The House Where I was Born

This is the house where I was born.  But it's not where I was born.  The house is where I was born but the house is not where I was born.  Now if this is beginning to sound like a riddle, let me just say that I was born in this house when it was located in a different place.  A few years ago it was literally picked up and moved from near downtown Center, Texas, to a different location about three miles outside the city.  There are a few other things about it which are different now as opposed to then, but we can't expect things not to change over the course of 60-plus years, can we?  For one thing, when I was born in this house it was white (and remained that way until after it made that treacherous journey on the backs of flatbed trucks) and not this tacky pink.  After seeing this house I recant having ever declared that pink was my favorite color.  And it certainly didn't have all that gingerbread on it either.  It was just a simple beautiful, Victorian house.  I think the porch and the balcony probably ran all the way around also.  Now, to dispel any misconceptions you may be having about the economic state of my family, I must tell you that my family did not live in this house.  My mother was simply a guest for a few days in the Center Sanitarium, which was owned and operated by a Dr. Oates, who no doubt also lived with his family in the facility.  And before you make any judgments about the mental health of my mother, Webster's defines "sanitarium" as a quiet resort where people go to rest and regain health.  Many hospitals in those days were stylishly referred to as sanitariums, so I like to think that I was born amidst a resort-like atmosphere!

Here is the same picture converted to black and white.  Don't you think these people should have just left it alone?

And here's a closeup example of some of the gingerbread that it sports today.