The house I grew up in

My brother told me on Tuesday that the wrecking equipment had finally arrived to demolish the house in which I grew up in Montriond, near Morzine, in the French Alps. By the end of the week “L’Épicéa” (Picea alpestris, we named it after that spruce variety) will be gone, the ground leveled and the home that sat on it for more than 70 years will be totally forgotten by almost everyone. I certainly will remember it a lot. That’s where, upon my birth, I was brought up and were I stayed in and off until the time, 34 years ago, when I left my mountains to go work for Look bindings. I heard many times that my dad and Uncle Alfred his brother, both toiled to build this rather large structure with their own hands, putting a lot of “sweat equity” into it. When it was completed, the residence was “state-of-the-art,” but over the years it had steadily become lifeless and obsolete. As I reminisce, I feel a tinge of sadness in thinking about the all years I lived in that place. I only console myself when I remember that “all things must past” and I think that very soon, my brother will finally enjoy an unobstructed view from his picture-perfect chalet that he built in the back of it…