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Yesterday, Ian and a crew of his friends loaded up a U-Haul and moved us into Antietam Street. Somewhere between teasing Ian for moving hiking sticks and talking about how our painter is straight out of a Coen Brothers movie, one of his friends said, “This house is the perfect size for a family. Not everyone needs 100 individual square feet of space.”
Maybe it’s just that the sleeper sofa wouldn’t fit in the door (not without shaving the legs down an inch) but I’m thinking a lot about how small our house is. And actually, I’m thinking about how much of a good thing that is.
There is the “Small House Movement,” which I’m not necessarily a proponent of, which urges a principled rebellion against the expansive, consumptive and unsustainable trends in homebuying and building. There are the practical benefits of lower heating costs. There is the self-delusional idea that if we have less space, we’ll accrue less stuff. There are countless reasons that I’m glad we have this tiny house, but more than anything, it was because the work was so manageable.
We worked our asses off for a month and a half, but we accomplished so much. When you’re only tackling 1,000 square feet, it goes pretty fast (not to mention that our parents helped out in tremendous, unquantifiable ways). And now, we’re home. I’m waking up for the first morning in my new house.
Last September, we started our house search with a five-bedroom Victorian in Garfield that would have sold for a song. It was big, on a double-lot, with lots and lots of work but immense space. We were in love with it. We went on and on about having roommates to help with the work and giant outdoor parties and a walk-in closet in the master bedroom. Of course, the house was sold before we even put in a bid. My consolation was that it wasn’t in an awesome neighborhood, and that maybe I’m not ready to be nervous walking home from the bus stop.
I’m thinking now how wholly unimaginable that first space is.
