I passed that old house just about every day, especially when I first arrived in Lipnica and made daily trips to the post office to mail a letter. It had been abandoned long before I arrived. An ancient, traditional home, made entirely of wood, it was a jarring contrast to most of the other homes constructed of concrete block. I seldom passed it without wondering what it would take to restore it and if anyone would even be interested.

The location was less than ideal, though. Just beside it was the old communist-era bar with a large area above it that had been converted into a discotheque. Every Saturday night, there were dozens and dozens of people milling about with loud techno music that would have been impossible to shut out. Often one could see a couple just around the back corner locked in an embrace or a line of young men leaning against the long wall of the home facing the bar, smoking and laughing loudly.

Still, growing up in suburbia, I found the old house utterly enchanting. Nothing in the neighborhood where I grew up was older than a couple of decades. The houses were cookie-cutter similar: directly across the street from our house was a house built from the identical plan, which had been flipped to create a mirror image of our home. To the left of our house was a home with an identical floor plan with minor exterior design changes. To the left of that house was still the same house a third time. That same house was scattered throughout the neighborhood — at least a dozen more times, I’m sure.

I doubt anyone would worry much about the loss of such a house from a historic point of view. Certainly, it would be a great tragedy for the house to be destroyed while it was still in use, but had it been sitting unoccupied for decades, most would probably consider its removal a positive development.

Taking down a house like this, though, and so very unceremoniously, seemed to me, an outsider, to be almost sacrilegious. We are such a young country, the United States, that something that’s a century-and-a-half old is of automatic interest and significance for anyone with a sense of history.

In the end, I never learned what became of all the timber from that house. It lay stacked in haphazard piles by the road for several months and then disappeared. I heard from someone that the owner of the old house had burned it for winter warmth.

That somehow makes it both more and less tragic.