It was a wreck.

I'm standing in what remains of my grandparents' home in Gravois Mills, a few short minutes the Lake of the Ozarks.  My parents locked the door to the tiny trailer on a modest lot and left for the "last" time in late 1999.  A tornado later, and we'd be heading down there again, to survey the damage and decide what to do.

My grandmother Jo Ann passed first in 1998, followed shortly thereafter by her husband Jack.  The last time I had seen them, they were both at my high school graduation in 1997.  But I had not been to their home since 1992, as far as I could remember; it was the year we moved to Texas.

Now I was surrounded by broken boards and cheap sheet metal, the smell of old mold and dust.  "I remember this place to be a lot bigger... " I started to say, realizing that, at the time, it probably was; I was only 12 at the time

Things in Gravois don't change, that's one of the beauties of the place.  They only recently had sewer lines put in for those that could afford to subsidize the construction.  Everyone knows everyone, and where you live, and who sold you the property.  But there was no denying this trailer wasn't, couldn't, be salvaged.  There were a few semblances of the place I remembered, though, but they came in the strangest places.  The floor creaked in the same places, in the same way.  The faux fireplace still had the controls to adjust the TV antenna on the roof, which was now a tangled mass in their backyard.  And my grandmother's patio table, a short barrel with a plywood top, seemed glued to the floor.  The trashcan by my grandfather's chair still had an item in it: an NFL schedule from 1998.  And the smell was still there, however faint through the dust.  It would just pop into my throat and make me pause every time... I struggled all day to find it, thinking it had to be the flowers or the deck wood, but I just couldn't find its source.

The place just broke my heart.

Then a few asinine people started coming over, offering, of all things, to buy the property.  None of these people called us when the damage first happened, but here they were, circling the rock drive like vultures.  The guy who actually did call my mom, Tony, stopped by to make sure it was us and to once again offer to buy the land.  At least he was a nice guy, and seemed much more interested in how my mom was doing than making a deal.  We told him we'd call him later.

It was hard figuring out what to do at first, but after 10 hours or so of sifting, boxing, and moving, we loaded a precious few items into my dad's truck and left.  We're going to have a bulldozer raze what remains of the tiny trailer and shed, clear the land, and remove the deck.  But for me, having returned for the first time in 15 years, it was surprising more painful than I had originally thought.  I almost wish I hadn't gone with them.

I say almost, because there were a few things I took with me... my granddad's ballcap with "Gravois Mills Volunteer Fire Department" emblazoned on the front, a pocketknife of his, and several bits of glassware.  I even found, in the back of a cabinet, a pair of Cristal champagne flutes; I plan to use them at my wedding.

My grandparents lived simply, and I have a lot of fond memories of that place,  some of the most random popping into my head even 24 hours later.  There was a time when the now-paved road crunched with gravel as my brother and I would walk two lots down to the local grocery storeto buy comic books.  There were the fun-sized cereals my grandmother would have in a jar above the fridge, the deviled eggs my dad liked to much, and the afternoons on the porch watching pickups drive by.  Digging through snow for Easter eggs one year, my dad snoring on the hide-a-bed that seemed to shake the walls, my grandmother's beauty shop down the road...

There was one spot of humor, though.  My dad, seeming to realize the tension in the air, asked me to walk down the the grocery store to get boxes, beer, and ice.  To no suprise, that store had not changed one single bit... even the ice machine rumbled the same way.  When the gal at the counter heard me chuckle, (I was noticing how much taller I was than the register), she asked, "Whatcha thinkin' about hun?"  I said, "Well, the last time I was here, I bought a comic book; now I'm buying beer."  She said, "Oh, were you here earlier today?"  When I said, with a bit of a laugh, "no... more like 15 years ago!" she looked for a second and asked

"Are you JoAnn's grandkid or Marie's?"