The product of several roadtrips from the Georgia mountains to the edge of the Florida Gulf Coast, fueled by cheap gas and profitable moonshine, Great Grandfather Sam pieced together a tiny vacation home in 1927. Though barely skeletal remains can be seen todsy, Babe Ruth's fishing camp is, literally, but a stone's throw across a brackish inlet, most often outlined by fisherman on folding chairs, wheelchairs and tailgates on and around the two bridges that allow a narrow and oft-flooded road to wind around the thinly inhabited community.
I've been fortunate to share the comfort and convenience of Sam's ambition since first becoming engaged to Sam's great-grandson--my husband of twenty-some years. As my in-laws lived only 15 minutes away, many family holidays were spent at Sam's place.
Our son bit off his first chocolate Easter Bunny ears here, created his inaugural Chtistmas wrapping paper and ribbon mess here, rode his first tricycle here, well, you get it.
We've given thought to running down to do what might be done to minimize damage from Irma inside the house, but don't want to fight outbound traffic or haul our own gas. The house is full of antique furniture--not because anyone's a particular fan of that decor--but because the family forebearers ditched their old, unwanted furnishings at the "Florida house."
Until last year we were but regular family houseguests here--lawnmowing, palm frond-hauling, spider-exterminating, door-replacing houseguests--but not ultimately responsible Florida home owners. The house has been flooded begore, but has survived a number of Mother Nsture's temper tantrums, but Irma is our first threat as homeowners.
We'll hang out with AL Roker to keep an eye on Irma's antics. We'd already called dibs on the house for Christmas break and looked forward (mostly) to introducing a new pup to the joys of barking at dolphins and such. Now it seems we'll be hitting the road much earlier for a less predictable adventure. Chocolate bunny ear boy may soon be paving memory lane with hammer and pry bar practice.
I've been fortunate to share the comfort and convenience of Sam's ambition since first becoming engaged to Sam's great-grandson--my husband of twenty-some years. As my in-laws lived only 15 minutes away, many family holidays were spent at Sam's place.
Our son bit off his first chocolate Easter Bunny ears here, created his inaugural Chtistmas wrapping paper and ribbon mess here, rode his first tricycle here, well, you get it.
We've given thought to running down to do what might be done to minimize damage from Irma inside the house, but don't want to fight outbound traffic or haul our own gas. The house is full of antique furniture--not because anyone's a particular fan of that decor--but because the family forebearers ditched their old, unwanted furnishings at the "Florida house."
Until last year we were but regular family houseguests here--lawnmowing, palm frond-hauling, spider-exterminating, door-replacing houseguests--but not ultimately responsible Florida home owners. The house has been flooded begore, but has survived a number of Mother Nsture's temper tantrums, but Irma is our first threat as homeowners.
We'll hang out with AL Roker to keep an eye on Irma's antics. We'd already called dibs on the house for Christmas break and looked forward (mostly) to introducing a new pup to the joys of barking at dolphins and such. Now it seems we'll be hitting the road much earlier for a less predictable adventure. Chocolate bunny ear boy may soon be paving memory lane with hammer and pry bar practice.
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