The Big Tiny: A Built-It-Myself Memoir (13 page)

In the attic, I leaned into the roof rafters and balanced on a flimsy piece of plywood between the joists as I sifted through letters, photos, flattened roses, little boxes with seashells and rocks, an arrowhead, newspaper clippings, and the like. I hardly ever looked at this stuff, and I couldn’t believe how easily it dragged me back to the moments when I was a high school student, a runner, Rob’s fiancée, a rock climber, Chinn’s best friend, an aunt, a goofball, a hot-air balloonist, a dutiful daughter . . . all these things that used to define me and in some cases still did.

As I browsed the photos, I remembered Rob, my ex-fiancé, calling me months after we broke up, ringing me in the middle of a New Year’s Eve party to tell me that he was burning everything I had ever given him. He had such a sweet soft voice, asking if I wanted to get the things he’d given me so we could ceremonially burn them together in different cities, as a sign of letting go. I imagined him standing in his parka and snow boots, marching up to a barbecue loaded with letters, our wedding invitations, and photos. It made me cry, and as I stood on my back porch with the phone pressed tight to one ear, my finger in the other ear to hear over the sound of the party, so I could tell him, “It’s New Year’s Eve here, and raining, and a fire would never light.” Things had ended so terribly, and I couldn’t fathom the idea of torching the little that remained.

“Okay. Good-bye,” he said, soft and kind, and then
click.
I heard from my folks a few months later that he was engaged to a nurse.

Now, sitting in my attic, I leaned back into the rafters and sighed, and then sobbed as I loaded a box of things to burn in my backyard bonfire pit. After a few minutes, I picked up speed. “But I am alive,” I whispered. I culled through the box and kept a few things (who was I if I didn’t have at least one good love letter addressed solely to me?) but got rid of the bulk, imagining that this was exactly the sort of stuff that was shoved in storage units and attics all across America, and the stuff that ends up in a different state, stuck to a rosebush after a tornado.

As I cleaned out the house, I faced a thousand near crying fits. I’d come across some forgotten knickknack, and all of a sudden it seemed I could feel the pressure inside my body change. Things would grow still then, followed by a cloudburst. Other times, it felt more like a light rain, like something that would hit the windshield of my chore list, sprinkling an otherwise perfectly sunny day. It’s a little embarrassing to admit what I cried over, but here’s the truth: I teared up when I put the Whirley Pop popcorn popper in a stack of things to go. It wasn’t the popcorn, it was the way Holly and Sam would sing in unison, “Whirley Pop, Whirley Pop, we’re making it pop with Whirley Pop.” They’d sing that while heating the popcorn kernels over the stovetop and twisting a little crank that kept
the kernels moving around inside the pot. They were hilarious in their excitement for Whirley Pop popcorn.

Along with all the crying fits were equal squalls of unbridled giddiness. I found and then mailed odd curios to my friends, like the pair of giant red clown shoes I mailed to my friend Chinn that I discovered in my basement and then forwarded along with a little note that said, “I saw these and thought of you.” There was a set of Christmas lights that I had made one year—a set of plastic baby doll heads that lit up like something out of a horror film—that was a perfect gift for my friend Mike, whose wife and kids continue to drape them on the tree every year as a memorial to “crazy Deezus” (their nick-name for me). Every time I’d find one of these little gems and mail it off, I’d laugh. And then the ensuing phone conversations, after the gift had been received, were enough to double me up.

Moving was hard, but not impossibly horrid, and in fact, over the long haul I found it incredibly liberating. After a short bit of time, it became more like stripping naked on the beach, kicking off your clunky shoes and pulling your shirt off while simultaneously using your foot like a hand to yank off your socks, preparing for the way the warm sea will feel against every dimple and fold of your body. Letting go of “stuff” allowed the world to collapse behind me as I moved, so I became nothing more or less than who I simply was: Me.

(OLYMPIA, WASHINGTON, NOVEMBER 2012)

I
called my dad this morning to wish him a happy Thanksgiving, to explain how much I love him and that he’s the best. We chatted about the weather and how I haven’t made much progress on my book lately because I’ve been doing things like power-washing the neighbor’s carport. Ultimately, half an hour into our conversation, I realized we weren’t talking about how much I appreciate him, but instead were yammering about his leaking toilet. We were father-daughter bonding over the best way to reset the bowl on a wax ring, and how you have to dangle the toilet awkwardly over the open sewer hole before dropping it like a cinder block on the wax ring to seal things up. He sounded exhausted by the process.

“Forget about it, Pop. I’ll get it when I fly back.”

This is how it goes with many of my friends. We’ll start out
talking about something normal like the way so-and-so’s kid has pinkeye or the way our dogs sniff butts, but somewhere in the mix I’ll find myself explaining how to repair a hot water heater. To be honest, I’d prefer to talk about hot water heaters, which is why I’m bored at baby showers, and why I feel alienated by many Hollywood movies where the plot is focused on looking sexy and getting laid. I prefer to watch a YouTube clip about the honey badger, or videos that show you how to reload the whip line in a weed eater.

I used to try harder to fit in with my friends who liked to discuss their OKCupid online dating experience, or how a good pedicure can save your life. I’d lean in and tilt my head with determined interest, and then compliment her on the color of her toenails and ask for the name of her pedicurist; or I’d fuss over the way my friend had just poached an egg, and suggest that he could be a master chef for the president because of the way the yoke isn’t runny and the white part doesn’t feel rubbery. But the truth is, I’m a complete ding-dong when it comes to many normal activities. I don’t know anything about poached eggs and I’m even more at a loss if the conversation turns to feelings, for example if someone wants to know how I’m doing. “How is your health?” they might ask.

I’d rather talk about my new lawn mower: how it starts every time without having to prime the engine, and it’s got a way to hook a garden hose to the housing so you can quickly clean the blade and undercarriage. “It’s genius,” I might boast to my
coworkers, who would then sigh (or yawn) and walk to the copy machine.

I’ve always been this way, and I’m not alone. The day before I left Portland, I ended up talking with a guy about the Ford F-250 that I’d just purchased. He and I had talked before; he was a regular at the same coffee shop I frequented, and when he casually asked me how I was doing, I mentioned I was getting ready to move my house for the first time. This launched us into an hour-long conversation about the benefits of a Power Stroke engine, diesel fuel, and manual versus automatic transmissions. He walked back to the house with me to look at the rig, and to make suggestions for the best way to back up the truck and connect it to the house.

“Big move,” he offered, pausing and staring at the house.

“Yeah. Big move.” I sighed and smiled. I suddenly considered bursting into tears and leaning into this strange know-it-all. I’d ask him, “What was I thinking?” and he’d shush me and tell me everything was going to be all right. But I didn’t do that, and instead kept my hands in my pockets and asked, “Hey, what kind of gas mileage do you think I’ll get with this rig?”

The route was a tricky thing, and something I’d pored over and prepared for for weeks. I had driven the route from Portland to Olympia a thousand times over the years, but hadn’t ever much noticed what was what until moving the little house became a reality. I started taking notes: “Mile marker (MM) 22, cross wind from river; MM 45, right lane piece of shit.” I noted
the location of rest stops, bridges, overpasses, and truck stops; and as I got into Olympia, I tracked the location of low-hanging utility lines and tree branches, and thought about how to best navigate streetlights and turnabouts.

I went into the Department of Motor Vehicles in Portland to pick up a license plate, and explained to the clerk that I had just finished building a tiny house on wheels. As I spoke, I gestured with the international symbol for home—my hands coming together to resemble a roof—and smiled very big. I was so excited, I even showed the clerk a photo of the house. The lady looked at me and then at my paperwork without saying a word. She had me write a check for the plate and tabs, and sent me on my way with plate number 978-RV. And just like that, I was ready to hit the road. But I wasn’t.

I was scared. I wanted someone else to do it for me; to come hook up the truck so everything would be all right—hitch, chains, lights, brakes, emergency “breakaway,” side mirrors, lug nuts, spare tires, axles, rocker arms, springs, road flares, tire wrench, tire tread, tire pressure gauge . . . everything. I wanted someone else to move the house, to know by feel that a tire was losing pressure, or by some bit of barely visible movement or some hardly audible sound that the house was wiggling loose. I wanted them to arrive safely in Olympia, to drive the house to its resting spot, and to set it in place. And once they got there, I’d arrive with a beer and we’d celebrate all our heroics.

Instead, what I had was the next-best thing: my friends Candyce and Paula agreed to follow me to Olympia in their car, acting as scouts to watch for any potential problems. “We’ll brush up on our truck-driver follow-car lingo,” they offered.

I moved my tools into the living room of the little house, parking them next to a couple of small armchairs, a houseplant named Virgil, a box of kitchenware, and a few books. My clothes were tucked in the closet, fitting easily in a space smaller than the file cabinet I kept at work, and my bed was laid out on the loft floor for the trip. Everything fit precisely, tucking into hidden drawers that were built into the toe-kick below the kitchen counter, or into one of the two wicker baskets that I’d salvaged from Goodwill to contain socks, underwear, headbands, down booties, mittens, and a felted elf (a tiny three-inch character with a lumpy head and pipe-cleaner arms) that was a gift from a friend’s daughter and would now be making the big trip to Olympia in the basket, to later become a sort of gatekeeper in my window. Even Buster, my thirty-pound ceramic pig, who had been parked outside my old house for years, sitting like a smiling cinder block on the front porch, was able to squeeze into the little house for the ride to Olympia. Once we arrived, I’d drag him out to sit on the porch and continue his watch for visitors.

My big house was empty, nothing left except for the booming echo in the living room and telltale paint dribbles on the floor from a year or two (or three) ago. There were gouges in
the door frames from moving furniture, and little bite marks on the trim from when RooDee was a puppy, entertaining herself in the kitchen while I was away at work. There was the spot near the back door where I was standing when my dad called to tell me that my mom had been in a terrible accident, and the other spot where my brother called to tell me he and his wife were expecting their first baby. I had made out with my most recent sweetie in the backyard, the kitchen, the living room, bedroom, and bathroom; and we had broken up standing in the driveway. My friend Meg had laughed so hard one night that she literally peed her pants, dropping her cards and rushing off to the bathroom as the rest of our group howled and shook our heads on the table.

I loved that house, and everything it brought me—both good and bad.

The day before we left, Candyce and Paula helped me hook up the little house and move it from the driveway onto the street, and we walked through the things that could go wrong—wobbly wheels, roofing that appeared to vibrate, sudden listing or leaning, or any odd fishtail movements of the trailer. We practiced using our cell phones like walkie-talkies, with me hunkered in the pickup truck in front of the house while they sat behind it in their car.

I offered in a serious tone (a tone I hardly ever used, but I was freaked out enough by the idea of moving the house that
this seemed critically important): “Candyce and Paula, are there any problems?” I sounded both apprehensive and wishful.

To which they responded: “Um, not to distract from the moment, but I think you’re supposed to announce yourself before you ask a question. That’s what you’d do if you were a truck driver on the open highway. You’re supposed to say something like ‘Charlie Bravo Niner-Niner, this is The Big Tiny, pedal to the metal, what’s the skinny on this little woody?’ That’s what you’re supposed to say.”

“What?” I asked as I got out of my truck and walked back toward their car, coming around the corner of my house to see them laughing and holding the phone out between them.

They continued, not noticing me walking up to the car: “Charlie Bravo, you’re supposed to announce yourself, offer a question, and then we say something like ‘Tango Nacho, this is the red bucket of goods [their car was red]. Check. Check. You got your bumper sticker in place [that would be them]. Clean and green to go. Ready to hit a double nickel all the way to OlyWa. Over.’”

I stood staring at them as they laughed, and walked up and leaned in on the driver’s door. “Over ’n’ out,” Candyce mumbled, contorting her mouth toward the phone while staring at me. She gave me a big shit-eating grin, which totally cracked me up, and the three of us laughed like that for ten minutes.

That night, we had a going-away party. My friends showed
up from all over town, with friends of friends, neighbors, and folks from the coffee shop. People walked in carrying food and their camping gear—folding chairs, nesting plates, forks, and pocketknives to replace the kitchenware that was now all missing from my house; some brought the glasses that I’d handed off to them, for one last hurrah around the backyard fire pit. We ate an exquisite meal and hung out in Southeast State Park, and then, as it got dark, we all walked out to the little house to christen its maiden voyage.

Someone handed me a bottle of champagne and I cracked it over the ball hitch of the trailer, smashing it, hooting, and encouraging everyone to run circles around the rig. We all whooped and laughed as we raced with one hand on the truck, the house, and then the truck again.

At eight the next morning, a bunch of us met on the front lawn of the big house. People came with bells, pots and pans, and other makeshift noisemakers. One neighbor (a guy whom I hadn’t met until the night before) offered me a copy of his favorite book; another gave me a bouquet of flowers, and someone else hung a giant poster across the back of the little house, a modified “Wide Load” sign reading: “CUTE LOAD.”

My friend Kimo—the new owner of the big house—showed up, just like she had the night before. She brought a small notebook inscribed with a quotation from Walt Whitman: “My ties and ballasts leave me/my elbows rest in the sea-gaps/I skirt sierras/my palms cover continents/I am afoot with my vision.”

“Good luck, Deedles.” She smiled.

We gave hugs all around and I loaded into the truck while Candyce and Paula crawled into their car. This was it.

I drove away listening to a parade of wooden spoons being banged on pots; they chased me up the street, cheering, making me feel like a champion, like I’d donated a kidney to the neighborhood and now I was off.

As I passed the coffee shop, I honked the horn at the folks waving good-bye and I saw some of the neighbors running, pushing their kids in strollers and holding pots and pans, racing to get to the intersection to wish me well. That was the moment I lost it. I completely broke down crying, realizing everything was changing. I was moving. Leaving. Pulling up stakes and heading to Olympia, and I had no idea what I was doing. I was flying blind, trusting everything would work out all right.

Ten minutes into our commute, Paula called to let me know the back door had swung open. She was deadpan and all business, and at the next intersection, I ran back and dead-bolted the door.

A half hour into our commute, we pulled off the highway into a rest stop where I could double-check the lug nuts and cross chains as the Russians had advised. I was bending down near the wheel well when one of the largest men I’d ever met walked up to me and asked what I was pulling. “It’s my house,” I said. “I built it myself.”

“Whaaaaaaat!” he exclaimed. “Well, aren’t you something. I could use a little cabin like this for hunting.”

Before I knew it, there was a small gathering of people, peeping in the windows and crawling down on hands and knees to see underneath the house. One lady asked to have her picture taken next to me while standing in front of the house, and another remarked (and I think she really thought she was giving me a genius idea at no charge) that “this li’l thing would make a perfect food cart for selling sausages or some other old-timey cabin food at a fair!”

“Ya.” I smiled as I loaded RooDee into the truck. “But y’know, the windows are too small. I’d chip the dishware handing food out to customers.”

We inched back onto the highway, and at the first overpass, Candyce and Paula pulled far behind, backing up a fair distance to see how the house handled the overhead concrete bridge. I was fairly certain I’d built it to squeeze below the overpass, but at times I had been a bit fast and loose with my tape measure, so there was room for doubt. A quarter mile away, I floored the engine, slamming my flip-flop onto the accelerator and racing from 55 miles an hour to 60, then 70, believing that moving faster through an obstruction would somehow save me. At the last minute, I ducked my head into my armpit, wondering if I’d hear the splinter of wood and metal exploding as it hit the overpass. But nothing happened;
my gas tank drained a little lower, and the little house and I continued.

The cab of the truck was huge, and every bump jolted me forward, leaving me feeling like I was ten years old again, driving our old hay truck across the fields as my dad, mom, and sister bucked hay bales into the back. I pulled RooDee closer on the bench seat, and alternated between crying and laughing as I scream-sang old Queen songs to bolster my courage: “WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU . . .” for ten miles, shifting in my seat; “WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, MY FRIENDS . . . AND WE’LL KEEP ON FIGHTING TO THE END . . .” for another ten.