The genesis of my work was a simple idea, ignited by a profound passion. As a small business, I distinguish myself through personal attention and an unwavering dedication to every intricate detail. My methodology is intrinsically linked to quality and integrity, ensuring that every facet of my work embodies a deep-seated commitment to excellence. I am singularly dedicated to crafting experiences that are truly exceptional. My paramount focus is on delivering dependable and innovative solutions, propelled by a genuine reverence for superior quality and an authentic desire to not just meet, but exceed your every expectation.

Our Journey 

From the quiet, tree-lined expanses of Upstate New York, a different kind of wild called to me. Though my childhood home boasted five acres and a lush garden, the close-knit, even stifling, presence of neighbors always felt like a constraint. I yearned for true solitude, a fantasy that, at the time, manifested as a whimsical notion of becoming a hermit in the Alaskan wilderness. Little did I know, that youthful dream would one day become a reality, albeit with a few unexpected twists.

The Path to the Last Frontier

My journey began with a brief detour into graphic arts college, quickly abandoned for the structure and purpose of the U.S. Army in 1982. My destination request was clear: Alaska. It was there, amidst the rugged beauty of the Last Frontier, that I met Sam, the man who would become my husband of over 40 years. We were both in food service, a demanding field that offered little time for a family. When pregnancy became a reality, and with it, the standard discharge for female soldiers, I chose to leave the service. Our future, we knew, lay in Alaska.

For the next 18 years, we embarked on a cross-country odyssey, a relentless pursuit of our Alaskan dream. Every spare penny was meticulously saved, every sacrifice made, all for the "Alaska fund." Sam’s earnings as a mystery shopper went directly into this growing pot, while my management roles in plasma centers propelled us from Colorado Springs, Colorado, to Greenville, South Carolina, then to Reno, Nevada, Salem, Oregon, and finally, Houston, Texas. The stifling Texas heat, a scorching 106°F, served as our final catalyst. With two teenagers, two dogs, a bird, and two Dumbo-eared rats in tow, we embarked on a 4,400-mile journey. Our minivan, a casualty of the vast American landscape, was left behind in Montana, but our spirit remained unbroken. We finally arrived in Anchorage, a temporary port of call, knowing our true home lay beyond the city lights.

Embracing the Wild

Anchorage was merely a stepping stone. We craved the deep quiet of the wilderness, and within a year, we found it. We moved to the Palmer/Wasilla area in the Mat-Su Valley, settling into a townhouse that, while spacious, still felt too close to civilization. Our true calling came a year later: a rustic cabin in the woods. It was a mere ¼ acre of land, a shell of a structure with no electricity, no running water, and no interior finishes. Yet, at a mere $13,000, and with the promise of no neighbors, it was irresistible. Young, strong, and perhaps a little foolish, we embraced the challenge. We paid it off in a year, painstakingly finishing the interior ourselves, and moved in.

We weren't driven by grand ecological ideals or a desire to save the world. Our motivation was far simpler: affordability, solitude, and freedom from the constant hum of human presence. We weren’t preppers or homesteaders; we were, quite simply, anti-social individuals who yearned to be left alone. We were, in essence, unintentionally off-grid before off-grid was cool.

That first winter was a brutal awakening. Propane heat, insufficient insulation, and ubiquitous ice on every windowsill and wall seam made for a miserable existence. Dog beds froze to the floor, and the propane bill soared to over $700 a month, even when prices were low. But we survived.

Perseverance and Adaptation

Life continued its unpredictable dance. We spent a few years running a local gas station and convenience store, a venture that buried us deeper in debt but provided temporary stability. Eventually, we returned to our beloved cabin, determined to make it work. The roof leaked, insulation needed bolstering, and the yard perpetually demanded attention, but it was ours, and we loved it.

I embraced a new passion: raising rabbits. While chickens proved more trouble than they were worth, my rabbits thrived. I even built a pallet barn to simplify winter chores. These weren't just pets; they were a sustainable source of meat and fur. My Silver Fox, Cinnamons, and Crème d’Argents were prime examples of excellent meat and fur breeds.

Meanwhile, Sam faced his own set of challenges. A debilitating bout of kidney stones consumed an entire winter, leaving him unable to lift more than ten pounds – a task that fell to me, including the relentless chore of splitting firewood. Then came the knee replacements: one in June 2014, the other in February 2015. His next battle? Spinal stenosis and bone spurs. Murphy, it seemed, was a permanent resident in our home, though I often wished he'd contribute to dinner.

We've since refined our off-grid existence. Our fuel consumption has plummeted thanks to a new Honda 2000 generator that sips gas, running for 7-12 hours on a single gallon. Our power needs are now largely met by four marine batteries linked to an inverter, and we've begun exploring solar and potentially wind power. Water remains a simple, reliable system: five-gallon jugs for cooking, and collected rainwater for the rabbits, four dogs, and dishwashing.

A New Chapter

Our primary source of income now comes from my online business, Alaska Spirit Crafts, found at www.fursewer.com. Coupled with Sam’s military compensation, this allows us to continue our quiet life. While I once organized and attended numerous craft shows, the online realm has proven more lucrative and, crucially, allows me to avoid face-to-face interactions – a perfect fit for my anti-social tendencies.

After 16 fulfilling years, the time came for a change. Sam’s inability to help with firewood, a monumental task I could no longer manage alone, prompted a significant decision. We left Alaska, spending five years in the high desert of Arizona, three years in Montana, and have now found our forever home in Lower Alabama, complete with a half-acre yard.

Life is good, and while not overly exciting, that’s precisely how we like it. The story of our Alaskan adventure is one I may expand upon someday, but for now, I’m content to sew fur and cherish the tranquil embrace of our new home in the woods.