My Tiny House Era: any port in a storm.

There is nothing more romantic to me than a tiny little cedar box nestled in the trees. The rain marching down upon my head like a drum, a rhythm I can relax too- not a drip on my head, although inches away. A drip FOR my head perhaps. 

I lived in a tiny home that smelled of infinity Christmas- woodsy, bright and bold. 34 feet long, 6 miles inland of the Coast, on a farm with berry bushes and a stream that ran to the bay. It was not a good time in my life but it is a good memory after all. 

I’d been searching for a place to live- after years of convincing myself tiny was the only way to actually buy a house. It was something I could afford. I didn’t decide the location- I’d cast that to fate. 

I wasn’t thinking straight- in the prodromal phase of Schizophrenia. This is the time in someone's life when their symptoms start to appear and no one really knows what’s happening. This was about 6 months before the episode that made it abundantly clear something was really wrong with me. 

Still, during this time my husband and I had split up after 10 years of marriage. We drew up divorce papers and for the first time in my life I was not at home with my child. 

I was heartbroken and needed to get away. During our split I’d moved into my parents garage. I hadn’t worked in 10 years and I was frozen. No work experience, no savings- and was haunted by what had facilitated our divorce- a bankruptcy. 

We forfeited our cars and lost our rental house, paid the court fees and started over. I didn’t want to be at this place in my life. 32 and for the first time in my life I was alone. I had moved from my parents house with my husband when I was 18. 

I married at 21 and spent my 20's as a young mom. I only had one sweet baby but I devoted every minute of my time to keeping care of the house, cooking meals, and staying as frugal as possible. My husband left his career in the printing industry to study and find better work. When I got pregnant I left the bar I was working in- I’d paid the bulk of our bills until I was 14 weeks along and too sick to work. 

We moved into my parent’s house and my husband and Dad built out half of the garage into a room for us to live and have the baby. We were there for two years. Soon we were able to get our own home, I stayed home with the baby and my husband worked 12-16 hour days.

I did well in school. It ate me up that I could not go to college. I’d worked so hard to get into a prestigious theater school, which I had no business ever to afford. My dreams of being a writer, actor, director suddenly died one month before Fall classes. Tuition was more than my dad made a year, my FAFSA was thrown out and there wasn’t enough time to work AND rehearse shows.

I considered joining the army and found myself in the recruiters office several times- negotiating any position I thought might not kill me. They said I could join the band and after two years of combat I could join the touring theater group. I wanted the loans, I wanted the school, I wanted ANY lift I could find. In the end I told them I was nuts and moved into restaurant work full time. It was the early 2000’s and money was good enough.

I had no idea how I’d survive on tips for the rest of my life- I knew I’d age out and break my back in the process.  I thought maybe something else would come along. I applied for marketing jobs and creative positions in the city but was denied any interviews without a degree.

When my husband asked if we could try for a baby I gave him one week to try, the week we would be in Kauai. We didn’t have any money but I didn’t think anything would happen. The odds were not in anyone’s favor.

Guess what?

When I became a mother- I gave my all, its instinct to want that more than anything else. It’s a love that is beyond a bond. Mother’s know that. Being a mom has been my favorite thing in life. I’d not change that course of my life for anything.

Life had been wonderful, magical, fun- I loved being a mom. I did miss my old life some days. Mostly friends I’d left behind. Most everyone I knew was off at College or traveling around Europe. I had so many friends abroad, with masters degrees, I wished that was me. 

We moved into my parent’s house and my husband and Dad built out half of the garage into a room for us to live and have the baby. We were there for two years. Soon we were able to get our own home, I stayed home with the baby and my husband worked 12-16 hour days.

So those first 10 years flew by. Then one afternoon I answered the door to a certified letter- we’d been served- I came unhinged. I called the lawyer that afternoon in an attempt to stop the wage garnishment and repos. I had no idea we were behind and my husband had no idea how to tell me. An emergency surgery had sunk us.

Our life fell like dominoes to the floor. My husband moved to our friend's bachelor pad on the river- I crept back into my parent’s garage.

My dad was very much against divorce and reminded me daily that I should go home. 

I felt I needed to get back to restaurants. I didn’t want to have to leave my baby at night but now I had 3-4 days a week that I could work. I wanted to take care of myself. I’d been blogging and wondered if I could make that lucrative. Of course not….

I applied to work for an extended stay at a hot spring. They told me that they had no services for mothers. When my husband came to pick up our child (for his week) I broke out in a wailing sob. My dad told me I couldn’t cry in his house- he told me to just go back to my husband. I wanted to fix things by myself, for myself, forever.

Sucking back tears I typed  “Tiny house” into Craigslist and it appeared. 

A brand new tiny home, 6 miles from the ocean. One month's deposit and month to month from there. No proof of income needed- and it was in my price range. I emailed the owner and told her I was a blogger and I needed a spot to research the coast. I would be there part time, 3-4 days a week and commuting otherwise back to Central Oregon. 

I looked at the job listings and saw an ad for an iconic bar, 10 miles from the tiny house. I emailed them my resume. I said I’d been a mom for 10 years and needed to get my feet wet. The owner called me within an hour. 

The tiny home owner emailed me back and said they would accept cash for the rental. I could be there part time, bring my dog, and it was available immediately.

Within one afternoon the tables had turned and I had a new life. I could fix things, somehow?

I’d been obsessively listening to the Classical radio station for a sense of peace in the garage. Just then a contest came on and I called in, winning two tickets to the Symphony in Eugene.

I decided I’d drive over, see the show, camp in my car and look at the tiny home. 

I told my husband my plan and he agreed to come with me- he wanted to see the home and meet the owners. I didn’t have a bank account and we weren’t legally divorced, just working off a separation agreement to be civil and co parent. I’d also never stayed the night alone- anywhere. 

So we went, saw the show- wandered an exhibit with real Picasso paintings at the museum. We scoured the value village where I found a Pendleton Cape from the 1960’s and then drove out to the coast.

We stayed down a logging road we’d discovered 13 years before- my secret beach spot. It was bittersweet, heartbreaking, but the new business as usual.

The next morning we drove up to Depoe Bay and I took a picture on the seawall. I’d dyed my hair Ariel red for the occasion. A manic decision, made a day after dying it pink because I felt ugly and unsettled. Nowadays,  I'd use a wig for such a dramatic change. That red cost me all my hair.

I bleached it three times in a row to try and get back to blond. I ended up with hair a pinkish gray that soon fell out in clumps. My hair has always reflected my life and at this point it was a messy chemical burn.

We made our way to the tiny house, it was on a road the same as my last name. I thought it was a sign. At least I hoped it was a sign. I kept making the joke “any port in a storm, or a chianti, a chardonnay…” something to cut the tension.

The tiny house was charming enough, tucked beneath a Douglas Fir. There were blueberry trees that had been U-pick for years, a few old pole barns and a sinking farmhouse. The property owners said it had been livable 5 years before but it had since sunk into the ground and been eaten by blackberries.

The walls were scribbled with religious drawings and boxes of burnt prayer candles were stacked around sinkholes in the floor. I pretended not to notice but the owner assured me it was just from some kids messing around, no big deal. We signed some paperwork, handed over the money and that was that.

The next week I drove across the state, my car packed for the new house. I headed up to Seaside to meet my step mother in law and cousin. That meeting went as well as anything did in those days- awfully. I’m not sure what I thought, trying to visit like a good daughter in law while also moving 200 miles away from her son. I left in the darkest of night before dawn. I went to the only place that did feel right- the very edge of the ocean. 

I photographed each State Park on the way from Ecola down South to Cape Meares, pulling into every parking lot, alone except for a few inquisitive crows. The sun came up over the ocean as I drained the last of my cold hotel coffee. I felt safe here- starting over, 3 days at a time.

It took me most of the day to drive 90 miles to my new front door. It was one of those really nice Fall afternoons on the Coast. The sky was actually blue, the air crisp with the first breath of autumn. I pulled in and unpacked my things- three garden tubs of gear, a tote of kitchen and bathroom stuff, my suitcase. I had brought an egg crate, three pillows, a down comforter and all my twinkle lights. 

I drove into town and went to the Goodwill. I found a writing desk for 5 dollars and hauled it out to my car. A man with a broken down Mustang asked me if I was a writer. I said yes and he talked to me a bit about life on the road and all the things out there to write about. He asked me if I was new in town and I sort of skirted the issue. He told me to go work at the Autobahn cafe- if I needed the work, the customers would make for good writing.

I drove down a ways to the REstore where I found a wooden chair for $1.98. I went to a bright yellow drive through and got the biggest bean burrito of my life, 3 dollars. A 10 dollar day, that was affordable, maybe? I really didn’t know. It didn’t matter because now it was time to drive up into the woods and spend the night alone, for the first time in my life. I was 32.

No husband to cook for, no little grade schooler to entertain. To keep me company I had brought my writing tablet, a stack of canvases, oil pastels, and my Grandfather’s 1985 Sony radio.

I drug the desk and chair in and set the radio up. There was a single corner of the house that brought in just one station- All Classical from Portland. I could catch a little bit of NPR from my car radio and I could text most of the time from the bathroom. Otherwise it was just me and my deafening decision

 I opened my journal and drew a diagram of the home. I was illustrating every ridiculous choice in my life at the time- just to make sense of it all. 

“My first night alone, in a cedar shack- waiting on…?”

I decided there was enough daylight left and so I shut my journal and went to the beach- because I could!

I drove down to the beach access and rummaged through the seagrass looking for glass floats. The beach emptied out, families headed back to their hotel rooms or over to Mo’s for dinner. I grabbed a big stick and headed towards the waves. I wasn’t a part of a family anymore, I was a feral thing.

The sun set and darkness came, I was out. No one knew my location for the first time in years .Of course everyone would be mad at me, but then again, they already were. 

I jumped off a steep embankment into the surf at the river’s edge. The waves swirled in sideways, rip currents like sea monsters- hungry. I cackled and swung my stick- yelling at the sea to take me if it dared. 

I saw my shadow against the sand, illuminated by the massive hotel above my head. The shadow doubled and without turning I knew I was no longer alone. A man in headphones appeared, long hair and baggy jeans. He locked eyes with me and I jumped back away from the water. I ran all the way back to my car, stick in hand.

What’s more frightening?  Losing yourself to madness and the waves- meeting a man alone on the beach- or this night that lay ahead of me, loneliness and a cedar box?

Suddenly my romantic metaphor seemed like an eternal tomb.

I drove back into the coastal headland towards my tiny house, a light rain began and the road took on a greasy sheen. Then, in my headlights a giant Elk, as tall as a school bus. He stood square in the road, his shaggy mane thick like a lions, his head reaching tall like a Giraffe. 

I stopped the car, it was dark on the road and the size of this animal was far bigger than me. I felt very small in a great big way. He lept into up the hill, there was no reception in the dark and the radio cut to silence.

The rain had begun to fall down hard and fast in the woods. I sloshed through an inch of thick water to get to my tiny house- All Classical was still softly playing from the Sony; a night of Vivaldi. I made a pot of tea and went to turn on the shower. The hot water heater had failed. Water was my comfort, my friend. Accepting defeat I crawled up into the loft and flicked on the electric candle I’d brought from home.

I fell asleep easier than I thought, soothed by the rain on the tin roof.

The next day I decided to start my blog project by visiting every beach from North to South on the Central Coast. I also needed to go to the grocery store.

I’d done the family shopping for the last 10 years, usually buying in bulk and making meals from scratch. I’d never gone to the store just for me. What sort of food did I even want to eat? 

I went to Grocery Outlet and bought cranberries and oats to make a berry crisp. I grabbed coffee, vanilla creamer, bacon, tortillas, eggs, cheese, and butter. The lady at the cash wrap asked if I was new in town and told me to use Vaseline for sand burn. 

She could tell I’d been on the beach in the wind and told me to take care of myself. She told me if I needed anything I could come find her and she would help me. I must have looked like a runaway. To be fair, I was. 

I had a few dollars left so I went to Mcmenamins for a happy hour slider and a Ruby. The bartender asked me if I was new in town and I let down my guard and said yes. I told him I was staying in a Tiny House part time while I wrote a blog. He told me he lived in a tiny house too! He said I could come see his house and invited our dogs to meet. 

A nice couple sat down and asked me if I liked Ruby. I told them it was my favorite beer and they said it was theirs also. They asked me what I was up to and I told them I was a writer and I was researching the coast.

I showed them photos of the crows at D river, the tunnel-like trail to Gleneden Beach. We talked about Driftwood Shores and my tiny house. Then the husband leaned over and asked “Hey, it’s Friday the 13th- do you know what started all that?”

I told him it was the Knights of The Templar and he laughed. They told me my blog would be a success and they bought my Ruby and slider. 

The tiny house bartender asked me if I wanted to go to the Black Squid sometime and play darts. I said I’d visit him later but I needed to get home. He told me if I needed anything, he'd be right there.  

The next day I packed up and drove back to Central Oregon. I was a mom for a week and then it was time to go back.

I returned to the tiny house with a mattress strapped to the top of my Envoy. My best friend Jordan was with me.  I was still scared to be alone and I had a few days before I started my new job. We got a late start and didn’t arrive until after dark. We were ecstatic, giddy to have a cute little homebase to go hiking. We were up on the roof of the car trying to untie my mattress knots when a white truck pulled into the farm. 

The old beat up truck pulled right behind the tiny home and started to rev its engine over and over again. We ran into the tiny home and the truck sped off FAST. 

“We have to leave, right?” Jordan and I panicked and went out to tug on the mattress. For some reason we thought we had to get it off before we could drive away. I ran inside and grabbed a kitchen knife to cut the ropes. We pushed the mattress into the house, locked the door and drove into town. 

I called my family and told them I was getting a hotel for the night. The next day we decided we had overreacted and went back to the tiny house. Everything was fine again. I explained the situation to the home owner and they said they knew the truck, it was one of their employees. They told me his name and said he liked to rev his engine to show off. 

We spent the next few days hiking steep coastal trails and getting into fights. She and I had very different opinions on many things and I wasn’t up for arguing.  We’d been friends for a long time but we were both dissolving during stressful times. She took a bus back home (which had always been the plan) and I was alone again. 

The next day I started my job at the pub. It’s really hard to start a job somewhere and not let anyone know anything about you. The manager showed me how to open the restaurant and as we put down the chairs, he asked “are you new here, where are you from, why are you here, are you single?”…

I felt humiliated, worried, embarrassed. Mostly I was living alone and didn’t want everyone to know that. Single? ‘By myself’ was the answer.

I wanted to just show up- wait tables, make tips, go home. It seemed simple. I forgot how small towns work. 

Still- everyone at work was accepting. It IS food service after all. I made 300 dollars the first day on the floor, pointing out boats and talking about whales. I knew beer so that was easy, I knew sandwiches so hard could it be?

The owner pulled me into the backroom to talk about marketing and management. That’s when the trouble really began. The idea was to use all the skills I had to work the bar, the coffee shop, AND sell  beer up and down the coast. I could help with naming the beers, maybe the logo. She gave me the code to the safe and asked if I could stay late on weekends. 

Money was good, everyone seemed so nice. Still, I could only work part time. I had to go home to be mom every five days. The owner told me “no one works part time on the coast.”

I knew this was true, I’d worked for Rogue before I was a mom. Still, I needed a few days to think it over. 

The next day I was moved out of the upstairs section, no more ocean view. I was down in the coffee shop and I made only 10 dollars that whole day. I remembered how hard it was on the coast…especially if you didn’t have the good shifts or sections.

Then the big wind came in- from the North. I’d made a few friends at a store down the street from my house, surfers. They'd been talking about the big swells coming in for days. The winds woke me up, Douglas Fir branches smacking up against the side of the tiny house. The storm was here!

I put on a thick red, arctic vessel jacket I’d found at Goodwill and drove to the seawall. 

The ocean was going off- boom, boom. The water from the spout carried all the way across the street and sprayed against the windows of the businesses.

I drove South to Rocky Point and stood up on the bluff. Behind the wooden fence I watched the biggest waves I’d ever seen- rolling and building from the North, just like the surfers had predicted. The water grew tall like a wall and slammed the headlands, no beach could be seen.

It was time to go hunker down in the tiny house, or so I thought. 

The storm was rumbling inland, and it was pitch black by 2pm. I opened the door and shoved all my shoes in side, the rain coming down sideways into the house. All Classical was playing Hector Berlioz - a low layering tympani and cello, Symphonie Fantastique. 

Then the roar, the headlights, THE TRUCK. It had returned- snarling through the rain and orchestra. I froze. The trumpet blared. They pulled out and sped off, tires squeeling like a banshee on the wet road. I wasted no time, grabbing my things and racing out of town as fast as I could. I had to beat the storm over the mountains back to Bend. 

I drove out of the coastal range into sunlight - it had only been a false night. There was no prettier place than just outside of Salem in that moment. Golden beams filtering through giant oaks- a flurry of bright orange leaves swirled around my car. 

I drove until Detroit Dam, far enough into the woods that the trees looked piney again. I called the owner of the pub and told her I couldn’t take the job. She told me I needed to give proper notice. I apologized. The only thing I was good at was running away…

I landed back home. My darling 3rd grader had just decided to be a unicorn for Halloween. Dave bought the costume. The first time I had ever missed something like that in my life. My husband invited me over for a glass of wine- he’d just rented a 1910 apartment downtown. 

I kept the tiny house for another month, visiting again to grab my last paycheck, clean and leave. No truck appeared. The storm had flooded the farm and blown branches all around the house. I photographed the last few trails on my list and left the coast. Snow dusted the pass as I made my way back to Bend.

Several more months and small spaces went by before I had a full psychotic break and ended up in the hospital. It was then that everyone around me became aware of my condition, Schizophrenia. 

My family helped me to stabilize, I found support in a dual diagnosis program and with a lot of time and therapy my husband and I decided to try again. That was 7 years ago. Many things have happened since, including a global pandemic.

I’ll never forget my time in the Tiny Home- an attempt, a failure? We all have to start somewhere. This was many firsts for me- my first home, meal, time to define. One of many first, painful decisions I’d have to make in the coming months.

It was where I faced the unknown and fell on my face- but survived.

Things didn’t work out as I had planned.

 It’s ok, it was just one of many things not really meant for me that I thought I wanted. 

You don’t always get what you want- but you do get what you need.

I was left with the start of something great- a collection of photos and notes about all the parks, beaches, and trails on the North and Central Coast. I wouldn’t share any of them for three more years, until a psychiatrist told me to stop hiding my light.

I’ve since written about all those places on Wild Oregon Girl, along with a little glimpse of my recovery and life after stabilization. It’s incredibly hard to think back on this time and my bold, selfish, and manic decisions. However, I’m grateful.

Without that experience there would be no words for my pen.

Tiny house, big lesson.