My grandparents, Leon and Irma, in front of their home in Detroit circa 1940
My scheduler, a particularly concrete thinker, sent me to the wrong zip code to open a hospice case last night. As my escort drove me down the street, I couldn't help but think about the times I spent on that block and how nothing looked the same anymore.
It was the same block where my mother grew up, my grandfather raced pigeons and brewed "root beer" during prohibition and my grandmother ruled with an iron fist, but oh how the place had changed. I looked in vain for familiar homes and landmarks.
Mom's childhood home (and the entire neighborhood) was gone and while I was expecting to see the usual carcasses of those homes, overgrown weeds and the detritus of neighborhood thugs, I saw instead a thing of wonder.
A brand new Habitat for Humanity neighborhood had sprung up in its place.
One can't replace the craftsmanship of the early 20th century on a shoestring budget, but instead of neighborhood blight and despair, it appears that hope has moved into town.
I'll have to thank the blockhead who sent me here because she was too lazy to check the correct zip code. I owe her one.