The Discomfiture of a Landmark Obliterated

“Wiped from the map” would not be a literal description of the old lodge, as we can see, thanks to the ever-watching eyes of Skynet. But the sentiment is recognised just the same.

The foundation, caked in the dust of red clay, sits in a patchy clearing in woods not far from the wilted fairways of Brown Hills Golf Club. Rusted pipes jut from the buried substructure and there is still evidence of the Burning Pile once occupying the center of the yard.
  Certainly some memories linger on in the hindbrain recesses of once-furley collegians.
  Hearty laughs will no doubt abound in the retelling of tales about stockpiles of industrial-sized cans of foodstuffs, decades’ worth of men’s magazines stacked to the rafters, and a certain “lucky lady” who was stingy with her kisses. And of course, about the lodgemaster himself — Ol’ Man Willie and his domain of dog dirt.
  Yes, there will be stories. And for a man with neither progeny nor estate, the laughs to be had between old college chums will be the sole legacy of he and his Augean Lodge.

“Life is a jest; and all things show it...”