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• You’ll discover heating and cooling ideas for extreme climates.
• For those wishing to design their own home, Jay provides 7 organizing principles and 42 design elements to create a very efficient little abode.
• How to fit you, your family and your stuff into a small home with elbow room to boot.
• Simple tips for meeting or beating the laws that prohibit small housing.
This is an excerpt from my new book. This is a six part post. Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 ... more to come.
Utilities
Like the rest of the house, utilities and appliances were designed with simplicity and sustainability in mind. They met my modest needs but would be considered primitive by conventional American standards. These rudimentary utilities certainly would not appeal to everyone interested in living in a small home, and it should be made clear that living small does not require deprivation. Hot and cold running water, a microwave oven, and cable TV are all available options.
Water: Tumbleweed was supplied by a simple, gravity-fed plumbing system. A two-and-a-half-gallon pot sat on a metal shelf just above a horizontal section of stovepipe in the overhead kitchen cabinet and drained into either the kitchen sink or shower through a Y intersection in a short stretch of rubber hose. The water was kept warm as long as the heat stove was on, and it could be made hot by setting the pot directly on the stove or a burner. The pot was filled at a nearby spigot. Gray water drained directly into the garden.
Heating and Cooking: The best source of heat most structures can use is that of the sun. I installed windows on all but what was intended as the north wall of Tumbleweed for good solar gain. A covered porch on the south side kept the heat of the high summer sun out while letting the lower winter rays flood the house with their warmth. A gas heater kicked in on cloudy days and cold nights. I chose a gas stove over a wood one mostly because gas stoves only require about one-sixth as much clearance from flammable surfaces. This, in turn, allowed me to have pine walls without having to put my heater right in the middle of an already tiny room. The cleanliness of gas also seemed to make sense in a small space, and I liked the idea of precise control with a thermostat rather than the frequent stoking that a small wood stove requires.
The propane tank that fed the heater also supplied an R.V. cooktop. It is upon this same double burner that a camp oven was set for baking.
Toilet: My composting toilet amounted to little more than an airtight bucket, a can of sawdust and a couple of compost piles outside. Sordid story short, the bucket was used as an indoor toilet and sawdust was put into the mix to absorb odor and balance out the carbon-to-nitrogen ratio. This bucket was emptied onto one compost pile or the other every so often, then rinsed. (Please see J.C. Jenkins, The Humanure Handbook, for details on this and other methods of composting human manure.) While the idea of carrying one’s own poop (or anybody else’s for that matter) to a compost pile off away from central living quarters may sound both inconvenient and plainly unacceptable to most Westerners, its appeal for more than a few will be its absolute efficiency. Without electricity, running water, or waste and only small inconvenience as its price, a cleaner environment and soil-building compost are made available.
Electricity: By now, these description of rudimentary plumbing and a plastic chamber pot may have made it sound as if my house was more derelict than homey. But, as I have said, these utilities were of my choice, and for me, choice is, in itself, a luxury. In fact, there was plenty of room for modern conveniences. The integral CD player, TV, and VCR disqualified the house as an ascetic’s shanty. These appliances, along with six lights, two fans, and a radio, were all powered by the sun through a single solar panel. I chose not to mount the panel on my roof but kept it separate. This allowed me to situate the house in a shady place during the summer while collecting energy at the same time.
It was not until after I thought I had already finished designing my little dream home that I became familiar with the term “minimum-size standards.” Up to this point, I had somehow managed to remain blissfully unaware of these codes; but, as the time for construction neared, my denial gave way to a grim reality. My proposed home was about one-third the size required to meet local limits. A drastic change of plans seemed unavoidable, but tripling the scale of a structure that had been designed to meet my specific needs so concisely seemed something like altering a tailored suit to fit like a potato sack.
I resolved to side-step the well-intentioned codes by putting my house on wheels. The construction of travel trailers is, after all, governed by maximum--not minimum--size restrictions, and since Tumbleweed already fit within these, I had only to add some space for wheel wells to make the plan work.
At about eight by twelve feet plus a porch, loft, and four wheels, the resulting house looked a bit like American Gothic meets the Winnebago Vectra. A steep, metal roof was supported by cedar-clad walls and turned cedar porch posts. The front gable was pierced by a lancet window. In the tradition of the formal plan, everything was symmetrical, with the door at exterior, front center. Inside, Knotty Pine walls and Douglas Fir flooring were contrasted by stainless steel hardware. There was a 7’ x 7’ great room, a closet-sized kitchen, an even smaller bathroom, and a 3’ 9”-tall bedroom upstairs. A cast-iron heater presided like an altar at the center of the space downstairs. In fact, the whole house looked a bit like a tiny cathedral on two, 3,500-pound axles.
The key to designing my happy home really was designing a happy life, and the key to that lay not so much in deciding what I needed as in recognizing all the things I can do without. What was left over read like a list I might make before packing my bags for a long trip. While I cannot remember the last time I packed my TV, stereo, or even the proverbial kitchen sink for any journey, I wanted this to be a list of items necessary not only to my survival, but to my contented survival. I am sure any hard-core minimalist would be as appalled by the length of my inventory as any materialist would be by its brevity. But then, I imagine nobody’s list of necessities is ever going to quite match anybody else’s. Each will read like some kind of self-portrait. I like to think that a house built true to the needs of its inhabitant will do the same.
