The house I live in wasn’t always here. Originally, it was a vacation cottage on a barrier island on the Gulf of Mexico. Sturdily constructed of cypress and Southern yellow pine, when its owners found it in the path of development, instead of demolishing it, they jacked it up, put it on a flatbed truck and moved it inland about 30 miles. We bought it a few years ago, charmed by its shotgun shack-style simplicity and its beadboard walls. Of course, being old, resinous wood, it could go up like a torch someday, plus, as old as it is, it’s leaky as a sieve. But love overlooks flaws.
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