Almost as long as I’ve been in this little house, I’ve made reference to “the palatial estate at Surlywood,” though pretty much everyone knows I live in a little thousand-square-foot house on a quarter of an acre. I’ve never had any particular desire to live in a really huge house not alone, anyway and apparently, with the housing market so soft you could impale it on a stick and roast it over a campfire, the demand for humongous faux châteaux is retreating a bit for all the reasons you might imagine.
Although I hadn’t thought of this one:
Dwellers of small homes know each other. They are more likely, in my unprofessional opinion, to learn to manage the petty slights and annoyances that are part of communal living.
Certainly my own neighborhood seems pretty cohesive. Perhaps it’s just a reflection of the image it conveys: you don’t live here because you have to, or because you think you ought to, but because you want to.
And there’s this:
The bloating of the American house at a time when family size has declined is a cause and result of spiritual shrinkage.
Well, yeah; if we buy lots of stuff to fill whatever emptiness we think we feel, we need a bigger place to put it. (For the first 50 years of my life, I plead guilty.) Eventually, some of us figure out that there are treasures that don’t require storage space.