Easy Reader 55th Anniversary Writing & Photo Contest 2025: Second Place Photography and Honorable Mention Writing

Honorable Mention

A death in the family

by Vance Scott

They say, “You can’t go home again.” You can’t, not if you lived in the two story, wood shingle house on Pine Avenue. That house is history. Obliterated and annihilated. Now just dust in the wind. What had been our family home for six decades has been pummeled and pulverized into a heaping pile of twisted, splintered timber, broken glass and rubble. 

This was the house built the year I was born. The house my sister and I grew up in. The house my mother died in. The house where a lifetime of dreams and memories were made. Losing her was like a death in the family.

I wasn’t sure I could bear to watch her razing, but I needed one last look. It was an ugly, anguished death, watching the claws of the backhoe take bite after bite, slowly devouring her. She didn’t surrender easily. That old house had strong bones. She had my dad’s DNA. The house could have easily lived a few more decades. 

I had tried desperately to save her. I’d spent most of last summer shining her up, hoping some nice young family would make her their dream home. I had a new redwood staircase built off the upstairs deck. I had new French doors installed in the master bedroom, meticulously staining them to perfectly match the originals. I replaced the aging sewer mainline, at considerable expense. I broke my back hefting, heaving and hauling tons of accumulated stuff out of attics, closets and cabinets and down the stairs until I could not lift another load. I planted, painted and polished her to perfection, thinking surely someone would make her their future residence. Then, last May, we put her up for sale.

At first there was a flood of mostly curious looky loos and nosy neighbors, but no serious offers. As weeks turned into months the once steady stream of visitors slowed to a mere trickle. Twice we lowered the asking price significantly but still there were no offers. Prospective buyers didn’t like the floor plan. Or the walk-through bedroom that led into the back family room, the so-called ‘tiki room’ that was my favorite room in the house. They complained the house was “cute” but was a bit old and dated, despite mom’s impeccable interior designing and decorating. Meanwhile, the forlorn little house stood dark and empty, unloved, undesired and unwanted.

In the end, like so many other original old houses before her, she would reluctantly and regrettably be sold to a builder, only to be demolished to make way for another Manhattan Beach McMansion. I’m told there are plans to build a 3,600 square foot behemoth on the property, the maximum size permitted on a 40 x 112 foot lot. Instead of a beautiful backyard, there will be a 400 square foot basement. I cannot conceive of growing up in a home without a backyard.

As I watched the walls come crumbling down there was a thunderous crash as a huge portion of the roof collapsed, shaking the ground and openly exposing the upstairs master bedroom. The ceiling fan above my parent’s bed was spinning freely in the warm breeze, as if the house was still alive. 

In my imagination an apparition appeared. My mother’s ghost in a long, flowing bathrobe emerged with a puzzled look, wondering what the hell was happening to her beloved house? The illusion was so real I wanted to rush in to rescue her.

Mom, Dad, I am just so profoundly sorry. I tried my best, but I feel that in the end I have ultimately failed you. I know you can never forgive me. With intense emotions of both guilt and shame, sadness and sorrow, I blew a final, tearful kiss goodbye, and slowly walked away.