I bought myself a log cabin for my birthday last fall.
It’s pretty darn cute and the most perfect size (~650 square feet), but it does push me back to early 20th century and the era of no indoor plumbing. I’ve been there before. Since October, I’ve become reacquainted with the 5-gallon blue jug, the Water Wagon over off Chena Pump Road, and the urgent need to refill so the dog doesn’t go thirsty.
I used to think that owning my own place would be a burdensome commitment, a terrible harbinger of the end of my restless youth. Oddly, now that time has come, I don’t feel that way at all. This means that either I’ve grown up a bit… or that the rental market in Fairbanks is so outrageous that even something such as commitment has suddenly become less scary than the amount the average renter doles out each month for a roof over her head.
Maybe a bit of both?
All I know is that I’m pretty okay with my new situation.