Arrival
Eli's strawbale yurt
How did the Island find you? It’s the question I often ask at parties or social gatherings, bypassing the usual, "what do you do? " It's true. The Island does find people, often in strange and interesting ways, causing them to pull up roots without regard for the usual decorum of pre-planning. One extreme example recounts a woman who drove from the east coast with a goat where her passenger seat would have been, propelled by intuition, alone, certain that the Island was the place she was to be. Other stories recount a mysterious malady that causes folks to abruptly abandon a perfectly 'civilized' existence in order to take up residence in visqueen shacks, barn stalls or chicken coups just to be here.
For me, the initial hook came while planning a camping trip on Whidbey Island. The destination determined, I then conducted the pre-requisite of any successful vacation--a google search. I like to tag my search target with the word 'alternative', which often leads me down a few of the less beaten tracks. So, I typed "alternative Whidbey Island" and hit return. A couple of clicks and the image of a straw bale yurt squatting merrily on its haunches filled my browser screen like something straight out of a fantasy adventure. A phone call later, I had an invitation to an earthbag work party.
The following week, I met Eli and Marta. Their property leaned into a steep hillside amid conifers and alders with the magical yurt crowning the layout followed by a brightyly painted, rustic cabin, a calendula and nasturtium-decked vegetable garden, a couple of cob baking ovens, the foundation of an earthbag structure and a second cabin resembling Old Mother Hubbard's shoe tumbling down the embankment after. We spent the day hand-mixing construction materials, rendering me back to mud pies at six years old. A question began working its way up through my bare feet as a subtle re-wiring of my physiology a shift in my bones. So it nearly posited itself when we broke for lunch, dreamily, without much direct forethought:
"What would the first step be, if someone was seriously considering a move to the Island?"
“The tool shed is available,” Eli replied casually, like a blow to the back of my head. I nearly dropped the Handbuilt Houses book I’d been perusing and whipped around to stare at Eli in the kitchen. Whatever I was expecting, it hadn't been this. Unconcerned, he remained focused on tossing an enormous salad of freshly harvested greens. Deep in my biological machinery sounded a tiny click!
“Ok, go!” it said. And I went.
Within six weeks, I had quit my litigation desk, liquidated the contents of my Seattle apartment and moved into the tiny shed with enough floor for my
3x5 rug and a raised alcove that just fit my full-size mattress. There was an outdoor kitchen, shower, outhouse access and a little window that opened over the vegetable garden. I would apprentice that summer learning to construct wood fired ovens and buildings with various combinations of clay, sand and straw.
Eventually, I would need to secure a job, find an automobile and transcend the shed before winter drove the cold, damp and mice in through the
walls of my shelter. Mud therapy would come first.
For me, the initial hook came while planning a camping trip on Whidbey Island. The destination determined, I then conducted the pre-requisite of any successful vacation--a google search. I like to tag my search target with the word 'alternative', which often leads me down a few of the less beaten tracks. So, I typed "alternative Whidbey Island" and hit return. A couple of clicks and the image of a straw bale yurt squatting merrily on its haunches filled my browser screen like something straight out of a fantasy adventure. A phone call later, I had an invitation to an earthbag work party.
The following week, I met Eli and Marta. Their property leaned into a steep hillside amid conifers and alders with the magical yurt crowning the layout followed by a brightyly painted, rustic cabin, a calendula and nasturtium-decked vegetable garden, a couple of cob baking ovens, the foundation of an earthbag structure and a second cabin resembling Old Mother Hubbard's shoe tumbling down the embankment after. We spent the day hand-mixing construction materials, rendering me back to mud pies at six years old. A question began working its way up through my bare feet as a subtle re-wiring of my physiology a shift in my bones. So it nearly posited itself when we broke for lunch, dreamily, without much direct forethought:
"What would the first step be, if someone was seriously considering a move to the Island?"
“The tool shed is available,” Eli replied casually, like a blow to the back of my head. I nearly dropped the Handbuilt Houses book I’d been perusing and whipped around to stare at Eli in the kitchen. Whatever I was expecting, it hadn't been this. Unconcerned, he remained focused on tossing an enormous salad of freshly harvested greens. Deep in my biological machinery sounded a tiny click!
“Ok, go!” it said. And I went.
Within six weeks, I had quit my litigation desk, liquidated the contents of my Seattle apartment and moved into the tiny shed with enough floor for my
3x5 rug and a raised alcove that just fit my full-size mattress. There was an outdoor kitchen, shower, outhouse access and a little window that opened over the vegetable garden. I would apprentice that summer learning to construct wood fired ovens and buildings with various combinations of clay, sand and straw.
Eventually, I would need to secure a job, find an automobile and transcend the shed before winter drove the cold, damp and mice in through the
walls of my shelter. Mud therapy would come first.
Straw clay sauna.
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Earthbag house
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The composting outhouse
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The Calling
By the winter of 2006, I had managed to transcend the tool shed for an idyllic cottage, purchase a pickup truck and secure a rare Island office job. The latter was something of an extension of my city survival mechanism--reasonably stable, steady income, a desk to bang my head upon Monday through Friday--super-imposed on Island time. Inevitably, my internal rebellion seeped out and, by February, my employer had, rightfully, liberated me. I began cleaning houses allowing me the advantage of owning my own time and valuing my own work. Even so, while Dust Bunnies Green Cleaning would eventually take off, I was momentarily underemployed and struggling to make rent.
In the mean time, I had made friends with the cabinetmaker next door. John, a highly skilled craftsman, had helped my landlady build the cottage I was renting. As it turns out, he had spent a great deal of time thinking about tiny, efficient, affordable living spaces. Inspired by the gypsy vardos and more recent books about tiny mobile houses, he had this crazy idea that I might be able to rent a corner of someone's back lot for a smaller sum if I had my own house on wheels, and would I be interested in learning to build?
Click! There it was again... I had always been happiest when making things and working with my hands. In addition, I could actually build my own house and have a asset while owning property was not yet within my reach. What else could I do? How to reduce my rent in the interim, to free up limited resources for the purchase of construction materials was another question, altogether. But serendipity was to hold: a couple down the lane (friends of John who became my surrogate grandparents) offered to rent out a studio above their garage for the kingly ransom of $50/month for the spring/summer. Problem solved! In March of 2007, I was resettled, cozily into Lois' reading/knitting studio and construction on the wee house began.
In the mean time, I had made friends with the cabinetmaker next door. John, a highly skilled craftsman, had helped my landlady build the cottage I was renting. As it turns out, he had spent a great deal of time thinking about tiny, efficient, affordable living spaces. Inspired by the gypsy vardos and more recent books about tiny mobile houses, he had this crazy idea that I might be able to rent a corner of someone's back lot for a smaller sum if I had my own house on wheels, and would I be interested in learning to build?
Click! There it was again... I had always been happiest when making things and working with my hands. In addition, I could actually build my own house and have a asset while owning property was not yet within my reach. What else could I do? How to reduce my rent in the interim, to free up limited resources for the purchase of construction materials was another question, altogether. But serendipity was to hold: a couple down the lane (friends of John who became my surrogate grandparents) offered to rent out a studio above their garage for the kingly ransom of $50/month for the spring/summer. Problem solved! In March of 2007, I was resettled, cozily into Lois' reading/knitting studio and construction on the wee house began.
John in his woodshop
The Journey Home...
...has been anything but linear but, then, neither am I. The essential structure was weather tight and inhabitable by the fall of 2007--a tiny tar paper shack on wheels. I put a coat of paint on the plywood floor and moved in... (To be continued: paragraph under construction)
