Our cottage, the second oldest house in Chincoteague, was charming, tiny, and hazardous to old people. The stairs had eight inch risers and treads, and a wall-to-wall width of 24 inches. (I’d brought a knitting tape measure along.) Ox and I crawled upstairs to bed. The ground floor changed level, subtly, four times. The first night, about 8:00, we sat on the bench of the house's pier across the street to watch the sunset. By the time we returned, about 9:00, someone had posted a "for sale" sign in the front yard. We were momentarily tempted.

Jane S. Burton is a writer living in Virginia.

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