In This Wonky House

When plans fall through

Inspiration comes from everywhere - even the over grouted walls inside the old stone barn

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It was a house built back in the day for hired hands, cowboys and their families who came to work here on my husband’s family ranch. Ranch hands helped with it all back then, calving, branding, cattle drives, fencing, haying, round-ups, feeding, and, in winter, plowing the constantly falling and drifting snow. But time brought change, and the last ranch hand moved out nearly thirty years ago.

The old, low-slung house sits near a trickle of a creek, its wall-eyed windows on one side looking up the coulee toward the ruins of an old stone barn. On another side, its covered porch looks out over a pond. In front, a crooked chimney is kept from blowing away in the wind by a few twists of wire — the cowboy way. From the beginning, the house was one of requirement, of practicality, of utility. It started life small, then grew over time, a couple more bedrooms, a living room, another bathroom, and a generous mudroom, because any useful ranch house has mudroom enough for piles of boots, chaps, slickers, coats, cowboy hats, rancher’s caps, a humming deep freeze, and a warm place to bring in a cold, sick calf.

The wonky house would require our rolled-up sleeves when we arrived, that we knew. Deep cleaning, purging, painting, fixing — lipstick on the pig, you might say. All to be done in the autumn weeks as we lived in our tiny camper right outside the door. With diligence and hoped-for mild weather, we’d be moved in before winter.

It wasn’t long, however, until we discovered deficiencies in the house that quickly piled up to be greater than its worth. All work came to a sudden halt. Clearly, what we’d planned and expected was falling through. And there we were, heavy with the unknown, the season’s clock ticking ever louder over our shoulders. What now? Over days, sleepless nights, and many conversations, we turned over every stone, analyzed things from every angle, considered, then discarded every suggestion, option, and idea.

We needed a place to live. Here. Something that was right for the needs and the time. But how? Where?

Then, a small nudge came, a whisper of an idea: There’s a room, it said to me, The mudroom. It’s part of the house, but removed from its issues. An opportunity, perhaps?

No! Am I kidding me? I responded to myself. NO! That is absolutely crazy! I mean, who lives in a MUDROOM, for Pete’s sake?! I shoved the idea from my mind.

But it kept poking at me, persistently asking why I wouldn’t at least consider. Finally, I grabbed the tape measure, perhaps just to prove the idea wrong. I measured height, width, depth, I noted the size and placement of the window, the doors, and the short hall that leads to a bathroom. I stood in the middle of the room and tapped my finger to my lips, my brain humming. Years of space planning, of projects, of education, and lived experience came together, thrumming past my disgust at the idea like it wasn’t even there.

Turns out, from that 8 x 22 foot room, tumbled a tiny, yet comfortable space plan for two. It had a kitchenette, a bed nook, storage tucked high and low, an antique dining table beneath the window, and Maggie Mae’s orange chair in the corner.

When we left our little house in mid September, I thought we’d be moving into a house more than twice as big, but now, here I was, designing a space that was less than half its size.