Vandals

I just don't get it. Just what joy is there in destroying other people's possessions? It is a thrill of some sort? Is it some kind of natural high?

My dad and mom built (almost from the ground up) a little house at one of the lakes on the outskirts of the hill country back in 1964. Before my mother died (and I mean almost right up to the very end) they planned to retire there.

Unfortunately, they placed the house in a really bad place. They were after seclusion. So they put the house toward the back of the lot. For years, there were no houses around the house. It got to be that every time we got to the house, it had been broken into. A normal way for the house was to have at least one window boarded up because someone had broken it out to gain access to the house.

Then Henry and his wife built a beautiful home next door. The big plus, in addition to them just being there, is they had a dog. If someone was around our house, their dog would bark spurring Henry to turn on lights which would usually run the perps off.

As time went on, Henry's wife got Alzheimer's. About ten years ago, she died from the disease. That left Henry there alone. But he stayed, and that fact kept the baddies at bay.

When my dad died, I was really tied to the house. When Lady Bug was born on January 2001, that's where we stayed waiting for her birth (two weeks - the docs said it could be any day) in the cold. The house was never well insulated. The house had such meaning to me. He crafted all the cabinets. He built the dining table. It was him - totally.

About three years, Henry had the nerve to die on us. He was 92 - like my dad. Can you believe? Now I'll be more serious. It happened. His house was now empty. There was no one to help run off the baddies. I still don't understand how the people across the street don't see these bums. I acknowledge it would be difficult, but I think they could see something. But they don't.

Two years ago, I walked into a mess. Again, we had been broken into. This time, they stole furniture and pictures on the walls. The worst was the fact they had broken all the curios on the shelf. I packed up as many of the things that were important as possible. I haven't been able to face it since.

Yesterday I got a letter postmarked that area. It was from a real estate agent who lives close by. She wanted to know if I wanted to sell. She said the house had been seriously vandalized. This I cannot understand. It is completely beyond me.

My kids don't really care that much about the property. I am getting over my grief, and I think I am looking at things in more reality. We don't go there - of course, it's not really inhabitable now I'm sure. I have had offers to buy before, but I just couldn't let go of Daddy.

I think I can. I really don't want to face what has happened to the house. I think it would spin me right back to wanting to hold on to it.

I was so upset by the letter, I was absolutely sick. I really wanted to throw up. I knew my thoughts would stay active last night when the lights went off. I've thought about it all day. I haven't mentioned it to G, but I think I will tonight.

I'm pretty sure Henry's house is still vacant. The last time I checked the tax rolls, it was still listed in the Estate of . . .

I just don't understand vandals. I don't understand why there isn't something better they could do with their time.

Peace.