Dana Clark Music

Tall, Tall Tale of a Teeny Tiny House

 How a tiny house healed my broken heart

 Go here to see photos:  Teeny Tiny House Music Video

 Copyright 2024 Dana Clark

The Crisis

I thought I'd found someone I could love forever. I was sure he adored me. My years of struggle were over. I was finally living happily ever after and, as the Beatles sang, "It's getting better all the time!"

We not only lived together, we worked together, because what could be better than doing what you love the most with the person you love the most? My true love and my life's work were all tied up in one perfect package. It was everything I could ever want.

I'd finally found someone who could understand my unconventional life as a freelance musician because his life revolved around music, just as mine did. By combining efforts in like-minded endeavors, I thought we had created harmony in both our public and private lives. What a surprise when it all went to hell, and I was left with the task of rebuilding every aspect of my life from the ground up!

I had to wonder why I had put all my precious eggs in a single fragile basket. Didn't I realize they could all shatter at once? Everything I valued was broken beyond repair. I not only had to create a new living situation, I had to invent a new focus for my professional life and a new sound for my music.

Building a life with another musician had not been the guarantee of eternal bliss that I'd hoped. Was there some way I could put my pieces back together so I never again would suffer the simultaneous collapse of my life and life's work?

It occurred to me that instead of designing home and hearth around a relationship, as I had always done in the past, perhaps I should try a new approach. Drowning in this ocean of sorrow, what if I saved myself by building a lifeboat just for me?

My new strategy, courtesy of Henry David Thoreau and friends

I spent a long time thinking about what that lifeboat might look like. What was so essential that I could build my life around it? What was the one driving force that I would never lose? When I asked the question that way, the answer was obvious--all things musical.

What did I really need in order to organize my life around musical work? In her feminist essay A Room of One's Own, Virginia Woolf wrote that "a woman must have money and a room of her own" to be able to create. I was confident that I could provide financially because I'd been doing more than my share of supporting my partner and myself, and having lived on gig money for many years, I'd learned how to stretch every dollar. But with no one to join me, the road ahead seemed endless and lonely. I could not imagine where my journey would take me next.

More than once, when the chips were down, I had longed to grab a guitar and go live in the woods. I felt a similar impulse pointing me toward a simpler life. For inspiration, I turned to Thoreau's classic Walden Pond. Dusting off my old copy, I reacquainted myself with his viewpoint. I found his words urging me in a direction I wanted to explore. He wrote, "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." I began to wonder, what would be the absolute "essentials" of my life from here on out.  

Thoreau seemed to be telling a truth I needed to hear when he wrote, "No way of thinking or doing, however ancient, can be trusted without proof. What everybody echoes or in silence passes by as true today may turn out to be falsehood tomorrow..." Right up until the moment my life collapsed, I had been operating on the assumption that I knew what I was doing. Apparently not. The truth I had counted on had become falsehood overnight. Now, with my illusions in tatters around me, I was facing a new reality.

I longed for an environmentally friendly living space. I wanted a home that would function around me like a well-oiled machine so the routine business of life would require minimal effort and allow me to devote plenty of time to creative work. I'd never been the kind of person who needed a ballroom, a swimming pool, or a three-car garage.

I kept on consulting Thoreau. He made me laugh. He made me think. He made me dream.

Thoreau's mentor, Ralph Waldo Emerson, had written an entire book on a subject I needed to study: Self-Reliance. Taking Socrates' injunction "Know Thyself" further, Emerson commanded, "Trust Thyself." I was ready to try it since trusting someone else had not worked out so well.

I referred to their words as I made plans. What would Thoreau do? What would Emerson do? What would Virginia Woolf say?

Practical Considerations

I took a long look at my resources. What did I already have that could be transformed into what I needed for the kind of future I was only beginning to imagine? What baggage must I jettison to be open to change?

Was there something I could rebuild to create that essential "room" Virginia Woolf recommended? I considered the possibilities. My eyes focused on the only structure I owned that was not fully in use--a dilapidated, single-car garage. Over the years, it had become the resting place for things I should have gotten rid of years before. There were broken pieces of furniture, reclaimed boards, paint cans, yard tools, leaky hoses, and random odds and ends that might be useful “someday.” It hadn't been cleaned or cleaned out in years. The frame seemed pretty solid, although there were several places where you could see straight through the rotted siding. The double front door was crumbling, but the roof was in pretty good shape, and the cement floor seemed level enough. Its dimensions were 14 x 18. It wouldn't be as small as some tiny houses, but it would be small enough, considering it would be both my place of business and my home. I had to have a place to teach music students and set up my recording studio. Lucky for me, since my studio was digital, it required little more than a dedicated computer, a good microphone, and an electric keyboard. I was used to small living spaces. I was pretty sure I could make it all fit.

Some of my neighbors had separate little houses in their backyards. In another city, they might be called "backyard apartments." In bilingual San Antonio, they were referred to as "casitas," the diminutive form of the Spanish word for the house: "casa." At one time, they probably had been just like my old garage until a need arose for an extra living space. Could I create something like that? Would it become the nest where I could heal my shattered heart and continue my work as a singer/songwriter/musician? Could it shelter my pianos and other instruments, my cats, Great-Grandma's old pump organ, and...me? Where would I put the garden and the chickens?

Inspiration

I stood inside the garage and tried to envision how I might rebuild it. I looked around outside and imagined what I'd have to do. The idea was attractive, but was it even remotely possible? This would be a monumental project. I knew from experience that my dreams could lead me astray if I jumped in too quickly. I needed to be sure I could finish it before taking the first step.

I researched a wealth of information on the internet about building and living in tiny houses. I studied designs that gave me ideas on how to get maximum function from minimal space. I traveled to visit a business that manufactured tiny houses from salvaged materials a century old. I found my goals congruent with their philosophy that "it is possible to reduce our carbon footprint, simplify our lives, and live in a healthy house that will be energy efficient as well as beautiful."

As more of my attention was devoted to imagining what my home could be, I wasted less time reviewing the quagmire of my recent past. I began to feel the stirrings of rebirth.

Inch By Inch By Inch

If I were to downsize from a three-bedroom house to a tiny home, I would have to eliminate all but the most essential possessions. What were the things I couldn't live without? Would I be able to fit them all in the footprint of a small garage?

I found some graph paper and began to draw. I measured the garage and drew a diagram of the space. I cut out scale drawings of everything I needed to keep and laid them inside the garage diagram, shifting them this way and that to find the best arrangement.

The space measured 14' x 18', and the ceiling was almost 11' high at the center ridge. Would there be room for a sleeping loft on one end? I didn't have to be able to stand up in the loft, but I wanted it high enough so I could sit up in the morning without banging my head on the ceiling. Would that leave enough space below so a person of average height would not have to duck? I was a little over five feet tall. Did it matter that my taller friends might bump their heads? How many tall friends did I have, anyway?

There was so much to consider!

The Devil Is In the Details

I had hoped to fit everything within the original footprint, but I needed living space and room for teaching, writing, and recording. After wrestling with the challenge, I finally had to admit I needed a ten-foot addition at the front for a small kitchen and bathroom. Still, my new house would be less than 400 sq ft. Not bad for a home AND a business.

I needed to be able to look forward to a few luxuries in the otherwise Spartan existence I was planning. I dreamed of luxuriating in an old claw-foot bathtub full of bubbles when my house was finished. Still, if I made the bathroom big enough for a tub, the kitchen would be too small for a full-size refrigerator and stove. I asked myself this: Would I rather cook and clean or relax in a tub? With the question phrased that way, the answer was obvious. I could definitely get by with a hotplate and a dorm room-size refrigerator. Since the tub would be a significant indulgence, why not put a reading light above it? Double indulgences! I could settle into my bubble bath with a good book, tweaking the hot water faucet with a toe now and then to keep the water at the perfect temperature.

How many inches of wall space did my pump organ need? My treadle sewing machine had to be accessible, but would there be a corner to hide the mess that was sure to develop around it? How was I to solve the dilemma of where to position the acoustic piano since pianos must never be placed against an outside wall, and all my walls would be outside walls? How many inches of porch could I tuck into the space between the front door and the giant pecan tree without impinging upon its roots?

That Good Old Hierarchy of Needs

Irving Maslow postulated five levels of human need. The most basic physiological needs, such as food and shelter, must be fulfilled before an individual can focus on emotional and psychological needs. Those needs must be satisfied before someone can work at self-actualization, defined as the "desire to become the most that one can be."

I knew I was my best self when writing songs. When real life got in the way of my creative work, I became disappointed in myself, frustrated, and depressed. Sometimes, I even wondered if my life was at all worthwhile. Now that I needed to spend so much energy on building shelter, would I have enough left to make music?

One thing was sure: The disruption of my living situation had seriously distracted my work. I couldn't focus on what rhymes with what when I was preoccupied with creating a place to lay my head. I could follow through with my regular playing jobs and I continued teaching. Still, I had little energy for the more inspiring activities—writing new songs and recording.

My conscience nagged me. My insecurity hounded me. Was this the end of my life's work? Would I someday have to say I used to be a musician? It didn't matter how many songs I'd written or cool gigs I'd had. I felt dead in the water if I wasn't working on a new song or recording some of my backlog.

Now, my creative energy had to be devoted to working out construction details. Instead of tuning in to the music in my head, I often found myself engrossed in visualizing some part of my house—the one I was building in my imagination. I'd picture the spatial relationships, mentally turning the images this way and that, testing out variations until I'd solved part of the puzzle. I enjoyed doodling cartoons of the property's layout, including the trees, driveway, garden, house, and fences.

Time and again, I ran into problems that seemed insurmountable. There appeared to be no place for my Great Grandma's tiny bed, which I'd slept in as a baby. I'd always told myself I'd sleep in that same bed when I was as old as she had been. My new home would be incomplete without it. If Great Grandma's bed wouldn't fit, I would have to give up on the casita idea. For nearly a week, I thought I would have to abandon my plans. I meditated constantly on the problem until, suddenly, a solution appeared, and once again, I was back on track.

Hesitation

After months of speculating how to create my future dwelling, I still needed to commit to the project. I knew that once I started, there would be no turning back.

What did I have to lose? Not much. I'd already lost most of what I'd thought I could not live without. But I was worried that if I built a house that was only big enough for one person, I might be making a commitment to live alone for a long time--maybe for the rest of my life. Facing that kind of solitary future was frightening. Still, I'd already discovered that the worst loneliness is the kind shared by two people trapped in a failed relationship.

I left myself a loophole in this solo scenario of my future. Since I was to be completely independent and only answerable to myself, I could simply change my mind! I had already experienced enough surprising twists and turns in my life to know I should never say "never." When it came to love, I would still be able to make the same mistakes I'd always made, but I was hoping my single bed and tiny house would slow me down a little. Surely I would be reluctant to give up the peace I'd find in a stable living situation that didn't depend on a relationship with a partner I could no longer trust.

Again, I consulted Thoreau. He wrote, "I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. We are, for the most part, more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers. Solitude is not measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows...A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will." So true. Though making music had always been my way of connecting with others, every project demanded a great deal of solitude, especially at the beginning.

Creative Solitude

I was most productive when I could enter a "Flow State," first named by Mihály Csíkszentmihályi in 1975. Wikipedia defines it as" the mental state in which a person performing some activity is fully immersed in a feeling of energized focus, full involvement, and enjoyment in the process of the activity. In essence, flow is characterized by the complete absorption in what one does, and a resulting transformation in one's sense of time." I only experienced "flow" when alone. When in that state, time ceased to exist. Hours passed in what seemed like a moment, leading to embarrassment when a student arrived to find me oblivious. I had learned to set an alarm to bring me out of flow early so I could transition to reality without witnesses!

In her book The Artist's Way, Julia Cameron states, "An artist requires the upkeep of creative solitude...Defending our right to such time takes courage, conviction, and resiliency. Such time, space, and quiet will strike our family and friends as a withdrawal from them. It is. For an artist, withdrawal is necessary." There had been many times when my need for solitude had damaged some of my closest relationships, leaving friends and lovers upset and angry.

Living alone, I hoped to find it easier to claim my "creative solitude" and enter "flow."

Commitment!

I had never before started on a project of this magnitude--certainly not one that had such enormous implications for shaping my future. I had a goal in mind and a good idea of my direction. Still, I couldn't begin to imagine all the work necessary to take a crumbling garage and turn it into a home. Then again, I could see the first step, and the desire to take it became increasingly strong. I had faith that as the project evolved, the steps would become apparent when I was ready for them. I believed that some things could only be learned by doing. I would never begin if I waited until I had all the answers.

As Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, "Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer." 

I certainly had a lot of questions, and I felt ready to live the home-building process one day at a time.

For years, I had been writing songs about finding the courage to take risks. It was time to practice what I'd preached.

From "Most Miracles Are Made"

Take your courage in both hands

Keep walking toward the brightest star

Chart the course your heart demands

The smallest steps will take you far

Standing in the mountain's shade

You will know how you must climb

The way most miracles are made

By taking one step at a time

From "Any Road"

You don't need all the answers before your journey starts

You keep your eyes wide open. Take direction from your heart...

A vision leads you forward as each dream becomes a dare

Once you know where you're going, any road will lead you there

From "Leap of Faith"

You take a leap of faith

In the face of doubt

And wouldn't you give your right arm

To know how it all turns out

Sooner or later

You face an open door

And life gives you the kind of kick

You just can't ignore

You take a leap of faith

There was nothing to keep me in my current situation. With my "courage" songs playing on my internal radio, I committed to begin creating my tiny house. I decided to take Virginia Woolf's advice and go her one better. More than a room of my own, I would have a house of my own, and I would build it myself!

Quickly, it became apparent that Goethe was correct when he said, "At the moment of commitment, the entire universe conspires to assist you." In other words, "Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now."  William Hutchinson Murray.

What did Thoreau write about such decisions? "Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you've imagined.” How hard could it be? I had no idea, but I was ready to find out.

Community As Resource

I could have interviewed architects and found one whose artistic inclinations appealed to me. I could have checked out contractors and picked one whose work was acceptable. Driven by economic considerations, a contractor would likely present me with an estimate based on easily acquired materials bought nearby, plus an amount to cover the hours adequate workers required to complete it. The bottom line would require a healthy percentage of profit to pay the architect and contractor to make my decisions for me and supervise the work. The focus would be on economical materials, efficient methods, and a quick finish. Once construction had begun, my input would probably be viewed as interference and might add to the price.

I knew right away, that approach was not going to work. I was determined to be involved in every step of the building process. Nothing about my house would be conventional, so I needed to find people with the right skills who were willing to think outside the box. I needed artists not workers who were used to turning out cookie-cutter constructions as quickly and inexpensively as possible. Even more importantly, I needed people to let me work beside them without charging me extra for the privilege!

Fortunately, I lived in an older neighborhood where many like-minded people had settled to create an intentional community. In the decades since the first of our "chosen family" moved in, we'd grown to be an extensive and flexible network of friends who knew there was great value in living within a few blocks of each other. Some people called us "Old Hippies." Sometimes, we were considered "Cultural Creatives."

Whatever we were called, I had never lived anywhere that felt more like home. We had all the benefits of small-town camaraderie while retaining the cultural advantages of living in a large urban area. We didn't intrude on each other's privacy, but we counted on each other to celebrate the sweet things in life. When someone needed help, the neighborhood grapevine quickly spread the word, and we'd rally around. As it had been so many times in the past, this community was my most important resource.

Many of the houses in the neighborhood had been built in the 1920s or even earlier. They were solid, Craftsman-style homes with plenty of years on them, but well worth the investment needed to maintain them. We'd all had to level foundations, re-wire electrical systems, and update plumbing. Kitchens needed remodeling, walls and woodwork had to be painted, and we had to refinish floors. We shared strategies and stories of our failures and successes. Along the way, we'd learned who to trust for carpentry, electrical work, and painting. Calling on this community wisdom, I found all the help I needed close at hand.

As it turned out, everyone who contributed to the house was a friend. Tim managed the framing and so much more. Jeannine installed the slate floor. Alvaro did the wiring. Will was the young man who did just about everything else, from building a little workshop, laying the concrete slab at the front, roofing the extension, putting up drywall, painting it, and covering the outside of the house with new siding. Because these friends knew me well, they understood how my life had collapsed and how important it was for me to create this new living space. They knew this was my way of saving my sanity, not a frivolous endeavor. They worked with sincere regard for my well-being, which was reflected in their suggestions. By understanding my needs, they could intuit what would suit me, and they cared enough to do their best work.

I was glad to pay them what they asked, feeling sure I was getting the "friend discount" anyway. My money was not only buying far more than mere dollars and cents could buy on the open market but also providing my neighbors with income, adding to their well-being and making our community stronger.

Who's Going to Live There?

It had been easy to tell people I was fixing up my old garage as a casita but much more challenging to share with them my agonizing decision to live there alone.

During the years I'd played music with my true love our relationship had been very public. Even after having hard times at home, our musical intimacy at a gig would burn away all the bad feelings. All pain dissolved when standing in front of a killer rhythm section, playing piano and singing, and I would tell myself that it was all worth it.

We had even been featured in the San Antonio newspaper in a series about couples who worked together, complete with color pictures. Our behavior with each other made many people perceive our relationship as the ultimate romance. We heard comments like "I want to be in love like they're in love." It was not uncommon to have people shout at us, "Get a room!" More than one person had told us that ours was the most beautiful wedding they had ever seen—even lovelier than their own!

As word spread through the community grapevine about my casita, most people assumed I was creating a place to rent. At first, I let them think that, knowing they would be shocked if I told them the truth. Finally, one night, I dropped in on my friend Jack and surprised several couples sitting around his kitchen table. They began asking about the casita, and someone finally said, "Who's going to live there?" It hurt to tell the truth. I explained in the fewest words possible. "There was another woman, "I said, and immediately, I felt the comfort of their compassion and support. I didn't have to say anything else.

The Less I Have, the Richer I'll Be

Sorting through my lifetime accumulation of debris required concrete decisions about who I planned to be. My friend Susan shared the guiding principle that household items should be useful, beautiful, or, better yet, both. Since there would be little storage space to hide anything unsightly, the appearance of everyday objects was important, and it all needed to harmonize.

I wanted to rely on simple things that could be used in many ways. I couldn't waste space by keeping single-purpose items. Instead, I hold onto things that can be used in a multitude of ways and are easy to store. Some of my favorites I call “Long-Skinny-Useful-Things." There are two sub-categories: Flexible and Rigid. Rigid things are bamboo poles, stakes, pieces of electrical conduit, PVC pipe, trim boards, and rebar. Flexible items are rope, string, wire, ribbon, old guitar cords, broken electrical cords, lanyards, elastic, and belts. Other favorites: Metal shower curtain rings, cloth bags, baskets, fabric, milk crates, rags, cup hooks, cheap chopsticks, skewers, and fishing line. With a little creativity these items can fill many needs.

I gave away everything I could to anyone who would take it. Happily, I discarded the ordinary and the unnecessary. As I got rid of stuff I no longer needed, I found precious things I'd lost in the jumble. It seems counter-intuitive, but the less I had, the easier it was to find the essential things, and the richer I felt.

Once, when leaving my house for an extended trip, I felt oddly carefree. I had a small suitcase containing everything I needed. Pausing momentarily to look back at my cluttered house, I wondered, "Why do I need that stuff?"

Everything I owned really owned me. It all required time and energy to organize and maintain. Whenever I parted with something, I felt more in control of my life. In the end I kept my beloved collection of musical instruments and the objects that reminded me of my childhood: several rocking chairs, pieces of antique furniture from past generations of my family, and handmade quilts from my mother and Grandmother. Surrounding myself with these things, I was creating my personal definition of the word "home."

From More and More of Less and Less

Give me more and more of less and less

More and more of less and less

More time to play, less bills to pay

Give me more and more of less and less.

Crazy in All the Best Ways

"Hey, Tim!" My voice bounced over the phone at tempo allegro, with a heavy accent and a rising pitch on the last syllable that would have equaled a perfect fourth on the piano. "Hey, Dana," Tim drawled in return, tempo adagio, a lopsided smile apparent in his voice, and a slow downward glissando on the "hey."

Tim and Ginny had lived just down the block for many years. By this time, they were living a few miles away in a house Tim had miraculously resurrected from a dilapidated skeleton. Someone had gutted it in preparation for rebuilding and then abandoned the project. The framing was still standing, but that was all. No windows. A roof with big holes in it. A pile of boards in the yard had once been part of the house. That pile had been there for years. The house looked like something destroyed by an earthquake or a nasty fire.

Given the grand tour before he began work, I had been appalled. "Don't you find it discouraging?" I asked. "No!" he exclaimed gleefully. "I find it inspiring!" I realized then that he was crazier than I had ever suspected...and just the man for the job when visionary carpentry was required.

He spent four and a half years just thinking about his project before he started to rebuild. For the next three and a half years, he turned down all the remodeling jobs that came his way and devoted himself to transforming his wrecked house into a work of art. I watched as it rose like a phoenix from the ashes.

Tim was an expert at finding architectural treasures and using them creatively. He installed a leaded glass window from the 1904 St. Louis World's Fair in his dining room. When the St. Louis art museum was being remodeled, this window had ended up in a pile of debris. Tim came across it at a yard sale and snapped it up.

Over the years, he rescued interesting pieces discarded from remodeling jobs. He cut off the rotted lower parts of some 8 x 4-inch cedar posts and used them for lintels over interior. He fenced a large area of his yard with an eclectic collection of metal springs from mattresses.

When I had removed some broken concrete in my yard, I'd discovered beneath it a "treasure trove" of garbage that the original owner had used as fill. There were old bicycle parts, the old headboard of a cast iron bed, and many broken bottles. I said to myself, "I bet Tim would want some of this stuff." Sure enough, he did. He twisted the bicycle chain into an interesting shape and left it out in the rain until it welded itself together with rust, then hung it on the kitchen wall. He cemented the legs of the old bedstead into the ground next to his driveway, creating what looks like a custom-made frame for a large flat stone he hung in the center.

He kept the original footprint of his house but re-framed every outside wall, including the wall with the fireplace. He juggled the rooms until they assumed different shapes for different purposes. He installed a small, boxy loft high above the kitchen to make a cozy reading nook for Ginny.

Tim was at the top of my list when choosing friends to help with my casita. His kind of lunacy was what I needed to make my dream a reality.

From Two Dimensions to Three

Beginning with my scale drawings, Tim and I planned the window placement, interior walls, and doors to accommodate the dimensions and locations of the large pieces of furniture I was determined to fit into my tiny space. The pump organ, kitchen hutches, bookcases, sewing machine, Great Grandma's bed, and my desk had to fit into the structure like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. Because the pump organ was 48" wide, we placed a window 49.5" from the corner. When I held up my hand to show Tim I wanted a counter "about so high," he whipped out his tape measure and held it up to me, then carefully wrote down the inches. I was awestruck! My house was being fitted to me as carefully as a tailored suit.

In such a small place, even a half-inch one way or another was important, necessitating careful planning. Sometimes, I was up to the task. Other times, I carefully planned my way into major blunders. Pure luck was with me when essential elements came within a hair's breadth of colliding. For example, when the window in the sewing machine corner swung open, it came microscopically close to breaking the wall sconce. At those times, I had the odd feeling that the spirit of the house was doing its best to help me!

Tim was able to turn a two-dimensional drawing into a three-dimensional frame. He fit in the sleeping loft I'd hoped for and a second loft for storage above the bathroom. He was patient as plans evolved and details changed. After finishing the opening for the kitchen door, he had to alter the size a half dozen times before we decided it was perfect. Did he complain? Not as much as he should have!

He understood my need to take an active part and invited me into every step of the process. I made innumerable trips to buy supplies around town, following careful lists written on wood scraps with the pencil stub always tucked behind his ear. He purposely gifted me with the privilege of helping to raise the stud walls, and I felt so empowered when the two of us used a hydraulic jack to take the sag out of the roof line. Picture us squatting on the floor, carefully turning the jack handle, and then racing outside to confer. Was it straight? More turns?

One day, we were standing in the driveway, deep in a discussion about the next part of the work. I made some crack about the black berets we were both wearing, then noticed we both had round sunglasses, ponytails, jeans, flannel shirts, and boots. Had we begun to dress alike after spending so much time working together? Or was this the standard uniform for old hippies?

Usually, I had just one other person working with me at a time. I was in charge of conveying their messages to each other about construction details. Mostly, I got it right, but not always! Once Tim completed the framing, Will put the insulation in place. I bungled the message between them and ended up with twice as much insulation as Tim had specified. Luckily, it wasn't a tragedy!

Tim installed windows, built the kitchen counter and shelves, made a large bookcase for the main room, and created a ship's ladder for the sleeping loft. When it came to the trim work, I stained and sealed the boards. Tim cut them to size, routed the edges, and installed them. I followed up by applying the final coat. It was satisfying teamwork.

An Art, Not a Science

(Treasure in the Trash)

Rather than following a predetermined plan in a step-wise fashion, my house evolved as a work of art. Materials and resources were woven together to serve the goals of simplicity, economy, and flexibility of use. Tim described this way of working as the "arrowhead method." He said it's like taking a chunk of flint and chipping away everything that doesn't look like an arrowhead. Together, we visualized the finished casita and shaped the materials to match. The final product emerged naturally and organically, with the materials influencing the design.

A panel of windows from a nearby vintage garage door was mounted to swing open above a built-in set of bookshelves whose sides Tim cut from an old wardrobe. I mounted the antique headboard of a bed high on a wall to provide a shelf and make a frame for my Grandmother's cross-stitch quilt. A big old bass drum, face-down, made excellent storage space for other family quilts.

One of my best-loved treasures was an antique pump organ that had originally belonged to my Great-Grandma Rena Clark. I had painstakingly restored it in years past. Although the solid oak cabinets of such organs feature ornate carvings, when they were new they were sold as cheap alternatives to pianos. They were mass-produced by the thousands and sold from the Sears catalog for about thirty dollars. 

Soon after the birth of my second child, I bought a second pump organ. I felt sure that someday each of my children would need one of their own. I was taken aback when I found that neither were interested! I couldn't justify making room for two such organs in my home, but I did need a desk. I transformed the extra organ by removing some large screws and reassembling the pieces. Its ornate headpiece, complete with a mirror, became the top of a set of bookshelves. I mounted a piece of its gingerbread atop a kitchen window frame. Its mechanical inner parts I hung as a panel under my loft in homage to the complicated wooden machines of long ago.

The unique character of my house developed the internal consistency of a work of art. I asked my artist friends to sign their work when they finished. Tim's distinctive symbol is above the screen door on the front porch.

Was It Intuition?

During daily work and decision-making, I felt led by a powerful inner certainty, even when facing new challenges. I felt as if I were building a copy of a cabin that had once been my home, though there had never been anything like it in my past. I wondered if it was some sort of genetic memory, or was nest-building an instinctive behavior for humans, as it is for other creatures?

I tried to recall how I might have absorbed the ideas shaping my choices. Of course, I remembered the delight of playing house in small spaces with my childhood friends, and I had always enjoyed the coziness of tent camping. As a kid, I'd been fascinated by the tiny travel trailer that I once spent a summer in our backyard. And I had longed to build my own house since reading books by Laura Ingalls Wilder about how her family built a home in the 1800s.

Then there were all the childhood afternoons I'd spent playing in Grandma's enormous attic with my sister and best friend, shifting the dusty, discarded furniture to create rooms where we lived pretend lives. Eventually, every bit of attic clutter would rest in the perfect place to serve as an accessory to our imaginations. We'd emerge blackened with decades of coal dust that had sifted into the attic from Grandpa's ancient furnace. No amount of scolding by laundry-conscious mothers could keep us away from that giant playhouse full of possibilities.

Had those experiences been a rehearsal for what had now become essential to my survival as a woman and an artist?

Queen of the Universe

The first time a friend helped me remodel a house, he carefully explained to me that as far as the work was concerned, I was to think of myself as "Queen of the Universe." Every decision was to be mine. He was there to do my bidding. This was a new concept, and I thoroughly enjoyed the privilege and the result.

While working with others on my tiny house, I was not about to surrender my authority. This did not always make Tim happy. A few times when I turned down something he proposed, he made a sound like I'd punched him in the stomach, “Oof!” Giving up his idea seemed to actually caused him physical pain, but he always went along with my decisions. I felt justified, for after all, I was the Queen! He was not going to live in that space, and I was.

A New Routine

My daily task was organizing the help I needed and locating and transporting supplies. Fortunately, the vehicle I'd always relied on to haul gear to gigs could also carry bulky building materials. Architectural Antiques in San Antonio was the source of vintage materials and antique windows. I found some useful things by scavenging curbside trash piles! Trips to two of the local Habitat for Humanity Re-Stores turned up unique bargains that became pieces of the puzzle. From those, I salvaged a nice porch post and sinks for the kitchen and bathroom. I also lucked into a vintage wooden medicine cabinet. On the back was a pencil scrawl noting the year, address, and name of the carpenter who'd installed it. I added my own notation before mounting it in my bathroom.

While helping to build my home, I was able to work off some of my heartbreak in hard physical labor. I found every construction detail fascinating, knowing I would live with the result for a long time. I had few skills but was open to learning whatever was necessary. Since I had to watch every penny, I was motivated to do as much of the work as I could. I was slow and made many mistakes, but I worked for free and could not afford to fire myself.

During the building phase, my first task every morning was to get out to the old garage, conference with whoever might be working that day, and then get to work alongside them. I'd watch for the arrival of my music students, dash to the house to teach, and return to the construction work until dark or even later. My students became accustomed to seeing me in my tattered overalls and worn-out boots. I almost forgot I'd ever worn anything else. Grimy at the end of the day, I sometimes hosed myself off in the yard before I was clean enough to go inside for a bath!

I was impatient to transition between the house I'd built on the shifting sand of an impossible relationship and the one I hoped to build on the solid rock of my life's work. Only when the house was finished could I get past my uncomfortable situation. I was still sharing a house with my ex-husband. I woke every day with an anxiety that could be assuaged only by completing some visible progress toward the goal. One empty Sunday, for lack of anything else to do, I found an old piece of chicken wire and spent the afternoon sifting rocks from the dirt where I hoped to put a garden. I didn't accomplish anything important that day. I just needed to keep busy.

Windows: The Agony and the Ecstasy

I'd read that the key to making a small space appear larger is to use windows and mirrors to bring in a lot of natural light. How many windows were in the garage to begin with? Exactly none. I was starting from scratch.

I decided that only vintage wooden windows would do, and I wanted them to hinge on one side and swing into the room, leaving a shelf-like window sill for plants and cats. I looked for small windows so I could fit in as many sources of light and air as possible. Some had once been transoms, little windows above interior doors that could be tilted to allow hot air to escape in the summer. I was charmed by multi-paned windows. I didn't expect them to match, but I chose each for its unique character. I even treated myself to a plain, bargain-basement stained glass window. It was only missing one pane.

I had found the ones I wanted at an architectural antique shop. I was delighted at how cheap they seemed to be. They would look fabulous in my new/old house when they were finished. I was so thrilled with them that I neglected to notice the damage. Some were covered in layers and layers of old enamel paint. Some had no finish left at all. Some had glass missing. They all needed to be re-glazed.

I assigned myself the job of restoring them, thinking that it was something small and manageable I could do. I set up a rudimentary workbench in the garage where I could make a mess. Soon, I realized I had let myself in for an enormous amount of work.

The process seemed endless. First, it was necessary to remove the layers of old lead paint, fill holes large and small, sand, prime, stain, and varnish them or paint on a couple of coats of new paint, measure for glass, run across town to order it, return to pick it up, install it with points and that awful, gloppy glazing that comes in a can, paint the glazing when dry, and install hinges and knobs.

Have you ever stopped to think how many sides a window frame really has? I hadn't. There's the inside edge, the outside edge, the top edge, the bottom edge, the front side, the back side, the left side, and the right side. I cursed myself for falling in love with windows that had all those precious little panes. Each pane had its own set of edges and sides. Multiply that by the number of panes in a window, and...! What had I done to myself? Too stubborn to ask for help, I labored away day after day at my Sisyphean task. Through it, I learned a lot. I became more confident in my woodworking skills. I fell even more in love with the beauty and malleability of wood. If trees didn't exist, we'd have to invent them.

Poor, long-suffering Tim had to frame each of my odd windows into the stud walls, then design and install windowsills and trim. Not a single one was a standard size. No routine approach could suffice!

Just One More Window

In the evenings, after work was finished for the day and I was alone, I would wander through the space, narrowing my eyes to help me imagine how it would be when the house was finished with all my treasures in place. I'd watch while the light through the window openings changed and the shadows gathered. I'd lay on the dusty floor of the loft where I planned to put my bed, my toes touching the ceiling at the sharp angle where the slanted roof met the floor. I knew that just a few inches on the other side of that ceiling hung the long branches of an enormous old pecan tree. I was counting on it to protect me from the hot Texas sun. My little house would be safely tucked beneath those sheltering limbs--as safe as a baby chick tucked under its mother's wings. I imagined reaching through the roof to touch the leaves. How wonderful it would be to have a skylight to look out at the tree first thing in the morning and last thing at night.

When I mentioned it to Tim, he tried to talk me out of it. "You know there are only two kinds of skylights," he intoned dismally. "The kind that leaks, and the kind that are gonna leak." I was not dissuaded. I remembered my young parents setting buckets around the house to catch rain leaking through the ceiling during Illinois thunderstorms. I wouldn't mind doing the same if it meant feeling closer to my tree.

I sent myself on a search for the best skylight in town. I found a rectangular one with two slightly rounded, slightly tinted panes. The salesman assured me this skylight had the best chance of being leak-proof. Somehow, I convinced Tim that I wanted it so much I wouldn't mind if it leaked.

Once the opening for the window was cut in the low, sharply-angled ceiling, I could lay on my back, knees bent, and rest my feet where the sill would be. I discovered an unexpected bonus. In the wee hours of the morning, when the moon was full, its big round face shone through the branches of the tree straight through the skylight and onto my face.

It turned out that the most significant disadvantage of the skylight was not what happened when it rained but what happened when it didn't rain. The many birds that occupy the tree have to "go" somewhere. They relieve themselves without regard for the colorful patterns splattering the glass just inches from my eyes. The hot sun bakes it on, and I end up looking through it until the next time it rains. In South Texas, that can take a very long time.

Doubts

Twilight was the time of day when the enormity of the changes I was about to make settled upon me like a dark omen. Was I really building a house that would be the perfect size for just one person? It would be entirely too small to ever share with someone else. Was I sure the tiny bed in the loft was what I wanted? It would never accommodate two. I was creating a haven, but would it necessitate a life of being alone?

One night, I stood in the center of my half-finished house and wept as I faced the implications of my decisions.

My Macho Side

It was a good thing I'd been a tomboy as a kid.

Growing up in a farm town as the firstborn child of a father who believed in do-it-yourself, I'd acquired many skills. Since I had no big brother, I'd been the kid Dad took deer hunting and frog gigging. I was the one who helped him re-roof the shed and tear down the old filling station. Finally, my little brother arrived when I turned sixteen. Before that, I was the only son my father had. 

In the rural Midwest, physical strength was highly valued, even for girls. No girl would get a wealthy farmer to marry her unless she could just about heft her weight in hog feed.

The hunting trips back-fired--they made me a vegetarian/animal rights/pacifist--but what I learned about the benefits of physical labor stuck with me. Playing in my first rock 'n' roll band, I'd been surprised by how much I'd enjoyed the workout at the end of the night when we'd all pitch in to get the Hammond organ, the Baldwin string piano, the massive p.a. system, and all the guitar and bass amps back into the big truck. I felt empowered. It was a satisfying way to work off adrenaline from the performance.

Building Muscle Increases Testosterone

As the heavy work continued, my muscles grew while my vocabulary seemed to shrink! Struggling with physically challenging tasks, I had no reason to waste my breath on fancy words. My grammar went to hell. I began to say "busted" when I meant "broken." It was a pleasure to let go with some four-letter words when something went wrong or I hurt myself. The amount of swearing that seemed necessary was directly related to the severity of the pain or degree of disaster. Expressing my frustration without restraint allowed me to move beyond it and push forward. Profanity began to seem like an essential part of the construction process. For instance, crudeness seemed entirely appropriate when cussing out a cement block!

I found myself walking with a kind of swagger. Was it the boots or something more fundamental? Hard, physical labor made me appreciate the loud, raucous music I'd previously found annoying. It seemed to boost my energy level. What was happening to me?

Sure enough, when I Googled it, I found that exercise increases testosterone because it promotes muscle building. The more muscle you have, the higher your testosterone level. Out of necessity, I was becoming more assertive. A shrinking violet sort of approach was never going to get my house built!

I Almost Caught a Bad Guy

My increase in assertiveness could have gotten me into serious trouble!

Almost daily, I had to make trips to buy supplies. I became a well-known figure at the local hardware store. There were few female customers, and I was easy to identify since I always wore overalls and the same hat. The staff greeted me warmly, asking about my project. The store began to feel like my second home.

Once, while I waited to check out, a man with a box under his arm darted past me out the door and jumped into a car that sped away. A couple of employees raced after him but soon stopped. The cashier told me that was a common occurrence. Stolen power tools were easy to pawn for cash. I was offended! How dare someone steal from my hardware store!

The next time I saw that happen I'd just walked out of the store. A clean-cut young man dashed past me with a box and jumped into a waiting car. before he could close the door I took two strides forward and grabbed him by the neck of his shirt. The car was already moving. If the shirt had a decent collar I would have been able to hang on, but as the car pulled away it slipped through my fingers. 

What had I done? Was I trying to yank him out of the car and do a citizen's arrest?! I had acted entirely by reflex. Was that brave or foolish? Was it just the testosterone?

The Perfect Place to Perch

Tim's final gift was constructing an enclosed porch with cedar posts, corrugated metal, walls of screen, and a transparent roof. I can gaze into the towering pecan tree when I'm lying on the porch swing rocking myself. The perfect screen door appeared on a neighbor's garbage pile at just the right time. I didn't even have to paint it.

Moving In

I moved in as soon as the walls were painted and the trim wood was in place. There was still a lot to do, but I called a halt to the group effort. I was ready for solitude, prepared to let go of scheduling who would come when, and tired of driving around town in search of materials. I wanted to work slowly and take my time. I had learned a lot by participating in the building process and acquired enough confidence to tackle the final details on my own.

I had been living a half-block away, so bringing things over a little at a time was easy. Since the acoustic piano and the pump organ were the bulkiest pieces, they were the last to be moved. We set each one on a large flat dolly and rolled them down the middle of the street, making a parade-like spectacle! I felt like dancing! Once they were in place, I was really and truly home!

Experimental Carpentry

There is a definite difference between my experimental approach to construction and the methods of a professional. A professional builds to last and works step-wise with a clear image of the end result. Since I learn by doing, I often start by slapping together a rough draft with whatever materials are lying around. I have to experiment before I invest a lot of time and energy in the final version. I review this approximation for functionality and appearance, then decide what to change. Even when building the final version, I want my work to be easy to dismantle because my limited space means my infrastructure often needs to be modified.

I use screws instead of nails because they are easy to remove without damaging the wood. If one screw will hold something together, I never use two.

When I started to rebuild my chicken house, I took the old one apart until what remained was a pile of boards, pieces of corrugated roofing, and a box of reclaimed screws. I challenged myself to construct a new chicken house using only those materials. I worked alone because I wanted to rely on intuition (guesswork!) without discussing details with anyone else. Ultimately, I succeeded in creating something that satisfied my goals, although the process included a lot of trial and error. Working with a partner and some new materials would have been much quicker. Still, I firmly believe in Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle.

Future archaeologists will identify my carpentry easily by its defining characteristic. None of the screws match. They all come out of the same grab-bag collection of every screw I've ever met.

Lessons Learned the Hard Way

When using an electric drill, don't let your long hair dangle over the spinning parts. Before you can let go of the trigger, the drill will wind itself up to your face quick as a flash and almost hit your eye. Eek!

When rebuilding an old structure, take out ALL the rotten parts before adding new materials. As decay continues, it will make you wish you had saved your money, torn the whole thing down, and started over. (Thankfully, this was something I learned before building my casita.)

If you suspect your staple gun is out of staples, don't test it against your thigh. Ouch! The mark it leaves will look like you have been bitten by a sharp-fanged serpent.

When laying a cement slab for a bathroom, remember to leave a hole so the toilet can be connected to the sewer. If you forget, bang out a hole as soon as possible before the cement hardens into—uh, cement.

When planning where to put electrical outlets, ask the electrician to advise you so they don't end up out of reach behind your largest, most impossible-to-move pieces of furniture. Hint: Locate them close to corners instead of in the center of a wall!

Plan your outside gutters carefully so they don't direct rainwater into your house!

I could go on and on. Lessons learned the hard way are the ones I know best.

Cradled in Nature

First thing in the morning, as soon as I open my eyes, I look straight through the skylight to watch squirrels chase around the branches of my tall pecan tree and leap onto my roof. They sound like horses running around up there. Birds fly from branch to branch, and I sometimes see them courting.

Beginning in early spring, for weeks at a time, a male cardinal sings a distinctive song to attract his mate. Once she arrives and they are nesting, I don't hear that song again until the following spring.

Later in the spring, I hear the rapid hammer of a woodpecker, a yellow-bellied sap-sucker (I'm not making that up!) in the high branches. One year, after the woodpecker young had fledged, purple martins raised their young in the abandoned nest. 

Since the skylight angles west, I sometimes climb into the loft to watch the sunset. I feel like I'm living in a tree house, in my own snug nest. (Or is this my playhouse? It's full of my favorite "toys"—pianos, guitars, flutes, etc.)

As the first summer passed, I wondered whether my pecan tree would be as fascinating without its leaves. It was! Stripped of leafy camouflage its architecture was revealed, from its thick lower limbs to the tiny twigs at the top. Like finding meaningful pictures in cloud shapes or Rorschach inkblots, I began to identify images among the limbs. There was an eagle with wings stretched high and a hydra—or was it a squid? There was an impala and even the silhouette of Bart Simpson!

I sleep with my windows open much of the year, and the birds, joined by the chickens, are loud in the morning! The great outdoors seems very near, and like Thoreau, "I [have] found myself suddenly neighbor to the birds, not by having imprisoned one, but by having caged myself near them."

Rainbows All Over My Blues

The small transom window above my kitchen door is hung with numerous crystal rainbow makers. During winter, the sun is in the correct position to splatter bright rainbows of every size throughout my house. They shift during the day, sometimes delighting students by shining on their notebooks. Sometimes they reflect from a mirror and surprise me by appearing in impossible places.

Every day, I'm glad I spent so much time on the windows. They are on all four sides of the big room, so there is always a breeze, no matter which direction the wind is blowing. Hinged on the side, each window opens fully, maximizing the airflow.

Composting Cat Toilet

In a tiny house, a cat litter pan is just no fun. I experimented with several alternatives that were no better, and then hit on what I call a "Composting Cat Toilet." Using fence palings and left-over pieces of two-by-fours, I constructed a rectangular box about 5' x 3' x 2', closing the top with hardware cloth. I attached it to the house so cats could enter it from the little door in my sewing machine corner.

After I dumped in some sand and hay, the cats had no problem understanding the new system. No cat litter is tracked around the house and there's no smell. I never have to empty it, as the contents eventually become soil. According to what I read, if I let it 'cook' for a couple of years, I could use it in my yard.

Landscaping Is Too Fancy a Word

Gardening is something else I approach by trial and error. My first gardening skills were learned in Illinois, and I am still surprised by how different things are in Texas. I don't count on the survival of anything I plant. As long as something green comes up, I keep watering it for awhile. Sometimes, it bears no resemblance to the picture on the seed packet. Sometimes, it's a lot more interesting.

I found the right places to position the 55-gallon rain barrels. Eventually, I planted several small gardens. Gray water from the kitchen sink, bathroom sink, bathtub, and washing machine help nurture my jungle despite the Texas drought. My yard inevitably turns into something others might call "overgrown." Still, it looks to me like a glorious expression of Mother Earth's fertility. As far as I'm concerned, what is not taken up with garden plants and fruit trees might as well grow up in Mexican petunias, coral vines, passion vines, roses, poinciana, trumpet vines...a visual cacophony of color. I try to keep things trimmed enough that students can find me through the undergrowth, but I've been a vegetarian for so long that I find it hard to prune trees and bushes. 

Visitors

No one can truly claim to know me until they visit my house. Sometimes, I worry that new people will not understand why I have chosen to live in such an unconventional way. I carefully watch their reactions. The space that fits me so well may seem merely bizarre to them! But I take heart from Emerson's statement, "Whoso would be a man [an individual] must be a nonconformist."

So far, I've heard a variety of comments: Cute. Whimsical. Quaint. One young girl twirled around to absorb it all and exclaimed, "This is beautiful!"

I'm delighted to serve as the neighborhood demonstration home for alternative housing. Friends call to invite themselves over to show others who are undertaking a similar project or those who are just curious. After asking about several items in my house, one woman said, "Does everything in your house have a story?" I had to glance around before I could give her an honest answer. "Yes—I guess it does!" I said. I realized I had kept only things that had some meaning for me—things with a backstory! I'd discarded the meaningless and the unnecessary.

Magic Cat Trick

Old-fashioned claw-foot bathtubs have a few inches of space beneath where a basket of washcloths or a scale can fit. This is an advantage in a tiny house, where every crevice must serve a purpose. 

I've always had plenty of cats as roommates. An essential part of planning for their comfort is deciding where to put cat doors to the porch and outside so they can come and go as they please. One little door fit in the sewing machine corner, where it was invisible. Another, leading to an enclosed porch, fit under the tub's back. No one could see the door, so cats coming through it into the bathroom appeared to materialize from nowhere.

As soon as the bathroom became functional, my cats seemed to think anyone sitting down in that room was there to pet them. There must have been a pattern of sounds that told them someone had entered, shut the door, and taken the position. Predictably, they would parade out from under the tub expecting a chin rub. 

I purposely encouraged them, thinking it might be fun to find out how my future guests would react. I listen carefully when someone enters. When a river of cats flows from under the tub, some people shriek through the door, loud enough to be heard in the next room. 

I secretly laugh.

Final Evaluation

Now, when something breaks, I don't panic because I know how to fix it, having been part of creating it in the first place. Sometimes, I'm the only one for the job because I'm the only person with a complete understanding of the idiosyncracies of my house. And I know whatever I do will blend right in the its overall appearance because, after all, it is a homemade house!

The enormous tree above my house provides plenty of shade to help cool my house in the summer. On the worst days, a single-window air conditioner mounted on a wall is sufficient. In winter, a single oil-filled electric radiator keeps me cozy. Since everything in the house is small, when I had needed to buy wood or tile, I didn't need all that much. That satisfied my natural frugality. Recycling building materials and finding second-hand items to use saved precious resources.

Could I have built my house cheaper? Definitely! Could I have used more conventional methods? Of course! Could the guesswork have been eliminated by hiring an architect or even a general contractor? Yep. Could the finished product have fit me any better? Absolutely not! Could I have improved my use of the materials I already had and my lifetime accumulation of treasures? Not even a little bit.

And what about my broken life and shattered heart? I rebuilt my soul as I collected the pieces needed to make a home for my life and work. As I rubbed elbows with good people who genuinely cared for me, I learned I could care for myself. When my house was ready to live in, I was prepared for the future. I no longer felt helpless. 

To Those Whose Shoulders I Stand Upon

Dear Henry David—I have discovered the peace of living simply.

Dear Virginia—The blessed silence here in this house of my own is allowing me to write my best songs.

Indeed, Ralph Waldo--I have developed Self-Reliance!

Dear Professor Maslow—I am spending far more time in Self-Actualization!

Thanks, Ms. Cameron—I find it simpler to defend my "creative solitude."

Mihaly--"Flow" is easier to achieve without distractions. 

Mr. Rilke—I have lived my way into a lot of answers.

Dear Goethe—You were right. Everything fell into place.

My Best Friend Is a House!

I am still here fourteen years later. I look around me as I write this and find evidence that I can accomplish anything I truly desire.

When I'm feeling stressed, my tiny home comforts me. Here in my nest, I am never lonely. Nothing seems to be missing. I am complete.

Everything is exactly the way I want it. When it's not, I change it! There's no one I need to consult.

When I am away, I sometimes long for my little house as I would for a lover. I plan to live here for the next thousand years.

And my skylight still doesn't leak!

Final Song

While traveling in caravan with Ginny from the Midwest back to Texas, I pondered my little house and wondered how to describe it in a song. Soon, I had what I thought might be a chorus. At the next rest stop, I sang it to her. Back in the car, I continued working on it, scribbling in a notebook with one hand while driving with the other.

When we arrived at the next stop, I was eager to sing her some verses. "Listen to this, Ginny!" I exclaimed.

"No! No!" she said. "I can't get it out of my head since you sang it at the last stop!"

Taking that as encouragement, I finished it in no time!

Check out the music video of the song on my website: https://danaclarkmusic.com/videos

TEENY TINY HOUSE

Lyrics with Chords in Brackets

Copyright 2013 Dana Clark

CHORUS: [C] I live in a [G7] teeny tiny house

A teeny tiny house

A [C] teeny tiny house

I live in a [G7] teeny tiny house

With a teeny tiny carbon [C] footprint

VERSE: The [F] walls are [C] stuffed with insulation

And it's [G7] shaded by a giant [C] tree

The [F] slate floor is [C] cool in the summer

So I [D] hardly ever need [G] A.C.

[F] All the gray water [C] from my house

Runs [G7] out in the yard and [C] finds a dry spot

[F] Sink and tub and [C] wash machine

[D] Everything except [G] "you-know-what!"

CHORUS

Each verse below follows the same chord pattern as the first verse:

/ F / C / G7 / C / F / C / D / G /

If global warming leaves you in a panic

You can eat local, sustainable, organic

It's eco-friendly if you're able

To grow it in the yard, then slap it on the table!

Corn and cabbage in the front yard

Bunch a chickens in the back

Kale and broccoli and Swiss chard

You can look it up in the Farmer's Almanac!

The chickens eat the bugs and weeds

And in a little bit

They make all the eggs you need

And lots of chicken…..poop

And when you put that in your garden

Lots of veggies grow

And lots of bugs and weeds for the chickens

And round and round the cycle goes

CHORUS

I wish I'd lived on Walden Pond

And been best friends with you-know-who

I read his words now, and I think

"What would Henry David do?"

Cause it's not those who have the most

Who live on Easy Street

The richest people I know are

The ones who need the least

I don't want lots of extra things

I want just enough

That way, I don't need place after place (after place after place….)

After place to keep my stuff

By the time I have Grandkids

I hope I'll be off the grid

While toilet training, I will boast

"Look down there, kids. That's compost!"

Chorus

A teeny tiny house means teeny tiny housework!