Before Breaking Ground: A History

 

The Journey Before the Journey, Part 1

I am embarking on a custom tiny home co-build. In anticipation of the learning that will be involved I have been thinking through all the housing and life experiences that will be informing this adventure. My next few posts will be about those formative experiences.

Summer 1999: The first of four years of my family’s yurt living. My firstborn son was 4 ½ and my twins (a daughter and son) were 2 years old. I was newly pregnant with my last baby, a daughter, who would be born the beginning of January 2000, in the yurt. A few months after the 1st yurt photo was taken (below) we had both roofs replaced because of mold issues. My husband at the time had tried to save money and didn't purchase the roof material as heavy cotton ducking treated for moisture resistance (which I had wanted). Rather, he purchased a vinyl material that was awful to work with and a bear to seal after I had pieced and sewn all the seams with an industrial sewing machine. The sewing itself would not have been possible on a regular sewing machine. The fabric and industrial thread were so thick and heavy, it would have burned out the motor in a day. We had obtained a secondhand industrial sewing machine from someone who lived relatively close by who had heard about our yurt building project. I remember there being a lot of curiosity among our rural neighbors regarding our simple living experiment. Because of this natural interest, tools and equipment had a way of showing up when we needed it. 

It also helped that I had some uncommon skills. For example, my experience with using an industrial sewing machine began when I was only 14 years old (1974). While I attended high school, I was employed by a member of my rural church in his family’s pillow cleaning business. Before disposable pillows came on the scene, clinics, hospitals, and nursing homes needed to have their feather pillows cleaned regularly. Such a detail about routine life --- like life before plastic or pillows that were handed down through a few generations --- most people would not knowingly recall such things without firsthand experience. Howard Graham had invited me into that early job, since he was the owner and a church elder. I was already an experienced seamstress. Since the age of 12 I had been sewing most of my own clothes. There had been some custom work I had done in curtains and drapes for neighbors, as well as some occasional clothing alteration work. My scope of interest and skill was rather advanced when it came to sewing.

It took longer to adjust to the loudness of the industrial sewing machine than it did to become proficient at using it, with its requirement of frequent oiling, and refilling bobbins with the heavy-duty thread that came off of 8 inch cones rather than small spools like home machines. I quickly learned to sew the heavier cotton fabric pillow casings (ticks) which would hold the cleaned feathers --- feathers that were blown into the tick casings via a seven and a half inch opening left in the final seam of each tick. This opening, which had to be exact to fit the feather blower arm into, was then sewn closed by Howard, the feather-cleaner machine operator-owner. He wore protective eye and ear gear, as well as a particulates mask to avoid inhaling the zillion downy bits of feathers that managed to escape at the tail end. This part of the sequence was done in a high cube truck parked outside the commercial space we seamstresses worked in, but close to the delivery-style door that led from our sewing stations.

One day, on my way in to start a shift after school, I curiously peeked into the back of the high cube truck station. Howard, a wiry 5-foot 6-inch blond man in his early fifties was bent over his work, with all the eye, ear, and mouth gear in place, as well as his coverall suit. He was haloed in a perpetual light of downy flurries, a never melting feather layer accumulating on all surfaces. From that quick peek into Howard’s workspace, I could understand why he often seemed out-of-sorts after he had spent several hours in that station. To avoid molds and mites, that station had to remain warm, dry and clean. With all of that gear on it was hot and claustrophobic! No wonder he never had anyone else trained for that station. My appreciation for Howard as an employer, with excellent working conditions for us, and as a family man and elder, pained my young heart with a tender gratitude. And, because he was the only one who ever operated that part of the pillow making sequence, there was never a pillow that wasn’t closed by Howard’s seven and a half inches of stitching. I cannot imagine how many hundreds of thousands of pillows he cleaned and refilled, plus new pillows designed for weddings and hotels. By today's standards, Graham's Pillow Cleaning was a modest family business in the Poconos of Pennsylvania, but it maintained a service area that included several counties.  

It took three female seamstresses to keep up with the demand for new pillow ticks. We were paid ten cents per tick casing and there were three different styles of casings. We had to pay attention to the fabric and the cut to know where the final opening had to be left for the feather-fill. I was the youngest but could sew up to eighty ticks in an hour, depending on the cut of the fabric and style ordered. I worked for just under two years in this position. Then, shortly after my sixteenth birthday, I was removed from school by my parents. Everything changed dramatically then. 

In protest of my parent’s actions, Howard gave me my final check with his sincere explanation. He didn’t agree with my parent’s plans to marry me off young or deny me an education. He knew I wanted to pursue a profession in the arts but that was not to be. A year later I was a child-bride in an arranged marriage in the state of Virginia. That story has been told in another essay but the part that is relevant here is how being at the whim of the adults in my life is part of my experience of housing, too. It figures in heavily with the ability to design and own one’s personal home. I would say it is even an intention at self-determination, especially for a young family who would never qualify for or want a traditional mortgage to shelter their children. When I think about the avenues that led to my family’s yurt home endeavor, and the homesteading experiences I was aiming for at the time, it seems integral to the emotional, spiritual, and educational web I have been weaving through this life.

 Despite my best efforts, the first roof over our yurts failed on every level. It sweated and dripped condensation, leaked at the seams, sagged under the sun’s heat, and became stiff in the cold. There was no ceiling insulation either. It proved to be useless. Within a few months we purchased our custom sewn roof with the properly treated fabric, from the same yurt supplies company that no longer exists. I think it was in Arizona. The company was new at the time and based off an early book on custom yurt building by a female artisan. We followed her design very carefully. After we installed the new yurt roof, I took photos of the one I had sewn (of that awful vinyl) and sent them to the materials supplier, for their inspection. In a phone conversation later, they assured me I had done everything correctly. I realized, by the end of that phone call, that the cost of materials and the many hours of my sewing labor were a powerful lesson for me. I was relieved to learn that the yurt company stopped providing the vinyl material on their future kits. There was no anger in this for me so no bridges were burned with the people learning to develop their yurt materials company.

For insulation, we installed some made-for-yurts reflective insulation which was less than adequate. Our excellent quality wood stove made up for this dilemma. Almost. The floor was essentially a well finished but uninsulated deck platform. The kids and I were happy in this home life for the most part, and we were wonderfully healthy. The best sleep of my life was during those years --- not surrounded by EMFs in our walls but welcoming the subtle phases of moonlight as it bathed our yurt home.

 Our primary yurt was 24' in diameter. Both yurts (pictured above) could be entered from an external entrance and had one internal doorway linking the two. We had three points of electrical connection. One fed my 54 sq. ft. kitchen set up, a second fed our central lighting and computer/VCR equipment area, and the final one fed the bathroom/washer/dryer complex. We were outdoors most of the time. Our sleep hygiene tradition consisted of baths followed by story time. I designed the beds that we slept on and my husband and I co-built them. One was a movable loft bed platform for my oldest son, and the twin’s beds rolled out from under our king size bed at night. I often have very clear and spontaneous recall of myself or their dad reading stories as the kids fell asleep. In the winter months, we would all be snuggled under our down comforters and the creaking of the wood stove, with its radiating heat and flickering ember glow, made our a cozy space a haven for peaceful dreams. 

The smaller yurt can be seen partially to the right and rear of the primary yurt (above) and was our bathing room, consisting of an open wardrobe, an iron clawfoot tub, a sink with open shelving, and a composting toilet. That yurt was 14' in diameter and the hot water we enjoyed was provided by a propane on-demand water heater. Beyond the bathing yurt was a repurposed metal garden shed that held a washer and dryer. I mostly used our outdoor laundry lines, which were strung between the fruit trees in the orchard that was our front yard. This multi-acre orchard compound was fenced in because we otherwise have had cougars, bobcats, deer, milking goats and the occasional black bear wanting to visit our apple and plum trees, raspberry bushes, and raised garden beds. Our food and toilet composting piles were kept separate and I followed permaculture principles for using the compost in appropriate areas. 

Our yurt compound was in the northeast section of the orchard. Toro Creek itself ran behind our yurts, about 16 feet back and then down an 8-foot bank. Even in drought years this lovely riparian habitat allowed us to experience the seasons with an abundance of native blackberries and a constant green aroma from the willows and sycamores that flourished along its banks.

 Spring 2001: We added a secondhand Pacific yurt, (visible in the left background of the next photo, below). This was my home schooling / music classroom and office. It was 20' in diameter. The photo itself captures a small gathering of Quaker friends we had out to the property for an orchard potluck. We were members of a local Quaker Silent Meeting group at the time. Many different groups in the area were fascinated to hear of a young family that lived on the land in yurts in rural San Luis Obispo County. I maintained the orchard of approximately 70 fruit trees for 5 years, processing most of the fruit yields and completing the annual rounds of pruning. Our water came down a gravity fed line from a spring on the upper, south side of the property. My former in-laws had the primary gravity fed line feeding their 100-plus-year-old owner-built rustic cedar two-story. Their square footage was likely under 800. The original water pipes and electrical upgrades were grandfathered in by the county. The original construction seemed solid.

 

Our yurts, considered non-permanent dwellings, were never really questioned seriously by the county personnel. At least, I was never made aware of an issue.  However, we did get visits from county-based planners or engineers, or some similar labeled person from time to time. They usually came out for some other project underway and generally made an effort to “peek in” on us. They always left smiling. Our home was clean, orderly, and clearly fostered a simple life. Any questions asked pertained to safety and warmth and getting through the winter season. Though we originally had a cookstove with an oven in our kitchen area, about 2 years into our residence in the yurts we removed the stove. We simply didn’t use one for five years because we had become raw foodists after my daughter had developed type 1 diabetes before she was 2 years old. Removing the stove also meant that we didn’t officially have a kitchen, according to local codes. I think that may have been why the county permit officials never hassled us and viewed our situation as non-permanent. Which it was, of course.

The initial agreement for living and working on the land was meant to be no longer than three years. My mother-in-law was recovering from a devastating fall from her part in a team effort at dismantling a metal Butler building roof off-site. Additionally, her son, my then husband, considerably younger than I, needed time to integrate his environmental studies degree into a meaningful work life.

Summer of 2002: My husband lost interest in upgrading / finishing certain aspects of our yurt home, like insulating the floor, and building out the deck to include the third yurt or creating a firepit for outdoor gatherings. He wanted to live in a more traditional house, possibly because he felt our life there was too impermanent. I never felt clear on what he wanted. But a small and modest home was important to us in our discussions of the topic, so my mother-in-law helped us locate, then purchased and had transported a small, pre-owned modular home. I think it was approximately 24’ x 35’ (840 sq. ft.). I cannot recall if it was brought in one or two sections, but it traveled along four miles of pretty rough road. Two of those miles are back-to-back crazy hairpin turns, which rim the rural creek and canyon edges. Breathtaking but dangerous if you get distracted because there are no guardrails. The truck driver hauling the modular out to us was nearly a wreck by the time he arrived --- it had taken at least four hours but there were no mishaps, I’m happy to say. He was an excellent navigator, it turns out.

We set up the home on the northwest end of the orchard, still along the Creekside. A small septic area already existed there, from when a trailer had been hooked up a decade or so before. We had the septic updated and a foundation laid by the time the modular home was delivered. A remodel process began. We built a lovely deck across the entire south facing side. I slowly built a 4-foot-wide walking path by hand. It was a sand and gravel affair, but I enjoyed the process. I did minimal landscaping otherwise but wanted to use permaculture principles I had learned through reading and extensions courses at Cal-Poly.

I was 42 at the time we began that remodel and looking back, I can see conflicting agendas unfolding that I couldn’t perceive at the time. I came to believe that our remaining on the property was incurring expenses and pressures on my mother-in-law that she should not be having to deal with. Discussions between longevity and lifestyle and contribution and interdependence went unresolved.  Additionally, I was involved in a nonprofit agency serving families with children newly diagnosed with diabetes. My oldest daughter was less than 2 when she was diagnosed in 1999 --- so, between my experiences with my brother and my young daughter, I was a natural shoo-in for being the director of The Children's Diabetes Network (of SLO county). It was a 10-20 hour a week position from home (mostly), with by-weekly liaison work in one of the hospitals. I organized two events a year: a clinic and a seminar. Volunteer support came from college students at Cal-Poly. The small home we remodeled was given the name Orchard House, so that my mother-in-law would always have a place for someone to live and take care of her orchard, as I had been doing for the years we lived on her property. Sadly, meaningful communication was slipping with my husband. Family resentments were building around financial issues I was never a party to but wanted to understand. Out of respect for the situation, the people, and the time period involved, it may be best to simply say that the family atmosphere became confusing to me and I could sense a reckoning of some unwholesome mess coming down the pike.

The following photos are from the realty website that eventually posted and sold the 54 acres of property that our yurts, the Orchard House, and the original dwellings were located. Nothing is fancy because we didn’t need it to be. 

The snapshot below is likely taken from the northwest corner of the orchard, facing south.

I believe the above photo is the view from behind the Orchard House, 
located in the northwest section of the orchard.  The fruit trees are primarily semi-dwarf.

Before I was part of the family compound in Toro Creek Canyon, when I was newly pregnant with my firstborn son (1994), the section of trees and hills across from the orchard (middle to background of the photo above) were blackened by a fire that raged through the canyon near the end of a long drought period. I was with the family on a trip to Northern California when we received the news that a fire was heading into the canyon and threatening my future mother-in-law's home and property. By the time we traveled back to the property, the fire was under control and the meadows, which are now lush and green but hidden in the middle ground of the photo above, were filled with fire trucks and firemen, and black, scorched earth was all around. The structures and orchard were unharmed. While I stepped in to help with food and clean-up for all the people coming and going, I recall thinking how quickly one can lose everything - or come very close to losing it. This reminded me of an earlier time of deep impressions, during my childhood, when a devastating fire and an earthquake, in southern California, threatened those I loved and depended upon. And which gave me an eyewitness experience of how differently people handled the trauma of losing their livelihood and housing security when faced with immanent and unavoidable danger. I write more on this later in Part 2.

The living room post-remodel. My husband at the time put in the flooring, 
which added so much to the warmth and character of the upgrade.

 

The kitchen of the Orchard House, post remodel. 
The light is wonderfully generous.

The dining and back entry of the Orchard House, post-remodel. 
The cave-like dimness of our former yurts made the generous light of the new house 
a welcome adjustment.

The master bedroom of the Orchard House, post-remodel.

 

The second bedroom/office of the Orchard House, post-remodel.

 The view of the land from the middle of the orchard, looking southwest.

By the Winter of 2003, we made an imperfect leap to Orcas Island. Therein began my experience with community land trusts and the eventual moving into a home created by OPAL CLT of Orcas Island. 

 In my opinion, the original agreements with my former in-laws needed to be clarified and updated, annually, throughout the five years I lived there. But this did not happen, I think, because of communication challenges and issues I was not necessarily informed on. One agreement was that I was earning a sweat-equity share in the value of the property. Sadly, the potential good of such a plan and the potential conversations it could have fostered fell by the wayside. Once I painfully realized I needed to divorce the father of my children, other issues became prominent and I never got to hear the full story from the perspective of the others involved. Nor did they ever hear mine. I'll skip over the next five years of my trial by fire. I can bridge those years simply by saying that my now adult children still love their grandparents and extended family. It was never my intention to get in the way of that, no matter how harshly things unfolded with nonsensical custody battles. I am probably naïve in clinging to the belief that a more whole and truthful version of the story will find its way to the light of day. Perhaps when all parties are ready. In the meantime, I incurred some fresh scars to accompany the grace and grit that carried me forward.  

 At this point in my life, I can honestly say I have forgiven those nonsensical battles but I hope I have retained their lessons. It was nearly an invisible war. It took many years and was costly on so many levels, but a small community of friends on Orcas Island became a proud witness of my endurance and the principles I was endeavoring to apply to my life in general. Please note that I am imperfect and not saying that I did everything just right. I can only say that I tried and I didn't give up although much was surrendered. 

I learned so much through my starts and stops and growth as a person about the value of developing within a community. Admittedly, the legal processes that helped, and sometimes hindered, my wellbeing seemed terribly hollow when all was said and done. I found them problematic and inefficient throughout the experiences that led to my becoming a single parent. The circus of my now ex-husband’s felony trial and conviction left an indelible mark on my heart and certainly on the lives of our children.  Add to that the burden of a bankruptcy, and it becomes easier to understand my reluctance to mingle money and partnership and business without very clear guidelines and commitments. I believe a bankruptcy could have been avoided if the truth had been sought earlier, and had I known who to talk to for help, the ripple of damage may have been much less. One legacy it burdened me and my kids with was a postponement in qualifying for the purchase of a home of our own for six years. That is a big chunk of my children’s home life spent in other dwellings and frequent moves. There is more to the story, but those details have to be sorted out and are best reserved for a more in-depth memoir. Regardless of my scars, I still believe in happy endings. However, we need to have some happy-in-the-middle stuff, too. 

I think one of my happy middles will involve my tiny home journey. My life trajectory seems to be a consistent messenger of paying attention to the process of things, so I believe that the process matters. It is as much a part of the end-product as the people who dream it and do the work. While living in the San Juan Islands, I engaged in a large amount of barter to meet my family's needs and this involved relationship building and earning trust. My fifteen years in the Islands became a powerful mix of love, diversity, spirituality, and community leadership challenges and victories. I gained so much from the way others demonstrated their presence, their wisdom, and their practical leadership in local oriented change. I hope that I will be able to translate some of that into the necessary process of a CLT for pocket villages here in Sonoma County. Such a project is a vision whose time has come. It does, however, take people with significant guts, endurance, and life experience (read: mistakes, lessons learned), t0 make that dream right and real. An inevitable win-win, as some say. Timely, but not necessarily a fast-tracked enterprise, although the housing crisis would make it seem so.

Going Deeper is reserved for Part 2