Time had marched through the village, pillaging and looting and devastating what once existed. Gone was the house where he grew up, the small stores with friendly white-aproned clerks, the idyllic hometown. The church had evolved into a bar and everyone he ever knew had relocated to the cemetery. After a few days they climbed back on the train and headed back to Montana, the vision Grandad had carried for most of his life shattered into a hundred knife-edged shards. You remember the fellow you went steady with as the handsomest guy in school until you stumble across an old yearbook.
Houses are like that, too.
Wash. It was a wonderful house, a perfect house. Then they left Fairbanks and moved back. Renters had trashed the place to the point where they had to replace flooring and walls and haul off truckloads of trash. It took weeks before it was even habitable. So much for perfection.