When you visit our website, if you give your consent, we will use cookies to allow us to collect data for aggregated statistics to improve our service and remember your choice for future visits. Cookie Policy & Privacy Policy
Dear Reader, we use the permissions associated with cookies to keep our website running smoothly and to provide you with personalized content that better meets your needs and ensure the best reading experience. At any time, you can change your permissions for the cookie settings below.
If you would like to learn more about our Cookie, you can click on Privacy Policy.
Bailey The Wilson house is fairly small, snug, and full of memories. I love old houses like these. Every creak step and notch in the floorboards holds a memory, and for the Wilsons, that’s over three decades of marriage and cohabitation. I run my finger over the squeaky clean mantle above the seldom used fireplace. I’m sure it’s just for show. I can’t imagine needing a fire ever in a state like Louisiana, but I sure do like the idea of cozying up in front of a fireplace and reading a book on a cold, snowy winter night. I chuckle to myself at the thought of snow–having never seen it in real life–and go about my business. I’ve set up a little workstation in the study off the living room, which is nothing more than a desk, a crammed bookshelf, and a large safe that takes up most of t