And Then Came the Renovation. Yet, the Memories Survived.

I live close to where my grandpa used to live when he was alive. On Sunday, I was near his old neighborhood, so I decided I would take a trip down memory lane and do a drive by looking. Yippee! A truck load of memories happened at that precious house; it would be nice to see it again. I miss my grandpa so very, very much. He passed away when I was probably 11 or 12 years old, so it's been a while since I've seen him.

So, my little drive by looking took a turn for the worse. No, I didn't get in a car accident or have one or all (that would have been worse) of my tires go flat. I didn't hit a mailbox or a dear hit me; yes, hit me... refer to an episode of Gilmore Girls. My red Toyota tread its way down the steep decline to his house. Yes, his house.

And.

I didn't recognize it at all. Seriously, it had been defaced by the renovating mobsters of its new owners. Didn't they know it was my grandfathers and there were memories associated with its facade? Apparently not.

*stomps foot*

This got me thinking: Does someone (me) really have ownership to something that is no longer hers (well, my grandpas)? In this case, I emphatically say no while pouting with disappointment.

I'm being totally melodramatic, I know. It was disappointing, though.

But now that I'm writing this post, blabbing on and on, the fact is the memories are still there--in my mind, in my heart, in my precious past. I can still visualize the large patio overlooking Salt Lake City Valley where we would watch fireworks on the Fourth of July. I can still smell the musky, soapy sweet aroma permeating the interior of his home. I still remember sneaking Kraft cheese slices from his old school brown fridge. Games of UNO while a bunch of us sat around his large, oval dining room table. And the weeks on end I spent sleeping over at his house during the summer. Finally, the evening I visited him as he laid still with haggard breaths in his bed--the night he passed away, the night I said I love you to him for the last time in this life.

That's all that matters even when things have changed and time has sped forward. I still love my grandfather more than I could possibly communicate via the written word. And I can still reflect with fondness on the amazing times I had with him. His house, okay the new owners' house's appearance doesn't change anything. It is just a house, not the invaluable memories planted in my mind forever.

Anyway, thanks for reading my ranting.

Have you ever had an experience similar to mine? Have you seen the Gilmore Girls episode I made reference to?

Writing Jewels

PS: I have decided never, ever to renovate a house. Why? Because one day some poor girl will do a drive by looking, and her heart will be dashed to pieces because the house doesn't look the same anymore. And that's all I have to say about that with a little bit of sarcasm added in the mix. :D