My grandfather has decided the time has come to move to a retirement community. This means that he'll be leaving the Big House and its three acres. Our family has lived there in one form or another since 1955.

He asked my mother and me to come over and decide what pieces of furniture we want to keep, so we spent today going through the house, the smokehouse, the apple houses, the chicken house, and the two story "apartment" house. Both of us grew up (more or less) on this land, with these buildings. There's not one square foot that isn't loaded with memories for both of us. I know I'll be writing about it off and on for a while to come, but right now is too soon.

Right now, what I want to remember is looking for ripe persimmons this afternoon with mom. The tree lies close to the property line of The Neighbor, who was born in the house she still lives in. The sky was leaden, and every ripe persimmon that had fallen to the ground looked half-rotten or bugridden. I picked one off the tree, and Mom warned me that it would be bitter. I bit into it, and then spat and spat. She hunted among the ripe ones that had fallen until she found one still whole, entire, and then bit off half. She handed the rest to me, and I ate all the sweetness, and spat the pits at the bugs.