Love this building, always have.
In the late-1970s my father lived in the house that used to be to the right of it. There was no heat in the house. My dad used to roll my brother and me up burrito-style and lay us in the bed to sleep. I'd wake up shivering to the tip of my frozen nose at 3am, and he'd still be up reading the book he'd bought when we walked to The Hobbit Habbit earlier that day.
He baked fish for dinner on a cookie sheet lined with tin foil. He doesn't remember this; he says he doesn't like fish, but I distinctly remember the bones.
I remember him proudly showing me the sourdough pancake batter that was slowly, slowly rising in the fridge for Sunday morning. We ate them with honey. He says he doesn't remember doing this either.
His American flag backpack, the serious kind with a metal frame, hung on the back porch, always ready to go. Because sometimes you had to be on the road in the 70s. It was that kind of decade.
Sometime in the late-80s or early-90s they tore down the house and the beautiful church to the left of this building (the church steeple remains, but it eluded my lens). They built an apartment complex in the area behind it. You can view the above photo large, if you like.