Monday, I heard that the local farmers sold their land to a developer. He's replacing our green borders with condos. Installing a lake where the cows grazed. Bulldozers already gather in the fields like metal crows. I wait for them to fly away, but this is where they've migrated for good, it seems. (Where's the scarecrow?)

My neighbors sold their homes and land, too. The houses will be squashed and dusted away. Probably replaced with a parking lot. It's an unfair monopoly. The developer trumped our wishes to remain in the pseudo-country. Now my folks have to sell or forever be shadowed by identical apartments, drowned out by traffic, suffocated with people everywhere.

They're considering a gorgeous new home. Bigger, brighter, newer. But it won't feel the same. I can't take my kids back to the basement. Can't show them my old rooms. Can't point out the squeaky tile, the noisy step. I can't explore through the same corn fields and trees with them.

So much of that house was a gift from close friends: new wallpaper, kitchen and bathroom tile, carpet, deck. It's as if selling the house will eradicate the gifts since the developer only wants it for the acreage.

The good news: the new (potential) property is wooded and will remain that way for at least a decade. My kids will be able to explore other places, build their own forts, create totally new memories--and so will I.