I have been living in houses of fewer than 100 square feet for nearly twelve years. The first of my little abodes was a fourteen-foot Airstream. I bought it in the summer of 1997 for three thousand dollars. It came as-is, with an aluminum shell as streamlined and polished as what lay inside was hideous. The 1964 orange shag, asbestos tiles, and green Formica would have to go.
I began gutting, then meticulously refurbishing the interior in August, and by October, I was sleeping with an aluminum roof over my head. The place looked like a barrel on the inside, with pine tongue-and-groove running from front-to-back and floor-to-vaulted ceiling.
I settled in on a tree-lined ridge at the edge of a friend’s alfalfa field. It was a three-minute walk to Rapid Creek Road and a ten-minute drive from there to Iowa City. I carried water in from a well by the road and allowed it to drain from my sink and shower directly into the grass outside. I carried my sawdust toilet (i. e., bucket) out about once a month and took it to the sewage treatment facility in town. My electrical appliances consisted of a fan, six lights, a 9-inch TV/VCR and a small boom box. A single solar panel fed them all. It seemed that this simple existence would provide all I needed.
Then December came. I had reinforced most of the trailer’s insulation, but some areas remained thin. I spent over a half-hour each morning, from Christmas until Valentine’s Day, chipping ice and sponging up condensation from my walls, floors and desktop. This went on for a couple of winters before I began construction on the tiny house I have since come to call "Tumbleweed”.
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