It was just a demolition .....

[Inspector Gadget]

The file was a simple one, as files go around here. It started out as a dangerous and unsightly enforcement, one of those polite letters that we send out that says, "your property has come to our attention...." for, in this case, an old, run-down house. The standard form letter generated a response from the owner who acknowledged that yeah, the house was past its prime. A demolition permit application made its way through the system. Normally, the owners don't try to expedite such things, but this was an exception: the excavator was onsite the same day I issued the permit.

Two days later, a routine visit revealed the house was gone, replaced by rubble and a hole in the ground. Two piles of gravel awaited their fate to fill in the foundation. It wasn't enough to close the demo permit, but enough to close the DAUP enforcement file.

An elderly man in car was onsite, just about to leave. He stopped the car, and rolled down the window.

"My wife lived there, growing up," he started. His eyes revealed a mixture of emotions as he stared at the rubble. The two had been married for 60 years, he continued.

Sensing his emotions, I tried to find something to say.

"Well, hopefully there are a lot of good memories."

"My wife has dementia," the man replied. It wasn't delivered as a rebuke, just a statement of fact. His wife's memories were gone, and now the house she lived in had followed suit.

There was an awkward silence, which the old man filled first.

"It needed to go," he said. If it was meant as reassurance, it didn't come across that way: it was just another statement of fact, albeit delivered with a somber tone.

A flicker of warmth chased across his face.

"Those two trees," he began. "My wife planted them, long ago. One for me, one for her."

He sighed, rolled up his window, and drove away.

It was not just another demolition.

 

[tmurray]

I remember driving home from the funeral after my grandfather passed away. I was incredibly close with him. At the time, I felt like no one understood me like he did. We passed a gas station on the way home and I remember seeing someone filling up their car. He was smiling and I found it offensive how someone could be smiling at a time like this. The anger quickly left and was replaced with a great sense of calm. I was a "gifted" child and later would be accepted into university at the age of 11 (I opted to stay in grade school to help develop my terrible social skills). Almost every teacher I had marveled at my intelligence and talked about the amazing things that I would accomplish. The issue with this is that it is not just a compliment when you have a high intelligence child. These statements become an obligation. I felt an obligation to do amazing things with my gifts so that they weren't squandered. If I didn't do amazing things, that was a failure. My failure. High intelligence children are not used of failure. They do not know how to respond. Failure is terrifying. When I saw that person going about their business while my world was crashing down, it made me realize that few people would know anything about me. I would not be remembered for my failures because it was unlikely that I would be remembered at all. It sounds odd, but this gave me great comfort.

Later in life, I've had much more experience in failure. The reality is the only place that you cannot fail is where you are not pushing the envelope. If you want to do amazing things, you are going to fail.

Now I find it interesting how some people are so terrified of being forgotten, but some of us can find so much comfort in it.

 

[steveray]

I remember driving home from the funeral after my grandfather passed away. I was incredibly close with him. At the time, I felt like no one understood me like he did. We passed a gas station on the way home and I remember seeing someone filling up their car. He was smiling and I found it offensive how someone could be smiling at a time like this. The anger quickly left and was replaced with a great sense of calm. I was a "gifted" child and later would be accepted into university at the age of 11 (I opted to stay in grade school to help develop my terrible social skills). Almost every teacher I had marveled at my intelligence and talked about the amazing things that I would accomplish. The issue with this is that it is not just a compliment when you have a high intelligence child. These statements become an obligation. I felt an obligation to do amazing things with my gifts so that they weren't squandered. If I didn't do amazing things, that was a failure. My failure. High intelligence children are not used of failure. They do not know how to respond. Failure is terrifying. When I saw that person going about their business while my world was crashing down, it made me realize that few people would know anything about me. I would not be remembered for my failures because it was unlikely that I would be remembered at all. It sounds odd, but this gave me great comfort.

Later in life, I've had much more experience in failure. The reality is the only place that you cannot fail is where you are not pushing the envelope. If you want to do amazing things, you are going to fail.

Now I find it interesting how some people are so terrified of being forgotten, but some of us can find so much comfort in it.

And I would bet you do amazing things....

 

[e hilton]

At least the wife has dementia and won’t know the house is gone, vs driving by one day, seeing the vacant lot, and falling into depression.

 

[tmurray]

And I would bet you do amazing things....

Intelligence is simply a factor in success. It is true it gives you a leg up, but I've found it is nothing in comparison to self-discipline, drive, focus, and passion.

 

[Woodrow]

Sounds like someone needs to write a novel. Would make for some good stories.