For the price of a new Ford pickup you can have this homestead and the five and a half acres that come with it. The wildfires two summers ago reduced the holly and juniper to charred sculptures, but if you don't mind the skeletal remains of native shrubbery, read on.
The place comes with red linoleum walls and vintage cookware.
It does not, however, come with electricity. But don't loose hope: there is a very old wood-burning stove with a precariously serpentine stovepipe. So the baking of johnny cakes is still very much a possibility.
The only rules here pertain to the fire pit outside. For your convenience they are clearly outlined on a clipboard by the door.
There are blades, medallions, and harness conchas in abundance. In fact if you collect rusty round ephemera this is the place for you.
You should see the rock piles. And the view of the mountains. And the utter lack of neighbors. But also the utter lack of bathroom. And the aforementioned lack of electricity. And the lack of water. But it was the very lack of a foundation (she is a sturdy shack on little legs, like an old whore in short petticoats and high heels) that was the deal-breaker, friend.
So I give you full permission to make this little homestead yours. Instead of homestead hunting this weekend P. and I are heading up to Mammoth to shred some pow, then take a long detour through Death Valley on our way home. Have a great weekend, spring robins, and thank you for all the wonderful comments and asides this week!