The wood, knotty pine, worn and dried from 100 years of giving structure to summer, cracked and shattered in response to pressure from an 8 ton excavator’s tooth edged bucket. Diesel fumes mixed with wood chips as windows, doors, and shower stalls were separated from their purpose. As walls were destroyed, the two story house wobbled slightly in a vain effort to forestall the inevitable. Having stood this long in gallant service, sheltering it’s family, reluctance kept it standing in spite of losing a wall and corner. The porch fell easily. French doors cracked. Rubber treads moved the excavator robotically to the southern corner looking for the crux, searching for weakness. Corner posts of cedar succumbed, tongue and grove floors splintered. The house wobbled again, unsure of it’s footing, with nowhere to retreat. The excavator set upon the southern corner, as the big house, devoid of much of it’s first floor, weakened but still proud, shuddered a last time and slowly collapsed to its knees with a heart rendering crunch.