Mighty Right-Sizing

Letting Go

8/12/2014

9:42 a.m. on a Sunday morning. It’s cool before the sun dials it up, bound for the 90s. Last night I sat out with my guitar, playing to the gnomes, the blackberry wine-scented brambles and a pair of dragonflies who appeared to fancy my rendition of Bobby McGee: twilight of my last Smidgeon Saturday. It has been a good run.

Approaching Stacey’s return (August 18th, to be exact), I spent the better part of July hunched over craigslist housing ads, pondering my ideal scenario, short of landing another tiny lease. House or apartment? Roommates or solo? Location/neighborhood? Price range? In the midst of it, I managed to break away to the July tiny house mixer hosted by Portland Alternative Dwellings at Salvage Works in North PDX, where the reclaimed and reincorporated blur rubbish/treasure boundaries with surprising style--case in point: baby doll head planters. And if re-purposed baby dolls aren’t your thing, they also have nearly impossible to find reclaimed building materials, farm implements, crates, license plates, parts and pieces of history ready to lend your building/decorating project character and depth. They’ve done a fantastic job of designing the space for ample inspiration—a definite must see! Now, on to the big event!

Inside and outside this candy store for the creative builder, the monthly Tiny House Mixer was in full swing. Dee Williams performed for the crowd a two-minute housecleaning of Jolene, her touring vardo, before introducing a string of tiny movers and shakers. There were City-backed small affordable housers, sustainable community seeders, tiny reality show hopefuls, building bloggers breaking from their labors to share experience. The whole event is one part happy hour and several parts grassroots, community, networking, Q&A, self-empowerment, paradigm-shifting par-TAY. Everyone’s invited. If you’re especially lucky, you might go home with a door prize, i.e. Dee’s The Big Tiny or a giant bag of composting sawdust--score!! Unfortunately, I have not mastered the art of snapping pics while simultaneously jotting names/notes for later report. The good news is, there are monthly practice opportunities. With any luck, my August 21st mixer report should contain more substance.

Meanwhile back on the home front, I gave the craigslist magic 8-ball one more shake. Up popped the 1936 Tudor with prolific cucumber and kale garden, sunflowers in the forecast, a fire pit and a large walnut tree prone to pegging unsuspecting backyard loungers with nuts. The house is currently inhabited by Jennifer (owner), Matthew (housemate) and 8-yr-old, part-time resident, Eva (Matthew’s daughter). I’ll have my own bedroom, separate art room (sweet!) and largely private bath, and there’s a clause in the lease for possible home improvement teamwork. Like so many things on this journey, it differs from what I had envisioned, and is exactly, perfectly what I need. What more could I possibly want, besides one last little thing....?

The same week I found my housemates, I stumbled across a brand new, nearly finished tiny parked in a driveway along my pedi-commute to the office. Like the tiny connections around nearly every Portland corner, I was giddy at the discovery. I wasn't, however, expecting the watery-eyed pang of homesickness for my own wee house, still for sale on Whidbey... It makes sense, I suppose, teetering on the cusp of a big-house up-sizing... Of the seven years with my house, I spent more time building (five, at least) than I did in actual residence. Building, too, was a kind of inhabiting—getting into the guts, holding every piece of her in my hands, hardly noticing that what was being built was bigger than both of us. I am thrilled to be in Portland, at the Tiny epi-center. There is a palpable sense here that the frayed legal bonds on the movement are about to snap. It was the little house that brought me to this place. Ironically (or perfectly), it has become the thing I most need to let go. I’m ready. I have only one final wish: a buyer/new owner who will love her. That is all. May it be so.

Meanwhile, I'm exploring new PDX possibilities in and around my temp tiny digs. Finally made it out to Tango Berretίn--a fabulous venue full of potential new 'family.' I've become fond of the friendly crew at my mid-commute ritual, Rain or Shine Coffee. Back in Stacey’s excellently appointed kitchen, I improvise a batch of cucumber blackberry basil relish (check my Vittles page for the recipe) with cukes gifted by my new housemate and berries from just off Smidgeon's stoop. I scoop a generous dollop with my favorite Raincoast Crisps cracker and attempt to squint into the future. It glitters amorphously in the distance... Tomorrow’s my weekly check-in with realtor/friend, Daniel Goldsmith. His last report: the little house continues to garner attention… a call about every other day. Daniel remains optimistic. I tally the miracles of the last two months and the artful comforts of my temporary tiny sanctum. Yeah, I think to myself, me too.

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Tiny Live/Work Studio

11/1/2013

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First tiny house morning. Pic taken one year ago today.

It’s 7:35 a.m. Friday in my tiny house. The neighbors’ windows are gold flecks in the darkness. Oddly, the rooster seems to have slept in this morning. I hear him now, though it’s possible that I’m the one who overslept, hitting the subconscious ‘snooze’ on his earlier pronouncements. Black and steel colorscape outside lightens to gray, and my potted Japanese maple holds its last flaming leaf up to the window. November has arrived. It's the one-year anniversary of my tiny move-in.

Some weeks ago, I left off reporting activities on the tiny home front, mid-excavation of some long-buried tools and treasures (see Tiny Art House Percolating, posted 9/30/2013), then took a posting sabbatical to get down and dirty with my re-discovered ‘toys’ before breaking from for Monday’s philosophical waxing (see Tiny Confession, posted 10/28/2013). After a brief interruption at the bench, I’m ready to resume production, and I am happy to report it’s going well.

My silversmithing bench emerged along with fragments of inspiration still intact and only slightly dusty. Presto change-o! The wee house transformed into the tiny live/work studio I often fantasized in my city apartment where my contraband mini-torch (generating a 3/8 inch flame, at best), hiding in the walk-in closet, would have horrified the landlords. Now, the Queen of my own wee domain, I am free to make choices and assume the risks most beneficial to my creative potential, sans guilt, with relish. I have been busy. Here’s the set-up:

I slid the bookcase toward the door, installed a set of antique sewing machine drawers on the end for aesthetic and additional stowage, employing the top as a small table for pickle pot and tool display. My small jeweler’s bench sits atop a stand I had borrowed to support my dining room table, and is just big enough for a soldering block, flux bottle, a few tweezers and files, with a bench pen and filings drawer. Hammers, saw frame, striker and torch all hang from nails on the sides of the bench. Propane and oxygen tanks nestle just under the bookcase table. Flex shaft hangs from the light fixture, affixed to the wall—ok for now, though it could use some ergonomic optimization.

The only disadvantage, aside from the loss of my dining table, is that a few tools—i.e. my belt sander—are less tiny house friendly. But, then, it’s only a couple hundred feet to the boat shop, where these things are readily accessible when the need arises. At some point, I'll build the fold-away table I’ve been contemplating… For now, back to the bench!

What CAN'T one do in a tiny house?

Much of the last month was spent working through technical difficulties—flame size, where to focus heat for optimal solder flow, cleaning and finishing. Gradually glitches succumbed to completed works—two, handcrafted rings and growing selection of copper, silver and brass thumbtacks, affectionately dubbed “tacky” art. One set already sold, which brings me to my next venture: my tiny art shop is presently under construction, just in time for the holidays. Stay tuned for la petite grande opening, coming soon.

By 10:45 a.m., blue ruptures have appeared in the overhead cloud bank. I’ll spend the day working on my blog, shop and benchwork, then fancy up for the very first Whidbey Island Tango Festival romancing its way through Coupeville, beginning this evening. Now, there's an activity it might be difficult to pull off in tiny house. Then again, I danced with a fellow last Sunday who insisted that a truly skilled tanguero should be able to exercise a full range of passionate expression on a patch of floor no bigger than a toilet seat. Something to think about. For now, I'll stick to thumbtacks and take my tango out.

Thanks to all of who’ve shared in this year of tiny adventure. I've enjoyed your company.

Cheers!

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Racing the Rain

9/16/2013

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7:50 p.m. in the tiny house. Post sunset. Paper Olympic cutouts fan peach horizon. The pigeons who’ve taken up residence in the last month have gone to roost, and the neighbor’s brood of peacocks have concluded their proclamations. Socrates, the visiting tabby, stopped in for a rubdown and well-wishes before heading off for his nightly hunt. The pale bowl overhead deepens to blue, fills with ink and glitter. Endless summer… That was last week.

On second glance, it’s Monday, 6:40 a.m. in the tiny house. Spiders tight-rope across windows, between flowers, spin corbels under the porch soffit, and tighten the rigging. Against a backdrop of summer burning along the edges of maple leaves and a final eruption of dahlias, Sunday rose like a gray-eyed oracle. I had heard her approach and, with the renewed vigor conferred by looming deadlines, I delved into my list of dry-weather details (trim baseboard electrical outlet, window weather-stripping, final sash touch-ups, new tires and paint wheel rims, exterior inspection and caulking, etc.). And so it was, on a possibly the last sunny Saturday, I set myself to a long-languishing quandary. Here’s some background on the matter…

The little house is secured to its trailer foundation with steel bars slipped into and bolted through welded, trailer side-brackets. Two additional bolts fasten each bar through the skids on the bottom of the house (for the ‘why’ of skids on a trailered house, see the Trailer Work and The New Foundation sections of my photo album). One of the connections had been disassembled last November in order to access electrical wiring and juice the tiny house for habitation (for more on that episode, see Taking the Leaks posted 11/11/2012). Somewhere in the hoopla, the steel bar had been removed and the bolts jammed in a position rendering it impossible to re-install the steel bar. After wailing mercilessly on the ends of the bolts with my hammer, buggering the bolt threads for their nuts in vain attempt to drive them out, I gave up, relegating it to the bottom of my ‘to-do’ list and turned my attention to more pressing move-in matters, like propane (see Plumb Crazy, posted 10/21/2012). Months later, the tiny marketing campaign well under way (click here for video tour), thunderstorm and subsequent rains in the forecast for the foreseeable future, priority came clear. High time for a second look.

And so it was with accompanying angst, a few weeks ago, that I revisited the pile of nuts and washers, steel bar, split block and corresponding stuck bolts with the original logistical brains behind the operation, my friend and mentor, John Shinneman. He very sensibly advised me to take a chisel to the block through which the offending bolts passed between the steel bar and skids and remove it. Pressure/tension on the bolt between the block and skid should, theoretically, be relieved, and I should be able to drive the bolts back, hacksaw and/or re-thread the mangled ends, replace the block, re-insert bolts and secure with facility. I crossed my arms, furrowed my brow, emitted a dubious grmph! and thanked him for his time and expertise. John grinned and wished me luck before exiting jauntily stage left. I stashed the detritus parts out of sight of impending open house guests and stuffed it well into the back of my mind for just a bit longer.

Well past the wee open house, newly motivated, and having located most of the stashed pieces of my project, after a brief meditation on the problem, donned my grubbies and spelunking gear (for crawling under the house), suspended disbelief in my abilities and headed to the chicken coup and barn (about 300 feet) to gather my tools.

The first step was easy. I inserted the chisel into the spilt in the block and with a few hammer taps, dispensed with it. Sure enough, without the added pressure of the block, the bolts—with another few hammer blows—were driven flush with the wood. My confidence lifted. I made a second trip to the barn (another 300 feet, times two) for consultation with fix-it guru, Bill Andrews, and acquisition of a couple of long punches, enabling me to prevail in driving the bolts clean out. I shimmied under the house to retrieve them and trekked back to the barn (more exercise) to clean up the threads with a tap and back to the work site to shimmy under the house again, and drive them back through the skids to flush on the outside. Back to the barn. Bill helped me locate an oak plank (very hard wood) from which I could fashion and drill a replacement block. It took several more trips to the barn and removing and re-threading bolt ends and aligning holes to find myself wedged under the house again in the failing light driving the bolts back through the wood and hitting the misaligned steel bar, once again buggering the bolt threads. I lay in the dirt, contemplating the mud pie I would make of myself trying to finish the job in the infinitude of autumn rains forecast to begin tomorrow. I crawled out and shuffled to the barn again to put away my tools.

Pacific Northwest weather is famously unpredictable, except that when rain is forecast, it is reasonably certain to occur though with wide variation in the timing and quantity. Despite the thunderstorm scheduled for 1:00, the sky was a soft, seemingly stable, gray. By 7:15, I was scurrying about to replace window weather stripping, touching up paint and caulk. Finally, after brief meditation on the pressing quandary and beseeching of the rain gods, it was back to nuts and bolts. I am extremely pleased to report that, with only seven or eight trips to the barn, by 11:30 a.m., just as the rain began, I had prevailed, only slightly dampened, fairly dirty, well-exercised (from repeated barn jaunts) and a not just a little triumphant.

It gets easier. Every quandary vanquished (no matter the time elapsed in self-doubt), is a new tool in the belt, and salve for the next angst. Even as knowledge and skill develop, angst is a habit that takes practice to break. In retrospect, I’m surprised to have come this far, given the gridlock experienced in fledgling problem-solving once I moved the house to a location remote of immediate mentor guidance. Somehow, I persisted, haltingly, hung up for months at a time on something as simple as trim before eventual break through, when I return able to look at the problem with new eyes. More stymies surfaced at move-in around the basic necessities for comfort (heat, cooking, shower) that would come from hooking up the electricity, plumbing for propane and shower facilities (see November/December posts for details of the challenges). During such periods of high pressure, response time improved, along with willingness to ask for guidance. Nowadays, more than ability or lack of knowledge, mindset is most often the block. Maybe it always was.

The storm broke mid-afternoon yesterday with lightning, rolling thunder, downpour and brief electrical outage. From my tiny kitchen, I amalgamated a satisfying pot of Russian root vegetable soup with sour cream, lemon and dill and reveled in the drama of it all, secure on my foundation, at least until the next bend in the road.

See you soon!

Tiny Art/Writing Studio, Hangout, Office, Refuge, House for Sale

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Shapeshifting

8/25/2013

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Last night I watched a purpling peek-a-view of the Olympics from the window seat of my tiny house in awe of the layers it took to culminate one picture. Building the house has been like that (framing, sheathing, roofing, trimming, siding, insulating, paneling, detailing...). A multi-layered community (friends, clients, hardware and lumberyard staff, neighbors) have rallied around the project, wheeling it ‘round the next unexpected turn. Despite my best efforts to envision the future, some wonders remain beyond the viewfinder of planning. Tomorrow is a shape shifter, speaking of which...

I awoke at 5:00 a.m. under a bright-eyed waxing moon this morning, contemplating last weekend’s tiny open house at the Bayside Bungalow guest rental in Olympia, WA. Greeted with hugs from the indomitable builder/proprietress, Brittany Yunker, and tireless tiny maven, Dee Williams, I was immediately slapped with a ‘Team Tiny House’ nametag making me an honorary volunteer answering questions for the mix of curious, tentative, wonderstruck, and determined visitors. Sweet! Between questions, I slipped away to self-tour, snap pics and investigate the tiny systems at hand, which brings me to the next topic.

It’s one of the first great mysteries for anyone new to tiny houses--is there a toilet and how does that work? It is a fact: in order to live in a tiny house, one must deal with one’s doo-doo on both, the literal and metaphorical levels. Being with yourself and possibly a significant other and/or a pet or two (check out RowdyKittens.com for Tammy Strobel's excellent blog) in a small space requires it. Yes, a standard flush toilet can be incorporated and hooked up to septic. For a more mobile option, there are RV toilets that flush into storage tanks and can be driven to a dump station. However, storage tanks are expensive, and in this context, take up giant amounts of valuable ‘real estate’, displacing stuff you want/need with (to put it delicately) the stuff you don’t. So…

DISCLAIMER: the system I’m about to detail deals with human waste management. Disinterested parties may skip the next paragraph.

I, myself, was new to composting toilets when I began planning my build, and, frankly, couldn’t fathom one in such a small space. Then, I met Brittany at the Seattle Tumbleweed workshop, where she spoke candidly about her system. Now, I’m a total convert and not a little envious, since I’m still operating with a liquid additive, RV camp toilet. (Honestly, I cannot recommend it.) In contrast, Brittany’s system combines a urine-diverting bucket system in the house with 50-gallon composting drums in a nearby chicken coup for curing. To be more specific, an ingenious little invention called the Separett diverts urine out with the gray water into a French drain. Separation of liquid from solid waste and an additional scoop of sawdust, pete or coconut husk poured over the solids in the bucket (in lieu of flushing) sweetens the pot (so to speak), while the toilet lid contains any remaining whiffs. A full bucket is taken to the chicken coup, dumped into a composting drum lined with wire mesh (for aeration), churned occasionally with a crank and covered with fiber cloth to prevent flies while permitting airflow. It takes a year to fill one drum and an additional year to cure, at which point the composted material can be distributed around ornamental plants, saving money on store-bought compost--cha-ching! I took many notes and pictures and will definitely incorporate this into my next tiny build.

Back to polite party conversation on the Isle, I’m headlong into an advertising campaign (see Tiny House for Sale, posted …….) with a life of its own. My post with tinyhouselistings.com has generated over 13,000 views (so far) and several inquiries, although, thankfully, not quite 13,000. Then, to my amazement, the MightyMicroHouse was picked up by tinyhouseblog.com, tinyhousenews.info, and tinyhouseswoon.com, the latter of which quipped, “a tiny house with a sufficient touch of swooneyness…” Another twist I could not have foreseen.

So, what’s next on the almighty TO-DO List?

Publicity for the Wee Open House (WOH!)
Replace charred porch decking (decorative, solid glass balls in the sun—bad idea)
Delegate neglected yardwork (done! thanks to Will Hallberg for mowing the rogue arugula volunteers) and
Shoot video of the mighty special house features with the help of friend/videographer Robbie Cribbs

And so it goes. To a tiny shoebox frame, I cobbled a motley cadre of items—cast-off windows, scrap steel, rusty stove door—from yard sales, recycle yards, backyard junk heaps, and lumberyard bone piles. Here I am. Have a look. We could build something together, they whispered. And we did. Since my epiphany to move to Portland (see Oh Shift! Here We Go Again…, posted 08/25/2013) tiny chat rooms, blogs, workshops, open houses have displaced prior trolling haunts. New contacts, friends, mentors and possibilities roll in, taking their places. The view changes. The invitation in the ether is the same: We could build something together… We are. Bigger than I imagined. And there’s room for more.

Stay tuned!

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WOH! Baby!

8/18/2013

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It’s 5:30 a.m. in the tiny house. The rooster and I have risen, if not the sun. Around the property, the owners and their apartment tenant have been packing to vacate the farmhouse. Despite my lightening client roster, I’ve been busy with a stream of tiny details--installing long-awaited base boards, finger holes in the toe-kick drawers, working on the ad campaign—drewslist, craigslist, flyers, postcards... Even prioritizing takes time. By 10:00 last night, I’d had 2,700 views on tinyhouselistings.com. The email inquiries have begun. Little wonder that I fell instantly through my pillow to sleep, despite one of my favorite skies—tatter of dark and light-haloed clouds under a shadow-chasing moon, conifers pinking the visual perimeter. At times like these you can’t see everything with your eyes open, anyway. Objects glow and shapeshift. You feel your way along. Rest. Get moving.

Climbing toward daylight, what’s next on the big agenda? I’ve been talking and blogging about my life in micro for some time now, generating almost as many questions as I answer, it seems. Since there’s no experience like the direct kind, I’ve decided to let the greater public in on a little something. If you’ve been dying to peek through the window on my tiny world, here’s your big chance. It’s time for a Wee Open House. So without further ado, I'm pleased to announce the following:

WOH! Baby!

Date: August 31, Labor Day Weekend

Time: 11 a.m. to 4 p.m.

Place: 4785 E Harbor Road, Freeland (behind the greenhouse)

Who's invited?: YOU

That said, today I’m road tripping to Olympia for Brittany Yunker’s Bayside Bungalow tiny open house. Brittany operates the Bungalow as a guest rental and has an enviable composting system that piqued my curiosity at the January Tumbleweed workshop (see It’s Big!, posted 1/19/2013). Of course, it’s also an opportunity to hob-knob with other tiny enthusiasts, and—if the timing works—there’s a private tango soirée in Seattle tonight, where I could catch up with my ex-patriot friend, instructor, performer, Sara Thomsen, who now resides in Buenos Aires. Given I’ve been distracted from the dance floor for a couple of months, the tango may humble me, but the brief and elegant escape could be just the tiny ticket to.... What did I say earlier? Oh yeah… Feel my way along. Rest. Keep moving.

Stay tuned!

The infamous Sara Thomsen who hooked me on tango years ago. Thank you!

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Rain on Tiny Windowpanes

5/12/2013

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Giant Pliers Menace Tiny House

It’s 7:45 a.m. in the tiny house, back on the ground after a TinyHouseBlog feature rocketed my site visits into the thousands last week (many humble thanks to Kent Griswold and the many virtual visitors. Look for TinyHouseBlog "Tiny House in a Landscape" features to view the photo). A luxuriously warm spring has instigated an extended and colorful conversation amid the Island’s floral population. After more than a year (or two) stewing over weather system stability and complexity of yet another first-time project, a deceptively sunny streak had finally stirred me to action, replacing the fogged panes of two of my salvaged windows. In honor of Mother’s Day, Mother Nature invoked Murphy’s Law of the Pacific NW Weather #5,827 to bless her thirsting blooms and my window project with—oh, yes—rain.

One has to laugh, in spite of my practiced procrastination of the project, the process was turning out to be fairly straightforward:

tap putty knife into groove between window sash and wood strip glass holders
pry gently to bow strips allowing nail heads to pull through wood
pull remaining nails from strips and window sash with pliers
gently pry pane loose from seat and remove
scrape seat clean of old glazing and dirt
clean with vinegar-dampened towel (to kill mold)
dry-fit new panes to sash.

It’s the additional peppering with unanticipated (at least by me) steps that tends to draw out the process:

clean wood strip glass holders
glue or replace any broken strips
paint to seal and wait to dry
acquire (trip to Sebo's) and apply glazing putty
identify and acquire correct nails (second trip to Sebo's)
etc...

I have yet to figure out optimal glazing technique, and a method of nailing, sans nail gun, without breaking glass. Stay tuned.

And so, the cut grass in herbal fragrance sighs. Tiny poppies in the lawn behind the house giggle themselves crimson at the Visqueen curtains now obscuring my view over the garden as they whisper, plastically, in the blessedly gentle breeze. Perhaps I’ll finish the job today. Perhaps tomorrow. I, too, giggle at the sight. It’s all good.

Happy Mothers Day!

Reflections on Foggy Windowpane

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Improvisation in Septic, I

3/30/2013

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It’s 6:30 a.m. tiny time. It's been a lovely week for moon shots, but the fog that envelopes the garden this morning is more illusive. Near the surface of sleep, things move in and out of focus: 5:30—silence… 5:45— two frogs volley croaks across the pond… 6:05—a racket of robins in the tree-shaped cut-outs… 6:40—four crows zipline from the boat yard on a series of caws. Around 6:43 the robins drop a decibel. Camille’s rooster fills his lungs. Flat, gray shapes take on color... texture... depth...

I left off with the mini-septic last Saturday, when I had less than perfectly rendered the divider for the tank, spouting some vaguely optimistic projections for finishing it before Seattle Sunday evening tango. I made it to Seattle.

The septic languished until Thursday, between work, weeding, errands and--I admit--some modicum of procrastination. When I got back to it, turns out putting the lid on the can pulled the sides in enough to reduce the gapping around the divider. There was some additional crawling around on the ground for trench modification, then plumbing to include a trap and it came together lickety-split, though I’m hesitant to bury the whole operation before it’s been thoroughly tested. Mainly, I’m concerned that the trap may not be properly angled for optimal function in containing stagnant water aromas. We shall see. Next on the agenda: repeat process for the wee house sink water. More digging and crawling required, but I’m soon to be puddle- and open pit- free!

Forecast for the weekend calls for 65 and copious sunshine. True to the season of longer days and increased energy and activity levels, competing priorities have already lined up, including a photo shoot of a friend’s vacation rental (did I mention it’s on the beach?). So I’m keeping this week’s post short, but I’ll be back with progress reports (or pleasant diversions) as they roll in.

Happy Easter Eggs!

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Back in Action

3/23/2013

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It’s just after noon in the garden. The tiny house seems to imitate a sundial, swinging its fiery orb ‘round on radius. Through the garden-side windows, the sun squares color and texture in blocks of light across my floor, warming everything. The passive solar action is a welcome top-off to last week’s elemental display: clouds, downpours, sun, bluster, frost, one last winter ‘hiccup’ of four white inches yesterday and—oh yes—frozen water lines this morning. Alas, I didn’t get pictures of the wee house in snow, because I made it to work in the blizzard (small miracle), and so happened to get paid—sweet! Maybe I’ll get wee snow shots next winter, after I’ve upgraded my water lines, but I digress…

In the midst of such March madness, like the other local flora and fauna, it is the time of year that I emerge from hibernation. My stirring actually begins around the end of February, immediately interrupted by annual rituals of taxation (back to the cave!). By the time I’ve sunk two weeks with several hours into bookkeeping, I am eager to resume progress on my tiny project. Let’s see… Where did I leave off? Oh, yes—gray water management.

If you’ve been following along, this may sound a bit déjà vu. If it seems I’ve been referencing work on the mini-septic for months sans progress report, I have. After getting the shower working mid-December, the fact that gray water was simply running out of the bathhouse and into an open hole in the ground seemed less important than nesting, hibernation, staying warm and dry... But the sun is back! So, without further ado, allow me to step into this gloriously warming afternoon for an on-site assessment…

Bath house in background--not bad from a distance.

Last November.

Today

[Hours later…]

5:30 in the tiny house. In the course of willful neglect, the hole excavated for the septic tank had filled halfway with milky, stagnant water upon which the plastic trash can (septic-tank-to-be) despondently bobbed. The drain pipes lay, detached in their trenches amid hopeful tufts of grass that had begun to move in. Nevertheless, I’m happy to report progress this very afternoon:

Pulled bobbing can from hole
bailed out odious liquid and a few scoops of dead earthworms (oh, my glamorous life...)
pulled up pipes and cleaned out trenches, checking for proper downhill pitch
cut two perfect-fit holes in can for inflow and outflow
cut out the would-be tank divider...

Alas, my first attempt at that final item was a less than perfect fit. But there’s always tomorrow, when I shall flawlessly fit the divider, install the trap, hook up the pipes, bury the lot of it and be tango-bound for Seattle by mid-afternoon… (crossing fingers) I’ll keep you posted.

Happy Spring!

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Garden of Weedin'

3/3/2013

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It’s 7:45 a.m. in my tiny house. Camille’s rooster finished his pronouncements some time earlier. Smaller birds picked up the threads. Robins cast a wide net over the garden under an eagle’s slow circle. It’s early enough that blades of grass still cast shadows in the low-slung light. The moon’s translucent half-shell sails over the greenhouse like satisfying skillet aftermath—today’s order: sunny side up, and the coffee’s hot.

That’s my tiny view over the garden this morning and I’m pleased to witness the result of the wind’s noisy labors over the past several days. It’s hard work, after all, moving weather systems. In the midst of the bluster, I did catch some fun moonlit shots of the house, and although tax season now menaces my tiny great room with its blinding, paper blizzard, the photos, today’s sun and last night’s amphibious choir cheer me.

Luckily, my latest thrift store coffee mug with ridiculously large handle reminds me to take myself less seriously in the throes of tax season.

Lists continue to spring up like the kale, arugula, baby lettuces and weed sprouts that comprise the lawn around my wee house. I’m parked where the garden waste pile used to reside—convenient for grazing a bit closer to the house. Nevertheless, I add grass seed to the list, just over flower-planting, gray water upgrades, and the privacy fence that will delineate my residential corner from the public garden sphere before later-season big events (i.e. the Whidbey Open Studio Tour dinner in the garden). Camille unleashed the roto-tiller a couple of weeks ago and the weeds are, already, providing ample opportunity for my active participation. Thoughts of fresh, seasonal bounty with which to enliven future Vittles posts elicit my Pavlovian response. (pausing to wipe chin…)

My, so far, tiny weeded patch...

But back to weeding, that often under-appreciated, endless chore of the organically inclined. The rewards can be great. Unlike a debt of dishes that must be done post-meal enjoyment (another endless task not without merit, in my opinion), the act of weeding is a ‘pay-it-forward’ investment model, with yields proportional to the amount of heart invested. AND it provides an alternative to the anonymous, industrial-machinery-supplied, flavor- and nutrition-stripped supermarket. Community-supported gardens require individuals to show up and to share interest in the well-being of other members. The authenticity of such investments are neither inconsequential, nor anonymous. Of course, it takes time in addition to labor, though often less financial investment.

In the last six years, I’ve seen an explosion of organic gardens (even our local food bank sprouted a garden) and new (or renewed) generation farmers burst through fissures in the steely horizon of industrious obligation toward someone else’s bottom line. Urban agriculture is taking off, too, and there’s no time like the present, given the alarming number of humans struggling to afford food in spite of massive time/energy investment in ‘paid’ work. It makes sense: return on gardening investment is more immediate, direct and sustainable. As for my present living arrangement, the legality of my more-or-less ‘permanent’ residence in a 'temporary structure' happens to hinge on a farm worker housing concession in the county code.

A decade has passed since I landed in the Northwest, more in flight from divorce than with any clear sense of direction. I slapped together a typical 9-to-5 (and then some) existence in Seattle, with little time to cook or savor. I had begun to tune into ingredients lists in the grocery aisles, but often ate takeout effectively waiving conscious due diligence and paying in further energy depletion. Upon the brick-wall view through my apartment window, I projected an imaginarium with garden, community and time to participate and savor.

Much has changed since then. The sum impact of the many seemingly insignificant, disconnected, at times fed-up, rebellious or passive, desperate or determined, resolved and sometimes hopeful shifts that occurred, often with little notice on my part. A recent visitor, post-recount of my tiny labor of love and agony of the past five years, praised the accomplishment of what I’d done, (paraphrasing) instead of curling up crying in a corner. I grinned, owning it all. “Oh, yes. I did that, too.”

It’s 10:27. I look up from my computer over the garden view outside my window, just noticing the robins have finished their work and flown. I wonder what and where they’re off to now... I’m about to go and take their place in the garden—get my hands in the earth, pull some weeds, weave this regular task into the fabric of my little life at this time and place in the world. There's plenty of work to go around.

With special thanks to Camille LaTray, whose garden, especially, shaped this week's post.

See you next week.

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Homing

2/10/2013

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It’s Sunday morning in the tiny house. I'm back, home sweet home, from my Denver visit where my sister, nephew and I spent the previous Saturday constructing a 'domino effect' installation (see OK Go’s This Too Shall Pass music video, for example). On a side note potentially relevant to alternative energy enthusiasts among you, my brother-in-law is collaborating on the design/construction of a gasification prototype for converting waste to electricity (see wikipedia entry for a general description) with possible applications for tiny homes. If you’re interested, feel free to e-mail or leave a comment at the end of the post. Otherwise, I will post links to tech developments as they unfold.

Meanwhile back in the garden this morning, the last haze has lifted. What’s green has never seemed so green under the sun’s fingertips. A cadre of nearly perfectly spaced robins and clusters of other birds are twittering about the business of tugging up brunch from the earth. No doubt, spring is afoot.

It has been a short and sweet, philosophical week in the tiny house. My friend, Dori, joined me Thursday for our periodic head-to-head over brunch griddled up in my tiny kitchen. Sipping coffee over Grand Marnier French toast with dried cherry lavender compote and maple syrup, (see Vittles page for recipe) we pondered the stories driving our respective endeavors. What is it about my wee house project that has held my sustained attention and efforts for the last five years often in spite of time/funds shortages, and where do I go from here?

Building a tiny house on wheels was not my idea. In spite of sharing Iowa roots with original Tumbleweed designer, Jay Shafer (now the owner/designer of Four Lights Tiny Houses), I was unaware that such a thing existed prior to my friend’s suggestion that I build something similar (see Tiny Origins for the inception of the project). Sustainability, too, is a part of it, though I was equally unaware of that conversation prior to the age of 30 and am continuously humbled by how much I have to learn. After the Tumbleweed workshop I recently attended, I wrote about the tiny house movement (see my January 20, 2013 blog post for reference), of which I finally feel a part, after three to four years laboring alone in the wilderness. But there’s something else...

What has driven us to build bigger houses where we sleep a little, get ready for work, and from which we commute longer distances, consuming more resources to work longer hours, hopefully, for enough money to pay for it and take occasional vacations until we can begin to live in that mythical land called RETIREMENT, if we make it that far? Is this living? I have a theory that we are all homing: seeking context, meaning, a secure place to be and time to appreciate. What if we could start living now, before retirement? What kind of world would we build together? The media examples with which we are daily bombarded are variously packaged versions of largely the same thing. There is another way. Since that tiny opportunity I now call home landed in my lap, the world is so much bigger than I had imagined. And in this tiny giant world into which I've stumbled, there is plenty of room for community. I hope to see you there.

See you next week!

P.S. Now entertaining client contracts and seeking grants for construction this spring.

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