About a month ago, as I was driving down the two lane road in my burgeoning, fast growing suburb, I notice a “sold” sign on a piece of land next to the newest grocery store.

This piqued my interest, and over the next few weeks as I sat in standstill traffic, I’d look at the lot.

A mid-century brick home sat back in the middle of a large lot, and I saw there was a very big back yard behind it. Two white washed garage doors were bright relief against the multicolored brick that shaped the home.

The back yard, like the front, was not fenced – I could see planned azalea bushes set just so, riotously waving their fuchsia blooms in the spring breeze.

An old clothes line pole stood as a sentinel in the backyard, reminding me of days when clothes were hung out to dry on bright spring days such as these.

The front yard was somewhat overgrown from the months or years of abandonment, but evidence of a gardeners love was seen. Here, a giant wisteria, draping it’s lavender clusters of flowers next to the showy azaleas.

There, by the front steps, lilies were shooting up their spiked green leaves, signaling the flowers to come.

One day a sign announced that this piece of land was slotted to become a car wash…exactly like the new one just a few short miles at the end of that very road.

I grew wistful.

I was a military brat, moving every 1-2 years my entire childhood. I only saw my grandparents a handful of times, and three of them passed away before I reached high school.

Because of the formerly rural history of the area I live in, I began to imagine the life of the family that had occupied that empty brick house.

Maybe they lived there 50 years or more, and by the time the house sold, both the children and the grandchildren had played in that big yard, chasing butterflies, and running from drunken bumblebees that gorged on the feast of lavender and fuchsia flowers that were so well established…and at one time, well loved.

Today, before the bulldozers begin the clearing of the house and land, I got some wisteria cuttings.

I bought the correct soil, and some rooting powder.

I drove to my sons house nearby, and my daughter in love, three year old grandson and I filled pots with soil and manure.

We dipped the freshly cut green wood cuttings into the powder, and planted them in the pots.

Together, the three generations of us worked on trying to capture and grow just a little bit of what that long ago homeowner started.

We, too, made memories with the wisteria.

For this, I am grateful.