Ownership

I recommend doing this.  Take a minute and search on Google maps or a similar website the home address of a residence where you once lived.  The older you are the better.  That way you can look back at how a neighborhood or specific street has changed over the years.
It's been 50 years since I left the home I grew up in.  My folks were California transplants shortly after the end of World War II.  That makes me the classic Baby Boomer.
Since they were older when they first had kids, their version of the American Dream didn't begin until they were in their late 30s and early 40s.
The little home they purchased was finally paid for after both were gone.  What sold for about $15,000 then would probably go for $515,000, today.  That's a conservative estimate.
Something sent me back to that old neighborhood yesterday and through the magic of the internet, I was able to walk up and down my old neighborhood streets.
Back then, in the early 1950s, there were many young families on my street.  Lots of kids to play with, and even though it was mostly white, there was a certain diversity with Latino, Asian, and many religious beliefs represented.  African American and southeast Asians would come later as well as many migrants from Central and Latin America.
I knew all the houses by their appearance.  The Pit family and the Wise family had 5 and 6 kids respectively.  Their front lawns were always in flux and littered with toys and bikes.  The Weinert's and the Paul's were older couples whose children were grown and on their own.  Their front porches and lawns were immaculate.  Erich High was an older German man whose wife was about 20 years younger.  He was a gardener who drove an old blue truck with tools and hoses neatly hung in the back.   His lawn was like a golf course with an enormous elm tree dead center.  It was one of the coolest places to be on a Southern California afternoon in August.

When I punched in my old address 7727...the picture that emerged was of a house that barely resembled the one I knew.  The front lawn was now concrete. Gone was the big Silver Maple tree that shed leaves for months. All those trips with the push lawn mower my dad made...all the time spent edging the lawn just right.  Nothing green now to trim.  No leaves falling anywhere. The home was painted a deep tan with no sign of the redwood panels on the front of the house.  The front porch was now gone and the area looked like the living room had been extended.  I couldn't find the driveway, but when I saw the chimney, I smiled, because it looked familiar.
I'm sure the inside of the house now would be just as unrecognizable.  I don't need to go there.
I have no interest in knowing who lives there now, though I must admit, were I to ever walk that street in person and see someone there, I'd definitely stop.
I feel no deep sadness, even though it's the place where both my parents died, and where I felt most secure.  The home I knew will always exist in my memory.  After all, those recollections are really the only things we ever own.