Blog – The Fixer-Upper Life

Before I left home for my travels, I had a couple of calls with Tumbleweed Houses. When founder Jay Shafer owned the company, I attended some weekend DIY design workshops, hoping to learn enough to get started building my own. Shafer was inspirational, a true pioneer in the movement, if not the pioneer, and he’s brilliant. The company’s more commercial now, and feels less personal, less driven by design genius and mindfulness, but still seems committed to furthering social good. They sell plans as well as houses, and periodically have some pretty great sales prices.

Well, life happened, and I also despaired when I realized I didn’t have even basic tools expertise (let alone any hands-on power tool knowledge), nor any foreseeable help from family and friends. I back-burnered my dream. Ten-plus years later, as I clearly see the need for major home repairs here or a new residence, my goal is to resume the quest. Tumbleweed does offer financing – a big plus, and a necessity for me – and their prices are reasonable-ish, especially when they run sales. They offer a nice assortment of models. The ones I can afford are the right size, but don’t quite have the “wow” factor for me. Almost, though. Definitely almost. I like the rustic, simple look of a few of them very much. Others are more interesting, but bigger and less affordable. The jury’s still out.

Driving around Spokane, quite by accident I found Park Model Homes. A national company, they have a great selection of affordable, beautiful models tailored by region, e.g. for northern winter climates. Their homes are more upscale-looking, which has a certain appeal, but rustic is more my style.  If I want to buy a TH for delivery to Montana (vs. the Spokane area), my house would come from their Nebraska location. They also offer financing, with banking relationships in Spokane, although I haven’t gone too far down that road yet. At my request, they emailed me a price sheet, and I was informally given a verbal ballpark quote of $60K, including house, taxes, delivery, and hookups. The homes are on trailers, to meet RV zoning requirements. I’m still researching the company itself – the website is dated and a little hard to figure out their true ownership or distributed business model – but I liked what I saw on the lot. They appear to have a network of companies that either operate as Park Model Homes, or do business with them. On my end, I’d need to have a level packed gravel parking space installed. Do-able.

It seems a little weird that there are no standout choices for these tiny homes in Billings or really anywhere in Montana, but I’m still looking. There are a couple of companies I want to check out. And there are numerous seasonal popup lots in Billings and outlying areas displaying sheds, shells really, that look like TH’s or garages or feed barns. These are quite affordable and well-constructed by local Amish builders. Delivery is cheap or free. The landscape is increasingly dotted with these in small communities and along state highways. I’m considering buying one for a shed, but I can’t imagine doing the interior work to transform a shed into a home.

Another option is having a TH built. There’s a contractor in town who is interested, but I think I need to go the financing route; paying cash outright isn’t an option. Elizabeth Smart’s book, Under 55 and Faking Normal: Your Guide to a Better Life, has a dedicated section with good information about TH’s and financing. In fact, this book re-started my pursuit of owning a TH. I reviewed it here, on Marc Miller’s Career Pivot website (my favorite online community!). Smart’s book is exhaustively researched, with some real gems for any seniors questioning how they will survive and thrive in an economy that doesn’t know (or care about?) what to do with us!

I’ve also tentatively explored acquiring a vintage or new/retro camper trailer. There were some great options in Spokane, which, like Billings but more so, seems to be an RV sales lot hub. More on this in another post.

And finally, I’d love to work for a TH company or housing non-profit, because I believe TH’s can go a long way toward solving the affordable housing crisis for seniors and many others. If you’re making a living in the gig economy, as opposed to running a business or holding down a 9-to-5, TH’s solve the issue of getting, and paying on, a big mortgage. An Auxiliary Dwelling Unit (ADU) in a homeowner’s backyard is a perfect situation for an extended family member or a college student, or can be a win-win for a property owner and tenant with a work exchange deal. Or for digital nomads, RV-licensed TH’s are on wheels and travel with you, wherever you desire to go next. They are also one answer to providing dignity and shelter off the street for our marginalized homeless populations. The municipalities and NIMBY communities that are so adamantly opposed to TH’s are missing the boat. Lack of affordable housing, and homelessness are problems that impact all of us. We hide our heads in the sand to our own detriment.

My tiny house concerns and questions for further research
1. The PMH models I like have many different-size windows, letting in lots of beautiful light. We have hailstorms and high winds. Will the windows all break? Can they be easily replaced, or should I stay away from those models and opt for one with fewer, standard size windows?

2. About those winds… Will the TH on its trailer bed tip over? How to prevent that?

3. I’d like a wood stove. Can I have one installed by the TH company?

4. I’d like solar. What’s involved? Cost? Can it be installed before delivery?

5. Can I finance based on my work as a 1099-contractor, supplemented by Social Security and a tiny retirement pension? Or do I need to find a full-time job to show income?

6. If I want to move my TH to the Spokane area someday, where are they allowed, zoning-wise? Vacant lots in the area are pricey and limited, due to rapid in-migration from Southern California, et al., and heavy encroachments on remaining wilderness by developers.

7. Are there any TH companies with a social conscience who are hiring an administrative assistant, copy writer, or digital content marketer?

All for now. To be continued…

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These mini-projects of mine are always 50/50. They can go either way, resulting in dejection or elation, and are usually deliberately conceived as a temporary fix. I don’t want to commit to a solution using something I’ve repurposed in a way it’s not intended for. But I do love to roam hardware aisles imagining unorthodox uses for all those amazing tubes and connectors and caps and endlessly fascinating man-made parts and pieces. The real way to do things requires tools and expertise. I’m not opposed to that. I have great respect for those who are knowledgeable and do things the right way. In fact, I try to learn from them whenever I can, and use their kindly shared tips and shortcuts whenever feasible – or necessary for safety’s sake. It would be foolish for me to spend a lot of time or money on the small stuff in this house with all its problems. The big stuff – replacing wiring or jacking up the floor or reattaching the porch – may be worth it just to keep the place standing.

I’m not a hunter and don’t like killing things, but I’m just not a fan of indoor wildlife. Unwelcome critters have thrown me into utter panic more than once. While I’ve been writing this, no kidding, I’ve heard at least a dozen suspicious sounds in the living room and kitchen. Probably just the house shifting and settling. Yeah, that’s it. Or it’s the water heater struggling against its coming obsolescence.

I can only hope.

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I’ve bought lots of parts, gizmos, and gewgaws that I thought might solve my problem. When the shower was offline, I got a solar shower bladder. One of those bags you fill with water and leave in the sun to warm up. It warmed up just fine, and the water came out nicely enough, but there was nowhere to hang it. Even if I wanted to spritz off outside (fully clothed), there are no big trees near the house. Inside, it was too heavy for the shower pipes, and it had to be positioned somewhere near a drain. After I bought a heavy duty, 5-foot-tall shepherd’s hook plant stand that kept tipping over, I nixed the indoor solar shower bag except for emergencies.

And I have looked at outdoor shower enclosures, but I’ve got no fence to hide one from plain sight. I wouldn’t blame any looky-loos passing by. I would look too if I was driving down the highway, and saw someone showering. It’s not like this is the beach. I can get real nostalgic about the ‘sixties in Santa Monica — my friends and I bikini-clad, dancing in the sand. “Those were the days… we thought they would never end.”  Well, many decades later, in this tiny Montana prairie town, we have pretty fierce weather that comes up on a moment’s notice. A shower enclosure would soon be gone with the wind.

I bought a stock tank with a drain plug. It actually might have worked in the mudroom (back porch) — except for the floor-on-an-angle issue. After I spent quite some time and several trips to the hardware store figuring out how to more or less securely attach a hose to drain the bathwater out the back door, I didn’t have the motivation to find new homes for all the stuff I would have to stash somewhere, and then possibly discover a fatal flaw in my plan that I hadn’t thought of.

I bought a plastic inflatable ofuro tub, a circular Japanese soaker with high sides that you step into. Surprisingly, that thing is almost usable. Almost for sure.

This whole thing started about 10 years ago, actually, when I bought a pre-fab shower surround, the smallest one I could find, RV-size. It was still too big. It would have needed to be cut and then jockeyed into place behind the exposed pipes. I gave up trying to find anyone supportive of this solution, so it’s sitting out in my garage (“garage” being a term I use loosely). Ultimately, I gave up and had to go with the sheetboard, with quarter-round in the corners. I’m so tired of settling for workarounds that are third-class makeshift survival hacks, I want to scream. In fact, I have screamed (into the wind) about this. Many times. In the end, I always end up taking what I can get. And I need a damn bathroom, no matter what it looks like. (A “damn bathroom” being preferable to none.)

In warm weather, the plumbing is reliable at least 80% of the time. In the winter, I keep a space heater going around the clock so the water doesn’t freeze. Leaving town for an extended trip means getting help to winterize the house – blowing out the pipes and turning off the water. It’s also prone to backing up. Last year, I bought a highly rated compost toilet that would be easier to deal with in the winter if I left, and would be a backup the rest of the year. I can’t quite figure out where, or how, to install it. Or find anyone who believes that these things are worthy of consideration. And this from a community where outhouses are still a vivid memory. My current plan is to get a big shed, and stick it in there.

You are probably head-scratching at this point, thinking WTH? Why is she living like this? I’m not ready to go there yet.

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Moving on to the walls – someone in the fifties or forties thought it would be a good idea to cover them with sheets of linoleum. An inch-wide strip of black faux-tile linoleum was added as a decorative touch, an attempt at wainscoting I guess. All that linoleum is now coming unstuck, just hanging there, revealing a pervasive layer of haphazardly spattered black unremovable mastic. I’m going to tear off the linoleum, then try to primer and paint over the gob-smacked walls, and just ignore the bumpy texture. The stuff won’t pry loose, and it’s supposed to be hazardous if disturbed anyway.

That’s another fun fact about this house. It’s got toxic stuff in and on the walls. Lead paint, of course. That’s not remarkable for a house this old. But that black mastic, oh my. And then there’s the insulation. One summer in the sixties, I remember my grandparents being excited about just having had this installed. A contractor cut knotholes around the exterior, and blew Zonolite (vermiculite) into the house. This horrible substance was touted as a great way to insulate the houses in this area. It was from a now-closed mine in Libby, Montana. A superfund site. There was a class-action settlement many years later. I got authorization to claim $4000, and I still could do that, but hiring a certified crew for any remediation work would cost a lot more by a longshot. As the homeowner, I could do the work myself. Seriously, that is not going to happen. As long as I don’t disturb any toxic substances, I can make do. So that’s what I am doing. Making do.

I look longingly online at beautiful showerheads that promise a selectable perfect-pressure flow, lit by a soothing palette of colors. With a nice handheld attachment. I’d need a custom-machined adapter of some kind because this one cannot be removed without cutting it off and replacing the pipe with new threads. Since all the water pipes in the house are exposed, this shouldn’t be too hard, but I’m not a plumber. Plumbers are hard to come by in these parts. Most people here try to do their own work. And learn the hard way what not to do. I’m not going to tempt fate. Even if I could find some encouraging You Tube tutorials, I don’t have the tools.

The bathroom door doesn’t fit anymore because of the floor-slope situation. There are big gaps top and bottom and on the sides of the door. It’s homemade out of beadboard. When I was a child visiting here in the summers, it latched. Recently I screwed in a hook and eye to hold it shut to make guests more comfortable. A friend sawed off some of the sides and bottom to make it closeable; too much, unfortunately. So now there are gaps. The hook and eye are too high for the grandkids to use, but at this stage they’re not too picky about privacy. They’re not due for another visit till next summer, so I’m not going to sweat it.

The main part was built as a small one-story farmhouse in about 1916 as far as I can tell. My dad was born in 1913, and the two sets of grandparents and his parents moved to Montana from Osakis, Minnesota when he was very young. More research is needed because the house only shows up in the county courthouse records starting in 1920 – the year it was moved into town from the homestead property, the latter later given up for taxes. Sometime after the building was moved into town, by mules (so I was told), a second story for sleeping, a kitchen, and front and back porches were added on. Hence, the seams. These are now separating as the unstable gumbo underneath shifts, buckles, cracks, and slopes. I can roll a can across the kitchen or out the back door just by setting it on the floor. Cheap amusement.

Here’s my plan: work toward my goals room by room, starting with the bathroom. In the early 1930s, a bathroom was added to the back porch. When the indoor plumbing was first installed, it was probably a stretch to trust it. When I was a kid in the 1950s there was still an outhouse in the yard. I thought it was quite a novelty, something I could brag about to my friends back home in the city. Believe me, there have been many dismal days and nights when I have wished that primitive privy was standing and functional. Portable potties are not a good substitute unless you’re camping. Sometimes I feel like I am. When any of the indoor systems stop working, I become an in-town boondocker. Back to nature is one thing. Living off-grid has always appealed to me. But surviving inside a dysfunctional house that depends on archaic infrastructure to deliver the bare necessities – forget about amenities – that, my friends, is a challenge.

The bathroom is little more than a water closet, 75 inches long by 32 inches wide. Toilet, small shower. Overhead lightbulb. No sink. The only code it would pass would be some mythical frontier days Code of the West. That’s assuming cowboys and townsfolk were much smaller in stature back then. It’s become pretty clear that this house was never intended to last 100 years.

Talking about people being generally bigger now than in the early part of the 20^th century, I have to walk upstairs sideways. I’m not a large person, but my 7-1/2 size shoes just barely fit going forward on the stairs. For safety, I walk at an angle as I grab the handrail which stops shy of the last two steps on either end. But I digress.

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