Brick, mortar, memory

I LIKE TO GET UP IN THE morning, go for a little run first thing, to see which houses they might’ve leveled overnight, which hope chests of family history are now gone from the ‘hood. Hey, listen, I’m OK with it. It’s progress, after all.

No, I don’t blame people for knocking down these crummy little places, some of them 40 or 50 years old. It’s happening from Maine to Miami, East Coast to West. Entire neighborhoods of ‘50s-era homes are being refashioned into something grander, featuring big new mansions with media rooms and computer nooks, wine closets and twin bidets. Finally!

You wouldn’t believe some of these houses they’re knocking down. Some of them had only three bedrooms. Jeeeesh. And the kitchens? Maybe 300 square feet, max. How do people live like that? It’s kind of like when you see a small, slower car in front of you on the freeway and you want to crush it with your giant SUV. Same principle. This place is way too small. Bring in the bulldozer. Cruuuuuunch.

They’re not all plain-Jane tract homes either. One sprawling and elegant ranch was leveled to make way for a house that looks like a gigantic Taco Bell. You have to admire that kind of vision. The neighbors must be waiting to see if they’ll add a drive-thru window.

On another street, they’re knocking down a two-story house. Not much. If I remember right, they used to hang a flag from the porch. It was an average place, a place where people probably sat around the kitchen table and talked about the kids, chatted about what to do on the weekend, whether to buy the Buick or the Olds.

Someone likely made a thousand cups of coffee here, waited for the kids to come home from kindergarten, then college, waited by the front window, thumbing through the bills.

You know the way a table lamp looks through a front window, the way the glass refracts the light? It’s one of our better beacons, a sign that someone’s home. That’s the kind of house this was.

Out front, a blast of morning sun is hitting the maple tree. Red and yellow leaves are scattered on the lawn. Someone put in this lawn. Someone got down on their hands and knees after a long week at the office and worked the garden, laid the flagstone, woke up sore Sunday morning. They probably ran from one end of town to the next, looking for just the right mailbox.

Who cares. Not me. It’s not some ancient burial ground. It’s just a house, a home like yours or mine.

It was probably a place where youngsters lost their first teeth, where teens prepped for prom. If this was a typical home, its family no doubt made Thanksgiving dinner here. Some aunt baked one of her famous pies. Kids wrestled over the wishbone. On Christmas morning, they crawled in bed with Mom.

Not much seemed to happen here. Everything seemed to happen here.

As the kids grew, they recorded their heights on the kitchen door with pencil. Mom and Dad planted herbs and tomatoes out back. Carved pumpkins on the porch. At night, someone cleared the dining-room table and they played Monopoly till 1 a.m.

That’s all gone now -- the kitchen door, the garden, the porch. Oh, well.

Do houses have souls? Are they more than paint and mortar and wood? Probably not. But they live on in the bible of our memories, the places we grew up, raised families, huddled against the winter chill as we grew older.

But don’t worry, don’t mourn. In its place, they’ll put up an even better place, I’m sure, with master suites and exterior walls that stretch from the lip of one property line to the next. The garage will be bigger than the house it replaces. The kitchen? To die for. Heck, there’ll be cabinets they don’t even use.

And another family will begin to build its memories here, housebreak the new pup, teach the kids about chores and character. Read “Goodnight Moon.”

They’ll go all-out for the holidays, decorating the place with a million lights and ribbons. On Christmas Eve, they’ll scent the kitchen with homemade tamales or grandma’s chicken soup. They’ll shoo the toddler away from the tree and the gifts. Figure out that new tricycle. Open a good bottle of wine.

Over time, this new place will become a hope chest for their memories as well, a place rich with the most-important moments a family will ever have.

Till one day some new owner comes along, hires a bulldozer and ...

Hey, it’s just a house.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.