Waitress Builds Fortress
A gutsy homesteader builds her post-and-beam dream home for just $15 a square foot.
April/May 2004
By Dorothy Ainsworth
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DOROTHY AINSWORTH
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I wanted a big log house. Nevermind that I had no building experience, no fat bank account and no helpmate. What I did have was a piece of land, an old pickup truck and a high threshold for pain.
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My long-smoldering desire for a rustic home had ignited into passion when I turned 40—"Ripeness is all," Shakespeare wrote. I moved to Ashland, Ore., found an affordable piece of land and secured financing. With a federal loan, I bought 10 acres for $40,000 at 6.5 percent interest. The property had two outbuildings that I remodeled into storage and temporary living space. Now, I just had to come up with a practical plan for my dream home on my waitress's frayed-shoestring budget. Vertical-log construction was the practical choice for a 125-pound woman with a strong back and a sturdy chain saw.
With a pole permit from the U.S. Forest Service, logs were available for only 3 cents a foot, and I could get them just 20 miles away. Short logs would fit in my pickup; they would require minimal notching, so the walls would go up fast. Shrinkage in length is negligible, so settling wouldn't be a problem. Besides, Davy Crockett was my great-great-great-great uncle, and that's how he did it. Forts back then were erected in a day, stockade style. Why not now?
Cupid Comes to Oregon
Brimming with enthusiasm and newfound confidence, I forged ahead with tunnel vision. To the drawing board, in and out of the forest, and back and forth to work I went. Like a squirrel, preoccupied with survival and security, I was oblivious to anything but "acorns."
Until I met Kirt. Somewhere between doing sit-ups at the fitness center and serving two eggs over-greasy at the restaurant, I fell in love.
Kirt was quiet and good-natured, and had the most satisfying shoulders I'd ever seen—not to mention arms and legs like tree trunks. Hercules! He also had blonde curls, blue eyes, sparkling teeth and a dimple in his chin. (Excuse me while I faint.) Nevermind that he was half my age. We adored each other, and time stood still.
The year we met, 1989, was spent giggling like children at recess while stockpiling 300 logs from the forest. A conventional courtship it was not. Gossipers called us Jock and Jill. I called us lucky. If this rough-hewn figure in a flannel shirt and Levi's wasn't the marryin' man, he certainly was the carryin' man! (See photo, Page 30.)
Kirt was wise beyond his years, and authentic. He respected my wishes and nurtured my dreams. Equality was a given. Our similarities far outweighed our differences—the age gap didn't matter. Just out of college, he was pursuing his own goals, but was unobtrusively there if I needed him.
Eccentric by Design
I designed the house—structure, form and content. First of all, it wouldn't be too "precious" to live in or live it up in; I wanted dogs and cats. It would be spacious, well-lit and functional. Simplicity and natural aesthetic would prevail, with plenty of room to get fancy in the finishing touches.
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