7 years ago (next month) I sold my childhood home (approx. 30 minutes outside of NYC) and moved my parents "down the shore" to live in "the village" or what my kids warmly refer to as "Camp Mama and Papa."
My kids grew up here visiting with their grandparents nearly every Sunday and yet I couldn't help but look forward to watching each of them (and us) make many more memorable moments in Mama and Papa's shiney new home.
The last I heard, the house on Union Street was being rented (AGAIN!) and, living 90 minutes away, my parents sometimes STILL visit, insisting that, you know, they just happened to be in the neighborhood.
A few weeks ago, I drove up north to run a few errands (okay, only one, the Hungarian butcher is still there, enough said) and did EXACTLY what I told my parents NOT to do.
I drove up Union Street, right passed the house and, I swear, I could hear my heart break a little.
The foot bridge, the lamp post, the rose-covered arbor, the greenhouse that my father built using leftover materials recycled from various landscaping job sites, it was ALL gone.
I did NOT recognize it, anymore.
Today, I'm heading out to check on my parents (my dad tore a ligament in his "good arm," yesterday) but, not before I make a quick stop for them at the Hungarian butcher...ONLY!
So, yeah, thank you, Garth (NHRN) this is EXACTLY how I will always remember Union Street.
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