Inspector Gadget
Registered User
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.
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.
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