By Michael E. Miller
By Ryan Yousefi
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
Flynn's place on SW 208th Street and 127th Avenue is located only about four blocks inside the Urban Development Boundary, the invisible border that separates farmland from the ever-encroaching strip-mall culture. As far as Flynn is concerned, she is on the wrong side of that line.
In speech peppered with country sayings and tinged with a Southern drawl, Flynn describes the 79-year history of her house. Back when the century was young, it was the most elegant farmhouse for miles around. As recently as fifteen years ago, the view from the porch included strawberry and tomato fields. Tonight, just a few hundred yards from Flynn's wicker chair at the end of her property, the houses begin one after another, square structures of concrete about five to an acre, the likes of which can be seen throughout South Florida.
"It really hurts to see what has happened," she says of the creeping suburbanization that surrounds her house on three sides.
Like her father-in-law, who owned the place before her, she has for years fought the zoning changes that have transformed parts of this farming community into a honeycomb of paved driveways and homogenous houses. Yet as she looks at the nearby rooftops, Flynn announces she has given up. "It's not getting any better," frets the 41-year-old, who braids the manes and tails of show horses throughout the Southeast for a living.
Flynn has come to a painful decision: It's time to move. Only she refuses to just pack up and leave. Her course of action will be every bit as quirky as her chosen profession. She wants to lift her historic house onto wheels and take it with her. And that's not all. She wants to find someone else to pay the hefty fee. (She has already met with Miami-Dade Commissioner Katy Sorenson, who pledged to write letters of support for grant applications.) Raising money is not the only hurdle she must clear. Because the county historic-preservation board designated the house an important landmark in 1993, board members will have to approve the move.
It is doubtful that William Bush and his wife Nellie imagined this future when they built the two-story home in 1920. They had arrived to the area in 1911 to farm tomatoes for the Campo Rico Trucking Company, a firm that helped transform South Dade into agricultural land. Within a decade Bush had left Campo Rico to farm on his own. Along with another South Florida pioneer, Raymond Burr, he opened a packing house on Old Dixie Highway to ship fruit and vegetables by barge and boat to cold Northern cities. Burr's son Charles, now age 77, continues to operate Burr's Berry Farm, renowned to this day for its strawberry milkshakes. (Burr's also is surrounded by housing developments, and Charles Burr makes frequent appearances at zoning hearings to complain about the changing neighborhood.)
The Bushes were usually the first in the neighborhood to have the latest gadgets, Burr recalls. In the early 1930s Burr remembers seeing his first radio at the Bush house, which in his memory is filled with warmth and pleasant aromas from the kitchen. "[The Bushes] were close enough for us to call them aunt and uncle," he says. "It was old-time relations. You knew who your friends were back then, not like today."
On the old Bush property, there was a carriage house, still there today, where Nellie Bush kept an automobile. According to the historic-preservation board's records, Mrs. Bush headed the county welfare department in the 1930s. She would drive her car great distances to help those in need during the Depression, Burr recalls. Today's SW 208th Street originally served as the Bushes' driveway. Along the roadside they planted Australian pines, some of which still stand.
William Bush died in the early 1940s. The couple had no children; in 1945 Nellie Bush sold the house, then died shortly thereafter. The Bush house passed through a succession of owners until 1974, when Osceola Cabot Kyle, known to most as Lucky, purchased it. Part Seminole, Kyle worked as a veterinarian. "He was the only guy who would take care of wild animals," remembers Charlie McGarey, a friend of Kyle and a retired firefighter. "Animals trusted him instinctively."
Kyle even let his four-legged charges sleep in the house. Although he had been a sickly child, Lucky Kyle took up weightlifting and won two Mr. Florida titles in the 1970s. His wild lifestyle ended in bankruptcy in the 1980s, when he lost most of the land that had belonged to the Bushes. The judge left him only the house and the one-acre parcel on which it stood. Eventually Kyle set up his animal hospital in the old carriage house and covered the grounds around the home with kennels for dogs and other critters.