were the soul of the old place.