Lessons from an Airstream Trailer
The first home I remember was an Airstream trailer – a 1948 Whirlwind – that my parents bought when Dad was still in the Navy. Originally promoted as “land yachts,” Airstreams were designed by the visionary Wally Byam, with futuristic, silver exteriors and elegantly efficient interiors that were appealingly sleek and modern. The company’s ad campaigns touted that Airstream owners could now travel the world while bringing along all the comfort and convenience of home. For my parents, the big adventure was the pride of having a place all their own for the very first time.
Looking through vintage scrapbooks from Midway Island, Maui, Oahu and Pearl Harbor, my guess is that the Navy housing in which we lived before our Airstream never really felt like home. Between the soft suede covers of a “U.S. Navy Log-album,” with its embossed, hand-painted portrait of the U.S.S Lexington, Mom carefully archived her scallop-edged snapshots with black paper corners to match the pages and, in white ink, inscribed charmingly girlish captions such as: “Me and My Darling Hubby,” “Doesn’t Your Heart Just Palpitate,” and “Guess Who? Terly Shemple” under a photo of then-popular Shirley Temple in a Hawaiian shirt and playing a ukulele. These precious family albums attest to happy days, youthful romance, and the delight of using the Pacific Ocean as their personal “Swimming Hole.” Still, once Mom and Dad moved into the Airstream, they never expressed nostalgic yearnings to return to the barracks, or to their never-to-be-forgotten Quonset hut with its dirt floors.
The Airstream was clean and brand new. It had compact but up-to-date kitchen appliances, storage space (under the mattress) for Mom’s hand-stitched quilts and off-season clothes, and — fanciest of all — a custom dressing table with its own little bench. Years later, Mom would recall how content and cozy she felt living there, emphasizing how much she valued having a home that she could keep just the way she liked. And the floors in the Airstream were genuine linoleum!
That little trailer was a place of gratitude, and the memories could not be sweeter.
Mom’s first rule was cleanliness. Shoes were removed at the door and set on washable cotton throw rugs, dirty dishes never cluttered the sink, and the beds would have been made before we woke up if she’d found a way. There was a blend of sure-handed artistry and military discipline in Mom’s style of housekeeping that made it seem as though she had a magic wand. Now, looking back, I’m aware that the magic came from the profound tenderness of her caring.
The second rule: orderliness. We lived by the one-of-each rule. Space was at a premium, so no item had a duplicate; whatever we had, had its place. A nest of three Pyrex mixing bowls was for storing, mixing, warming and serving; the “dining” table collapsed flat against the wall, and when it was unfolded for meals, sewing projects, and card games, we sat on the hide-a-bed or pulled up a one of the two folding chairs stored in the narrow hall closet.
In the airspace above the master bed, Dad suspended a crib for me. I still rue the day I was told that I had outgrown my sky-bed and must move starboard to sleep on that awful hide-a-bed up front. What an unwelcoming gray monster it seemed! Luckily, once I learned to master its daily opening and closings, adjusting didn’t take too long. In a sweeter memory, I see myself perched on the narrow kitchen counter, my feet dangling in the sink, for a bath.
The bathroom itself was an aluminum shower stall just big enough for one adult to stand in, with a tiny corner sink and a toilet that took up nearly all the floor space. Reminiscing with friends, I recently recalled, with delight and some embarrassed laughter, that before my parents could afford to buy a real toilet, we all shared a utility pot – a modest white porcelain number, with a red-rimmed lid, a metal handle… and a rather unfortunate nickname that I’m too embarrassed to mention. Mother emptied it regularly at the communal bathhouse a few doors down.
Remembering our Airstream life, even before indoor plumbing, always makes me smile; partly because it makes me feel a bit of a soldier myself – an authentic Navy brat; and partly because it all felt so right. Long before I heard of the architect Mies van der Rohe, I was being taught that less can be quite enough.
Our yard had the luxury of a wonderful shade tree and was framed by Dad’s white picket fence and delicate beds of marigolds and pansies that Mom planted every spring. A green-striped awning covered the slatted wood deck where my favorite game was riding back and forth on a tin hobbyhorse named Moby. His pedals were so stiff that they were almost impossible to pump (more than just pushing with my legs, I fully stood with each and every stride he took); and after one quick lap down the bumpy deck I’d have to go through the chore of stopping, getting off, turning him around – and then start all over again. But, oh, I loved it, especially in the rain. The awning kept Moby and me dry, and to this day I still can’t imagine music more soothing than the song of raindrops on canvas.
The efficiencies demanded by a house trailer of only 500 square feet never felt like limitations. Instead, they supported the no-nonsense commitment to “quality over quantity” that was the hallmark of my mother’s style throughout her life. She had impeccable taste. She was selective. She knew “you can’t spend a nickel in two places” and saved patiently for what she really wanted.
She was my inspiration.
Life in our Airstream taught me everything I needed to know about designing a good home, and a good life. I learned by example that all the choices we make – at home and everywhere else – should be made and maintained with love. I also learned the power of honest simplicity, and that enough is more than enough: it’s beautiful.