Our Piece of Silver-Plated Paradise

by Jen Jackson

Blog Last Updated; 11/9/2009

I have a feeling this will be the subject of many 'a blog posting. And perhaps some laughter at our sheer stupidity. Maybe some expletives born of frustration...at our sheer stupidity. And it will definitely be the source of some lessons learned.

My boyfriend and I are about to move into a 27-foot piece of silver-plated paradise known as a 1970 Streamline trailer. Its amenities include an 8-track player with surround-sound speakers built into the wall. And that's about it for amenities. We spent the better part of yesterday afternoon tearing out the rust-colored shag carpet and scraping up the sparkly gold linoleum underneath. Poor Tyler drew the short straw in having to figure out the septic system, which included removing the toilet and reaming out 40 years of accumulated, petrified septic residue.

Ah, the joys of homeownership.

We installed a working fridge (courtesy of the alleys of Durango on appliance recycling day), and our new woodstove is on its way in the mail. Many trips to Habitat for Humanity are imminent. Tyler is at Home Depot as I write this. The goal is to move into it this month. However, with bare floorboards, no furniture, a torn-out toilet and no place as of yet to park the thing, that goal feels distant.

Then there's the fact that neither of us knows the first thing about trailer repair or maintenance. Is the furnace broken, or have we just not figured it out yet? Where is the septic tank? How does the water system work? Is there some kind of pump? Where? But we're learning as we go. Thank God for Google. What did anyone ever do without Google?

Oh, and the issue of storage? Yikes. As I compare my worldly possessions (which aren't even that many) with the amount of space we have to hold them, I realize that downsizing will be a necessity. There is no room for redundancy ? extra sheets, towels, clothes or books. There will be lessons in need versus want, and a few tiny cupboards will ensure we learn those lessons.

Yet, despite the inconveniences and uncertainties of the trailer life we are about to lead, I am excited. This is a fantastic adventure. And while the trailer isn't perfect, with its quirks, creaks and leaks, it's ours. It is our home. All 27 sprawling feet of it. I've never had a home of my own before. I've never been able to create ? or co-create ? home. The structure has always belonged to someone else. My presence has felt transitory ? a life lived upon a backdrop of shelter rather than a life lived intentionally in a structure, forcefully enough to leave an imprint. I've always tread softly. But I no longer have to.

We are already leaving our mark on the Streamline Countess. And it is so much fun.

We have notions of putting down hardwood floors salvaged from an old gymnasium, free-throw lines and court boundaries still in evidence on the planks. We will paint walls and cupboards with a recklessly joyful sense of ownership. Perhaps we will inadvertently choose a vomit-inducing palette, but that is our boneheaded decision to make. And that is some of the joy of it.

I think our respective families are wondering about the soundness of our decisions as it relates to spontaneously purchasing a trailer older than we are and smaller than our needs require (both of us often work from home, so the Streamline will also be an office for two). However, behind the worry, I also sense a bit of excitement, perhaps a remembering of a time before mortgages and children when it was okay to be injudicious because that was just another way to live out loud and prove one's existence ? unwise or otherwise ? to the world.

Someday, together or apart (but hopefully the former), Tyler and I may inhabit less exotic abodes. And we may recognize the Streamline as a mistake. But I guarantee we won't regret it. It is a chapter very much worth living.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009
at 5:11:53 PM

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Ken says:

Congrats! You've made an excellent choice! I speak from experience: back in the early '80s my girlfriend at the time (sorry, this doesn't have a happy ending that way ...) and I spent a year living in an 18-foot trailer that'd been "cabinized" from recycled ... everything. And this was in the Fraser Valley, where winter temps can bottom out below the bulb on the thermometer. But I look at that as one of finest years of indoor living I've experienced. Our own frigid little tin Walden. It's guaranteed to teach you ... something. I look forward to reading what that is.