The Indefinable Allure of the Teeny Tiny
Once upon a time, we lived in a little tiny trailer. The back yard was the size of many people’s decks–but we had two raised beds in which we grew lettuce and tomatos and clove pinks, a bird house on a pole, a dog house, and enough grass for dog and baby to play on. There was no front yard, but we did have a flower bed (maybe 12″ x 30″). Inside, we had just enough room for the three of us–and never quite enough for all the books.
To this day, Little Sunshine will sometimes say wistfully, “Remember the old, old house? Where I had the drier in my room? I miss that house.” There is something irresistable about teeny-tiny places. Which is why I won’t be able to sleep soundly (not that I would anyway) until I have one of these to call my own. Look at all the floor plans–you’ll want one too. Jay Shafer is a genius.
My sister, the one we call Hoe, has gone furthest down the teeny-tiny road: for a while she was the owner of the Tom Thumb Farm–miniature horses, pygmy fainting goats, bantam chickens and English game hens. She was looking into Highland cattle, but those hairy little guys are spendy. I’m pretty sure there are no miniature sheep, or she’d have had some of them too. My brother-in-law, Handy Andy, built an adorable red barn, about HO scale, for all the wee animals. (This is where I discreetly mention that the farmer was well-suited for her livestock–as Shrek observed of Lord Farquad, “There are those who think little of her.”)
Admit it–in your heart of hearts, it’s not a McMansion you crave. It’s not even Blenheim Palace. It’s Mr. Toad’s gypsy caravan, or Mrs. Underhill’s cottage, or Hunca Munca’s hole, with the stolen cradle full of little mouse babies.