Out of the box
Mobile homes: the linear life
I’ve lived in nine trailer homes in my lifetime. This qualifies me as an expert, according to a chum who often attempts to make me look interesting to the regulars of his Vancouver bar by evoking my history. Oddly enough, all things “trailer trash” acquired a kitschy cachet over a decade ago—something for young urbanites to play with as a fun, provocative way of slumming.
For anyone who’s ever lived in a mobile home, especially a model built in the 1960s or 70s, this is painfully stupid and patronizing, since there’s nothing glamorous, humorous or quaint about the experience. Old-School trailers, especially the ones with pretentious names like Ambassador or Statesman, are constricted shoeboxes with hallways so narrow that any attempt to move in a bed or medium-sized dresser inevitably results in scraped knuckles and abject howls of despair. I call the old architecture “The Cockeyed Dumbbell,” as there’s a sizeable living room/kitchen attached to the smaller “master” bedroom by a thin hallway. Your world is long and cramped, and sometimes oppressive.
Somewhere in the world, perhaps in Italy, there’s the perfect climate for the Old-School trailer. I certainly hope so. This much is clear: the northwest of British Columbia is not the ideal locale. Any structure that is insulated with the worthless type of winter-coat-stuffing that packs the walls of a 60s or 70s trailer is fated to be cold in the winter and hot in the summer.
One of the best ways to cool an old box is to run a “wave” sprinkler on the roof. The best way to heat it is to light a portion of it ablaze. And don’t forget that duct-taping sheets of plastic to the outside of your window frames is better than no storm windows at all.
Many of my first memories—and almost all of the memories I have that are prompted by old photographs—feature trailers. There’s a snapshot of me as a toddler in diapers, cowboy hat and oversized rubber boots, sitting in the grass with an unskirted trailer in the background.
One of the most infamous family stories involves my mom having a conniption one night when a big black bear stood up on its hind legs to peek through one particularly low-set trailer’s kitchen window to watch her do the dishes.
My first solo bachelor pad was a trailer, with the wood stove out in a joey-shack where the only heating it did was theoretical.
Mobile homes have always been there for me—both a blessing and a curse.
Thankfully, two of my three most recent trailers have been New-School. They are wider, longer, more spacious and better outfitted trailers. You won’t find dark faux-wood paneling on their walls. There is no hallway, so claustrophobics don’t have to work themselves into a tizzy just go to wash their hands. Trailers are just better designed now, with forethought—and a modicum of taste.
Of course, mobile homes can be moved, but I’ve encountered very little of this, considering my lengthy history. Obviously, trailers come from somewhere else before they hunker down on their lots, but the only trailers I’ve seen moving down the highway are the nearly windowless ones used for offices at construction sites.
The Family Trailer—one owned by three different members of my clan, and having housed twenty different members—disappeared three years ago, leaving a gloomy, shallow grave.
A colleague came up with a great idea when it was time to build a pre-fab on his property: he advertised that anyone who wanted his Old-School trailer could just come and get it. Farewell Ambassador!
By: steve head
4 November 2010