By Sandy ComptonReader ColumnistAbout 25 years ago, I decided to remodel the house in which I spent much of my youth. It is assembled of disparate parts, the first of which was a 12-by-14-foot log cabin built by my maternal grandfather with pole rafters, a hand-split shake roof, a window in each wall and a door. A highway replaced the county road in the 1930s, and the cabins were there, but tourists still didn’t come. With the help of my Grandpa, they put a log addition on the west end. They built narrow, steep stairs to the upper floor, built a chimney of mortared shale and got a wood stove.