Small Living Journal

It was during the later 1990’s when I remember seeing the shelves of local bookstores begin to fill up with books on voluntary simplicity. At the time, I was too busy raising my two young sons to pay much attention to the contemporary writing on the topic, but I was aware of the fact that my own life was not getting any simpler. I didn’t buy the books and I didn’t simplify my life in the “10 Easy Steps” prescribed by countless authors on the topic. My experience with “downsizing” was much more expedient – and much more familiar to many Americans than the courses of action outlined in the self-help literature. It went something like this.

“A few months ago I warned you that my key performance measures indicate your failure to step up to the plate and think outside the box. I asked you to drink from the fire hose, start leveraging your core competencies, and get on the same page with the paradigm shift that you’ve thus far failed to recognize in this marriage.

“In response to your poor performance,  I’ve stepped up my own customer relationship marketing efforts. The feedback from brain dumps with my colleagues has resulted in a decision to redeploy you in favor of a new, highly scalable enterprise solution. Trust me. What I’m talking about is a win-win, organically derived value proposition.

“As of today, your role in this marriage has been outsourced.  No need to circle back to me on this one. We’re taking the conversation offline for good. You’ve been downsized. Got it?”

Okay, so I’m paraphrasing a bit, but my former business/marriage partner has a penchant for the corporate-speak buzzword mumbo jumbo that makes me cringe. Whatever the exact words were, I was given the matrimonial pink slip.

I’ve since done a bit of research on the prescribed techniques for simplifying one’s life. A quick review of the index in “The Simple Living Guide” yields results for “dating” and “romance,” but I couldn’t find a chapter on “divorce”. Post-marital acrimony may not be good subject matter for selling books on how to achieve the joys of a simple life, but I’m living proof that it’s a highly effective method for shedding a few pounds. After handing over the balance of my bank accounts to a lawyer, I found myself nearly broke and very much homeless. Life immediately became simplified (in the material sense). All it took was the stroke of a judge’s pen.

After the edict was issued from management (family court), I packed my personal belongings in a cardboard box and made my way to the front door – “redeployment” complete and ready for the next adventure.

To read more of Kevin’s small home adventures, visit his blog, “Building Gypsy Rose .”

“I want to be rich – REALLY RICH! – and you’re not getting me there!”

Those words, offered among the parting shots delivered by my former bride, marked the beginning of a period of enormous discovery and rediscovery. Discovery of one of the fastest methods of shedding material possessions known to man, and rediscovery of deeply held core values that had been slipping slowly into the background over sixteen years of an ill-fated marriage.

While I would not recommend divorce as a preferred method for simplifying one’s life – and certainly not a pleasant one – it can be one of most strictly enforced and quickest ways to shed at least half of one’s material possessions. In my case, the script came straight from the 1989 comedy, “The War of the Roses,” in which Oliver Rose (Michael Douglas) and Barbara Rose (Kathleen Turner) each stand their ground in a winner-take-all battle over the marital home. Danny DeVito directed the movie and played the part of the lawyer, Gavin D’Amato, whose memorable line resonates in the not-so-hilarious real-life script.

“There is no winning! Only degrees of losing!”

So, now what? Prior to the unexpected demise of our marriage, my wife and I had been working toward the previously agreed upon goal to take at least a year away from the work-a-day world, buy a cruising sailboat and take our two young sons on a pre-adolescent adventure of a lifetime through warm Caribbean waters. 2005 was to have been the year that we set sail. Instead, it was the year in which the divorce became final.

Faced with no home and a housing market that was still climbing beyond values that made sense in any economic argument, I decided to forge ahead with the dream of making my home aboard a boat. My city of residence for the past twenty years, Burlington, Vermont, lies on the eastern shores of the 120-mile-long Lake Champlain. With Adirondack and Green Mountain backdrops viewed from a thriving waterfront the sailboat became a very affordable option for once again owning a home in the community. I would not be setting sail for Dominica any time soon, but my boys would see that Dad had, in part, held on to the dream.

My search for a floating home covered the eastern seaboard from Maine to Virginia. When it came time to draw up a contract, I’d settled on a Pacific Seacraft Crealock 34, Raven, that I’d found along the Connecticut shores of Long Island Sound, not far from the home of my close friend of nearly 30 years, Marion.

With no more than 24 hours to prepare the boat, Marion and I set out from Five Mile Creek in Rowayton, Connecticut in a strengthening nor’easter for the 300 mile journey north to Vermont. We sailed my new home west to Manhattan, around the southern tip of the city, then up the historic Hudson River and through the locks of the Champlain Canal. Five days later we arrived on Lake Champlain. It was early June of 2005.

It took me no time at all to adapt to the new floating home. Cruising sailboats have been evolving for hundreds of years and Bill Crealock’s designs have amassed the learnings of the centuries into a highly efficient use of space. Berths (bedrooms) for six, dining space for the same, a U-shaped galley (kitchen), a nav station (office), a head (bathroom) that doubles as a shower stall, and a cockpit (porch) with views beyond compare. All for about a third of the average price of a Burlington home. What else could I need?

In the excitement of moving ahead with plans to live aboard a boat, I’d given some thought to the Vermont winters that I’ve known all my life, but I figured I’d cross that bridge (so to speak) when I came to it. After a glorious first summer aboard Raven I finally put her “on the hard” a few days before Thanksgiving and was forced to give more than passing thought to a winter domicile. “Ice out” does not typically occur until early or mid April. I needed a place to live on land for at least five months.

Family and friends offered what they had in the way of weekend berths during the time I spent with my children but it was the welcome Connecticut home of Marion to which I retreated for the days in between. I was extremely grateful for Marion’s generosity, but I knew that a more permanent solution was needed.

I was lost in thought on one of the 5-hour drives back to Vermont when it came to me. I called Marion excitedly to share my idea.

“What I’m looking for is a home in Burlington for the five months each year that Raven is on the hard.”

“Right,” Marion agreed.

“You’re looking for a way to spend summer weekends on your land in Tunbridge [Vermont].”

“Right.”

“Well, how about if we build a house on wheels? We’ll site it on your land in the summer and then find a place to park it in Burlington for the winter!”

“Great idea!”

I was bubbling over with enthusiasm and already beginning to work on the design in my head. With a background as a mariner, I decided that this home was to have a name as is the tradition with boats. Marion and I agreed to call her Gypsy Rose. A new adventure had begun.

Now, earlier in this story, I mentioned that my divorce opened the door to rediscovery. Emerging from the wreckage of a very difficult time I was given a tremendous gift in the opportunity to realign my life with some deeply held values. It deserves a moment’s elaboration as those values are at the heart of my small home story.

I grew up in rural Vermont in a time of great social unrest. Peace, love, dove. Question authority. Love Mother Earth. Vietnam. Through it all, I came to understand that our corporate controlled consumer-based culture in the United States was on a collision course with the needs of a rapidly growing world population.

In college, I studied natural resource economics and natural resource planning. After graduation I married and worked for 10 years as a planner for the City of Burlington before putting my energies into the sea kayak touring business that I own today. In the interest of marital compromise, however, I found myself setting aside many of the ideals in the pursuit of bigger, better, and more.

Less than a year before the marriage began to unravel I was jolted back to the truths I’d learned in my youth. It came while I was leading a group of University of Vermont students on a sea kayaking adventure on the Mexico / Belize border. At the end of a day of paddling and snorkeling on the barrier reef, we learned that the United States had begun the bombing of Baghdad. I didn’t for a minute believe what we had been told about WMD’s or the connections between 911 and those in power in Iraq. Clearly, this was a war about oil and an ill-fated U.S. initiative to secure our energy future.

I have two young sons. Iraq is their Vietnam. Despite assurances that victory would be attained in a matter of months, history and the realities of the situation said otherwise. As I watched those early images of “Shock and Awe,” I knew that we were in for a long, difficult confrontation. I became determined that my sons would not fight a war for oil, but I also knew that radical changes were necessary to minimize my own participation in the demand for global natural resources.

My divorce became the catalyst that allowed me to respond quickly to that new challenge. Along the way I’ve discovered that the real story of my new resolve has not been one of sacrifice and hardship, however. It has become a tale of new freedoms and the pursuit of a lifestyle that is not burdened by concerns of keeping up in our growth oriented economy. Today, I can focus on the things that truly make a home without worrying about “curb appeal,” burdensome mortgage payments, resale value, or losing my life’s savings overnight with the vagaries of the housing market.

I think about the final moments in “The War of the Roses.” Oliver and Barbara meet their end when the chandelier that they cling to crashes to the foyer floor in that oversized, overstuffed home. In my story, I’ve chosen to rewrite the script in search of a happier, more fitting future.

To read more of Kevin’s small home adventures, visit his blog, “Building Gypsy Rose .”