There Goes the Neighbourhood

The house across the street from ours has been for sale for over a year. Harry, The elderly gentleman who lived there previously, fell ill and has since become a resident of a local nursing home. I miss Harry - he was a wonderful man. The house was subsequently put on the real estate market, and since then, I have watched a steady train of people inspect it every weekend.

This particular home has been well-maintained over its many years. It is built of sturdy brick, has a spacious, treed yard, and the house is covered in virginia creeper ivy - giving it that Olde English look. Like most of the houses in my neighbourhood, it was built some time in the early nineteen-hundreds. Our house is over one hundred years old itself.

I noticed the other day that the 'For Sale' sign had been removed from the front lawn. This is nothing new around here as people change real estate companies frequently. But a new sign didn't appear - and soon, moving trucks began to arrive.

Load after load of furniture was taken into the house. Tasteful furniture at that. I admired what looked very much like an antique cherry wood dining set as it was carried through the door by the not-so-bad-looking movers. (hey...just because I'm chained to the porch, doesn't mean I can't bark at the cars!) From what I could glean, our new neighbours seemed to have taste and culture.

Looking out the window later in the afternoon, I was suddenly taken aback by a complete incongruity. There was something dreadfully wrong about the way Harry's house looked now. (it will always be Harry's house to me.)

Over the old art-deco door of the garage (a 1960's addition, no doubt) was an eyesore that made me want to weep.

A basketball net.

So much for taste and culture.