Until a couple weeks ago, there were two bungalows across the street. One owned by the man we call Grandpa Bob, a stout and active octogenarian who scares the neighbourhood by balancing on an extension ladder to prune his own trees. The other by a woman who’s lived in a nursing home since before we moved here, a decade ago.
Grandpa Bob says they bought their houses 50 years ago, for about $40,000 each.
I think the woman in the nursing home must have passed away. Her house went up for sale, listed for $1.8 million. Then the trucks arrived.
When I passed Grandpa Bob, standing in his yard and watching the work, I stopped to commiserate.
“It must be hard to see it go.”
He waved a hand at the ground. “We all go down sometime.”
My daughter, meanwhile, is eagerly awaiting the new duplex. She’s hoping a girl might move in.