How I Decided to Build a Tiny House

Reader Contribution by Liz Coakley
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Throughout my twenties, I worked on farms in and around Ithaca, New York. Every morning I’d hop on my bike or into my car, or, in a few ideal situations, walk out my front door, and make my way to the farm. In the evenings, tired and dirty, with a bunch of Swiss chard or a few tomatoes in hand, I’d make my way back home.

Home. Home to an apartment or a shared house or a cabin in the woods. Home to a bedroom and a communal kitchen, a table on the back porch, a hand-pumped well by the front door, a row of peas in the yard, a clothesline. Home to roommates who cook dinner and chat, friends who want to bike to town for a game of cards at a local bar. Home to a roommate who is silent, who talks too much, who I secretly hope is always out. Home to solitude. Home to my patient dog.

2005-2013. Nine years. Twelve homes. Fifteen roommates with fourteen pets.

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