When I first built my tiny house, I had this idea that people would use my bed like a couch. I had a drop-loft installed to make an upstairs study, under which we placed a sleeping cubby. Large rolling drawers held my off-season clothing and any other storage items. With a small side table and a little chair, I felt the area could double as a parlor.
Not so. I learned that only children and gay couples felt comfortable sitting on my bed, even neatly made with many pillows along the back wall. While I know a lot of gay couples and a fair number of children, I wanted everyone to feel at ease. I also discovered that I craved a private space. So I sacrificed my writing loft and had a carpenter tear out the bed.
We undertook that project four years ago. Since then, I have struggled to find a good configuration for my new sitting room. One has to duck to clear the loft; but once inside and seated, people seemed to accept the space, except the accommodations. I tried a trio of love seats and a few different chairs, each slightly different and purchased secondhand. Their bulk and depth forced knees to touch mid-room no matter how I turned them. I kept experimenting, having chosen not to utilize the built-in benches common to most tiny houses. I wanted “real” furniture.
Along the way, I acquired new items to compliment what I already owned. With each experimental configuration, the table that came from home, the wooden child’s dresser made by my ex-husband’s first wife’s grandfather, and my angel shelves, all found various places. I rotated, shifted, dusted, decorated. I would stand on the perimeter, turning my head this way and that. I sat in each chair, and on the stools. At 5-2, I can get into the space without much trouble, but could a taller person? Would they feel claustrophobic?
Would I even get enough visitors, after seven years as a California resident, to make the effort meaningful?
Home means comfort to me, safety, peace, and quiet. If people do stop by, for a cup of tea or a glass of wine, I want these sensations to envelope them. Let us sit together, even if in silence. Let the ills of the world not bother us. Do not open the door to sorrow.
The sitting room began to coalesce when my friend Tim Anderson swapped a gold chair for an antique platform rocker that I quite liked but which took too much space. Then my second husband passed away, and left me the Amish table that he swore I married him to acquire. I brought a rocker from my porch to save it from the winter’s rain. A certain symbiosis shimmered in the little cave.
My friend Michelle hung the ex’s ex’s grandfather’s cabinet on the wall. I got a new laundry hamper that almost resembles a backrest. I found a lovely pillow in my guest sleeping loft and unfolded the spare wooden chair. Eventually, I would acquire a blue velvet cushion for the rocker; but even so, it seemed inviting.
As time goes by, I find myself more drawn to these serene vignettes. I leave the drama of a chaotic life behind me. I sit in Tim’s chair and spread my little brother’s afghan over my lap. Our Grandma Corley made one for each of us; I keep mine in the cedar chest. My feet rest on the footstool that once belonged to my great-grandmother whose name I bear. In this calm pose, I let myself drift to sleep.
Mugwumpishly tendered,
Corinne Corley
The Missouri Mugwump®
If you want to see one of my goofy videos, this one about how I assembled the sitting room, click here.
