Red River, New Mexico. Think of it as the ultimate downsizing. My wife and I have now spent two long weekends in our 1971 Airstream trailer. In a cabin that measures 20 feet by 7 feet, our aluminum cocoon contains everything needed for daily living. It also opens a radically different perspective on daily living.
We'll get to that, the immaterial perspective, in due course. But let's start with the details of our miniature world.
A couch traverses the front end of the trailer. The kitchen is ever so slightly further back. The stove and sink are on to port, or street side. The refrigerator and storage are to starboard, or curbside.
An aircraft-like bulkhead separates the kitchen/dining/living area just described from the bedroom. It contains a twin bed that extends to ¾, on the curbside. Open boxes below the bed contain our wine cellar, tools, and extra linens. A wardrobe closet and chest are street side.
Just beyond that, separated by another bulkhead, you will find the, ahem, master bath. It contains a toilet and tiny sink. The tiny floor area doubles as a shower, much like the bathrooms on small sailing yachts.
The Airstream is like the classic description of small hotel rooms: So small you have to leave the room to change your mind. But it doesn't feel small, even though both its two occupants are admitted house addicts.
That's not hyperbole. My wife and I love houses. We can't live without them. We can't visit a strange city or place without reading real estate ads. We are so crazy; we could visit Chicago in winter and contemplate buying a condo. Ditto, vacations in Mexico: Gee, wouldn't it be nice to have a place here in (pick one)
(a) San Miguel,
(b) Puerto Vallarta,
(c) Playa Del Carmen.
In fact, we don't spend much money on vacations because we're always in the middle of a remodeling project and it always costs more than we thought it would. Basically, we need help. We need a 12 step program, a Homeowners Anonymous.
I say this freely, without embarrassment, because we're not alone. As Americans, most of us are addicted to our homes. We covet them when we are young. We buy the largest we can possibly afford through our working lives. And we are afraid to leave them when we are old---even when the maintenance is difficult, the expense is a burden, and much of the coveted space is unused.
What amazes us is the pleasure of our small space. We have light on four sides, excluding the skylights. Few rooms in conventional dwellings have that. A laptop with Bose speakers serves as our music and entertainment center. A 1 gig flash-drive brings up hours of additional music each week. A small stack of DVDs will help us catch up on movies. Wireless internet keeps us in touch with the world, without waste paper. A small rack in the living area holds current books.
There is little to take care of and everything we need is at hand. Daily life has suddenly become simple. It's easy to wonder: Why do we let our normal lives become so complicated?
For the first (and probably only) time in our lives we are living in a gated community--- Roadrunner RV Resort provides residents with a temporary gate card. And we are surrounded by beauty that is somewhere between priceless and very pricey.
We are also surrounded by easy community. Without ceremony or much attention to detail, we arrange to cook outdoors and share two dinners with neighbors across the creek. Nearby, three couples from Fort Worth have arrived with eight children and all their assorted equipment--- bicycles, ATVs, and fishing rods. The kids, only yards from their parents, skip stones in the creek. We can't remember how long ago it was possible to arrange impromptu dinners with friends. Definitely years: Maybe decades.
Perhaps, we wonder, it isn't the speed of our lives that makes community so difficult. Maybe it is just the incredible bulk of our possessions and shelter.
On our morning walk, stunned by the beauty of the mountains and the clear blue sky, my wife and I nod experience a simultaneous revelation, a fundamental concept buried under decades of contrary advertising.
It is not necessary to own something to experience it. Some things are better experienced without thought to ownership.------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Personal finance writer Scott Burns is syndicated by Universal Press. His twice weekly column appears in newspapers from Boston to Seattle. He is the Chief Investment Strategist for AssetBuilder, Inc. Readers can register at
www.scottburns.com. Questions/comments can be posted directly. They can also be sent, without registration, to
scott@scottburns.com. Questions of general interest will be answered in future columns and on this blog.
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