The Tiny House That Grew
The building of my tiny house began during a particularly bad week when I was 28 and suddenly found myself single after a brief marriage. It was more a distraction than a plan; I was simply miserable, and my mother insisted we start the cabin I had talked about building. She dragged out some 2x6s from my father’s inventory and pounded them together. When my father came home, he made a few suggestions, and for the following year, he worked with me every Sunday, sharing everything he could about building. It’s a wonderful thing to have your father all to yourself every Sunday. We measured and sawed and nailed; we took breaks to eat cookies; we listened to “A Prairie Home Companion” — all this while we built my future home.
Now, 29 years later, I’ve lived almost half
