Do you recall the first place that felt like home, once you left your parents? For me it was a Lilliputian cabin in my mid-20’s, after several uninspiring apartments.
I lived in that stucco cabin for a year. Smaller than most bedrooms at 7’ x 14’—all of 98 sq. feet—the ceiling was so low that tall visitors had to duck. Upstate New York’s deep snows made the tiny building a white bump on a white hill. Heat leaked through visible cracks in the single-pane window’s aluminum frames, and I could barely turn around in the shower stall. Hardly a place you’d expect fond memories to attach, but they did.
My new book Life in a Teacup: A Tiny Home Memoir starts with that cabin, shares my dissatisfactions after buying a suburban home, and details the return to minimal living in a home I designed and (partly) built. Some of the stories are…
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