Slana - The homecoming

Editors' note: We asked 14 of Alaska's best writers spread across the state — from Tenakee Springs to Dutch Harbor to Utqiagvik — to grapple with a question we all face in our lives: Why do I live where I live? This piece is part of that collection.

SLANA — Things you take for granted, until you've been away: a tiny log cabin post office, heated by a Jungers stove, with a wall of old-fashioned glass-paned mailboxes, fewer than a hundred. Two gentlemen stood in the main room, taking up half the space. They wore boots and Carhartts, and spoke of getting their girls and grandson out hunting. One was about to go on a supplies run. "Do you need anything?" he asked. When shopping is 60 miles away, you ask your neighbors questions like that.

The postmaster listened to friendly music and stayed busy handing packages through a wood-framed window. She gave a bearded man a bouquet of flowers, from her garden, to pass along to his daughters. I gave her my paperwork to open a new box, but the rate was more than the cash on hand and the cabin didn't have internet for credit cards.

"I'll loan you the money!" she said. This, from someone I don't know well. She had asked me which one I was when I first walked in. "You're one of the Hobbs daughters." She didn't know my name, yet she was willing to lend me money. I didn't take her cash; I just came back later, but I'm sure glad I had that interaction.

Rural ways are real ways. At least that's how it seems to me. I can't feel my heart when I'm too long in the city. When I go home, I can breathe.

Chantelle Pence is the author of "Homestead Girl: The View From Here." Reach her at www.chantellepence.com