Author Archives: Ross Chapin

Before a Great Migration

As I fly back to Minnesota to be with my family for Thanksgiving, I think about looking out on the lake I grew up next to. At this time of year, the last leaves have fallen, the temperatures drop into the 20s and everyone is anticipating the first ice on the lake. Overhead, geese are flying south.

I recall a story about their annual migration …

Imagine you’re a Canada goose swimming about in a marsh in a northern lake. It’s been a beautiful summer. You’ve been enjoying eating on minnows, insects, seaweed and grasses. The days are getting shorter, though, and you’re not happy about that. In fact, with each passing day, you’re feeling fidgety, even anxious. You notice your brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles are all a bit edgy. You don’t know want to do. The marsh is such a fine place. All your friends are here. The food is good. But you’ve got this nagging urge for a change of scene. You need to leave. At one point this feeling of agitation overwhelms you … you open your wings and take flight! Now, up in the air, you realize that everyone in your family had the same feeling and are flying next to you. In fact, the whole neighborhood, no, the whole town has taken flight simultaneously and you’re all flying in the same direction! You’re not alone!

This amazing phenomenon is repeated every year by migrating birds all over the world. Germans have a term for the feeling of agitation and restlessness these birds display prior to a great migration: zugenruhe. Jason McLennan, an architect and founder of Living Future Institute, wrote a book by this title, suggesting that humanity is experiencing our own zugenruhe moment. A lot of us are feeling agitated. Whether it’s the increasing divide between red and blue, the unrest in the Middle East and Europe, or the reports of the Greenland ice melt, something is up! It’s about time to act. But where is our south?

I imagine that the urge to fly — now! and in that direction! — feels like an itch, a very personal impulse. Yet the moment of taking off is a collective action of the entire flock. There is no confusion — acting on self-interest WHILE acting in consort with the whole. It’s a paradox.

If only we were geese. We’re wired to act more out of self-interest and less on behalf of the whole. How deeply is this outlook rooted in our nature? Can we act as individuals AND with the whole of our human community in a collective migration toward a more equitable and sustainable living world? The agitation of zugenruhe is felt all around. How can we know the moment to act? How do we know which way to go?

A 4-Micro-Unit House

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Continuing the small house thread from our last post, we’ve been brainstorming into how tiny houses (< 350 SF) may be a viable housing option. Rather than being low-profile ‘outlaw’ houses, lets bring them into the neighborhood. Let them stand tall as beautiful homes for 20-Somethings, Active (Older) Singles, and even our Elders.

Here’s a 4-micro-unit house with shared kitchen/living/dining …

Each studio unit is 320 square feet, with their own exterior door opening out to a large south facing covered porch. The micro units have a kitchenette with undercounter fridge and small sink, but no stove. Residents can come together for shared meals, movie nights and hangout in the Commons Room. Because there is only one kitchen, the units would be considered as bedroom suites within one single house, permitted on a single-family residential lot. The total size of the house is 1808 square feet.

What do you think? Would this be a viable development model? Would it work as a rental? For sale via coop ownership? Would it be too much of a hassle, or a welcome alternative?

A Simple Self-Closing Gate

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Langley, a rural town of 1100 people on Whidbey Island, Washington, hosts a robust population of rabbits that have attracted national news. The deer population may not be as noteworthy, but they are common sight around town nibbling apples from trees and grazing lawns. Gardeners erect seven-foot-high fences to keep them out.

When we created Fifth Street Commons, a multi-generational community of 16 households, residents were all for vegetable gardens, fruit trees and flowers (deer’s delight!), which meant tall fences were needed all around, as well as gates between the parking area and the commons.

Fence solutions are straight forward, but gates pose numerous challenges: they are a hassle to navigate while carrying bags; they should open both ways for ease of movement; they should be self-closing if possible (otherwise, you can bet they will be left open just when deer make their rounds); and because they are used every day to welcome residents and guests, they should be beautiful.

In our case, we had an additional factor: the gates would have to span across existing five-foot-wide concrete walkways, which seemed awkwardly wide. As we explored solutions, we thought into ways to reduce the gate width: cutting a hole in the concrete to place a gatepost for a narrower opening (complicated and messy); fabricating a metal extension to a narrower pivot point (complicated); or letting go of a narrower gate and just living with the width as it is.

We went to the hardware store to look at two-way latches and spring closers (not satisfying). Online searching didn’t help much.

My friend Jay Davenny made a sketch of a gate he’d seen that pivoted at about the 1/3 point of a gate. It had a cord attached to the back edge of the gate that went over or through a side post to a counter-weight, which somehow pulled the gate shut. Seemed intriguing. I sketched my own versions trying to understand the details.

JR Fulton, my partner on FSC, said that he had some surplus solid stainless steel bars that we might use for the pivot axis. The possibility of an elegant solution seemed to be getting warmer.

I drew a 3-D SketchUp model to visualize the gate design and details.

I searched online hardware suppliers and machine shop outlets for a rotating bearing base to receive the steel bar and anchor it into the concrete. I’d never seen such a thing, but it had to exist! It needed to fit the bar exactly. Tenacity and persistence drove me to keep searching. I’m a little embarrassed to say how long I stayed at it, but in the end, I found the precise item: a “1.25-inch three-bolt flange bearing” for $15.67 (cheaper in bulk).

For the cord system, I figured we could run the line directly through the side post at the narrow end of the gate, but we needed some kind of gasket or grommet to reduce friction as the line pulled one way then the other at the opening. More searching. At this point, I was getting very familiar with marine rigging suppliers. I found something called a “fairlead thru-deck bushing” to do the trick. And at the local hardware story I found a plastic pipe clamp to guide the line out and down on the far side of the post, reducing the angle of pull on the opening.

So far, so good. We set out to construct the gate, starting first with 4×4 pressure-treated posts and top beam. This wood isn’t the most aesthetic choice, but it resists rot and is reasonably priced. The wood for the gate frame is made with cedar. We located the position for the pivot bar base, drilled holes in the concrete to receive the flange bolts and set the mechanism in place with epoxy. We left it to harden overnight, and went on to securing the pivot bar to the gate frame and drilling a hole in the overhead beam to receive the top end of the bar.

The idea for the self-closing action of the gate is that a counter weight attached to a cord through the post to the short end of the gate would pull it to a closed position from both directions. For the weight, I found an iron bar used in old-style single-hung windows at the local recycling center.

The moment of truth came when we put all the elements together. Would it work? … Well, sort of. The counterweight was way too heavy, causing a lot of effort to push the gate open. We replaced it with a 3-lb demolition hammer, which made the push easier, but it was still too heavy. A carpenter’s hammer was not heavy enough, but with it we realized that the sweet spot was close.

Our Goldilocks solution came from the recycle bin: a plastic soda bottle, filled with water. We drilled a hole through the cap, ran the cord through it, tied a knot and put the cap back on. With a bit of trial and error we found just the right amount of water as a counterweight to gently pull the gate closed and provide light resistance in opening. Voila! Simple, a pleasure to use, and in it’s own way, beautiful.

— Ross Chapin

Better Together: Small House Living Thrives in a Community

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Small houses are getting a lot of press days. They are capturing our imagination, teasing our nesting instinct, and enticing us to consider the possibility of living with a smaller mortgage or less rent. Squeezed by the economy and a monoculture housing market, millennials, singles, empty nesters, and elders are thinking small is the answer—or, at least, that “not so big” is key. Small-house advocates are helping us refine how we can live large in small spaces, with clever fold-down beds, under-stair storage, niches, and alcoves.

Perfecting the small house, however, isn’t enough.

Ben Brown of PlaceMakers, who lived in a 308-square-foot Katrina Cottage, concluded that small house living takes a town. He says that “the smaller the nest, the bigger the balancing need for community.” With slightly snug houses, cabin fever can set in without porches and gardens to step out onto, or the park at the end of the block, or the local coffee house—places to be around others with little effort.

Plunked down in the midst of a subdivision of McMansions tied to the wider world by connector streets, a Katrina Cottage would seem absurd. There would be few neighbors around to chat with, since most of their needs are met behind their grand doors.

Context is everything: a small house is better with the companionship of other neighborly houses (like those with porches) within range of great public places to go to—preferably by foot or on a bike.

Water Dancing on the Ceiling

Serving Ourselves / Serving the Whole

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When building a wall to buffer their house from the public sidewalk, these owners incorporated a bench for passersby to sit on.

I had an engaging conversation recently with Sally Fox, a podcaster and leadership consultant, covering a range of big ideas. We talked about zugenruhe moments of restlessness, finding our passion and right work, navigating cultural shifts, the Beauty Mind and our antenna for sweet spots, the makeup of thriving communities, Christopher Alexander’s theories about wholeness, and more.

As it emerged, the theme came to be about the paradox between serving ourselves while serving the larger whole. It’s a both/and proposition. As we feather our own nest (or as designers, serve our client’s needs and desires), how is it that we connect and contribute to making the surrounding neighborhood better/richer/more alive? It’s tempting to take a position of hunkering into a view that says, “I’ve got property rights. I can do whatever is allowed by law.” That may be so, but then we’re left with disconnected patchworks of personal compounds.

The principle of Site Repair urges us to leave the most beautiful places alone and to build on the ugliest, thereby “mending a rend in the existing cloth”.

As I write this, I’m reminded of Pattern 104 Site Repair, from Alexander’s A Pattern Language. When choosing a site for a house, or any building for that matter, it seems natural to locate it in the most beautiful spot, with the best view, the healthiest trees and easiest slope to work with. From an individual perspective, this is the most obvious and sensible thing to do. But from a wider view, this site has a condition of ecological health and wholeness. Building in this location will diminish this health, while leaving other not-so-nice parts of the site unchanged. Will there be money and energy available to clean up the corner where old building materials are buried, or cultivate the stony slope where no plants are growing? And what about the small beautiful things that don’t register on a site survey—trillium flowers covering the forest understory in spring, the favorite path meandering across the meadow, the weathered paint on the old barn? These precious details are expressions of the wholeness of a place that take many seasons to mature, and that are easily lost in the shuffle of building. Alexander urges us to leave the most healthy places alone, and to “treat every act of building as an opportunity to mend some rend in the existing cloth, (thereby making) the ugliest and least healthy parts of the environment more healthy.” This is the principle of site repair.

In the context of our conversation, efforts to make something better for ourselves can be opportunities to make the larger world a better place.

The conversation is in two parts. Enjoy a listen!

—Ross Chapin

Pocket Neighborhoods for Special Niches

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Luna Azul community for adults with disabilities features two pocket neighborhood clusters connected to the Center House with a linear walkway.

Here is a community designed to provide safe and permanent housing for adults with intellectual, developmental and acquired disabilities. Over the years we’ve helped create pocket neighborhoods for singles and empty nesters, market-rate multi-generational buyers and folks needing affordable housing. When developer Mark Roth approached us about creating a safe and supportive pocket neighborhood for disabled adults like his daughter, we were all for it. “Few options exist today for adults with disabilities, or for their families,” says Roth. “Pocket neighborhoods are a great concept and already popular, especially among adults seeking greater energy efficiencies in their homes and more intimate community living and support systems.”

Builder Online posted an article with more background and information on Luna Azul. Listen to an NPR story here, and visit the Luna Azul website. The first phase is complete.

The site Roth has chosen is in the Phoenix metro area—a very different climate condition and cultural heritage than most sites we work with. For this, we’ve developed vernacular design elements and materials familiar with the region. We’re incorporating deep arcades, trellised ramadas and fountains. Fundamentally, though, the community includes many of the design bones we’ve used in virtually all of our pocket neighborhoods: small clusters, shared commons at the heart, corralled cars, layers of personal space, room-sized front porch, private back yard, nested houses, and more.

Holding the center between two clustered pocket neighborhoods (30 dwellings total) is the Center House, with community gathering spaces, exercise center, offices, and guest spaces. In the courtyard will be a pool and patio, covered outdoor room with a fireplace, and lawn.

Living in this community will be some residents who, because of their disabilities, are prone to wander. For this reason, there is a complete perimeter wall for their safety. We generally don’t like gated communities; however, in this case, it’s required. A guest coming to visit will first see the front of the two-story Center House—appearing like a gracious larger home. It is decidedly non-institutional. Cars tuck into a small lot shielded with a landscaped berm. To the side, in as non-descript manor as possible, a drive angles off to a gate. On the looped drive are parallel, pull-in and carport parking spaces for residents’ families, guests and service providers.

The housing clusters, while similar, are laid out with differentiating elements. For spatial clarity, especially for residents with autism, a central linear walkway ties the pocket neighborhoods through the Center House.

—Ross Chapin

Cohousing vs Pocket Neighborhoods – What’s the Difference?

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Cohousing communities are intentional by nature, with residents purposely coming together around shared values and commitments. In Pocket Neighborhoods, a sense of community may arise naturally among neighbors by the fact of living around a commons, and may be augmented with more intention.
(left: Petaluma Avenue Cohousing /photo by Grace Kim; right: Greenwood Avenue Cottages /photo by Karen DeLucas)

Cohousing has been taking hold across North America and around the world, offering an enticing option for people wanting to live in a more closely knit community. Some even call it a movement. Pocket Neighborhoods are being tossed around as a viable housing approach within existing neighborhoods, as well as sub-neighborhoods within larger new developments. Both foster a sense of community by design; but what’s the difference between the two?

Pocket neighborhoods, by our definition, are clusters of nearby neighbors around a shared commons of some sort — micro-neighborhoods with a scale of sociability. They are the physical arrangements of houses or apartments, or even trailers, designed to foster neighborly interactions while preserving personal privacy. A sense of community may arise naturally (more or less) among its residents by the fact that everyone lives around a commons.

In cohousing, community is intentional. Future residents purposely come together around clearly defined shared values and visions, and then plan and build the physical environment*, and manage the community once it is built. Residents are expected to take part in regular team-cooked meals, be on committees and engage in shared responsibilities. Decisions and disputes are handled as much as possible through consensus. Social life of the residents is often centered among members of the community.

A classic cottage courtyard pocket neighborhood tucked behind two existing houses on a town street.

All during the research and writing of my book, I asked, ‘what is the right size of a pocket neighborhood?’ I was aware that cohousing communities typically have 20–30 households, a number that advocates believe to be optimum – large enough to have a diversity of residents and social coherence, yet not too large where decision-making becomes cumbersome. My sense was that pocket neighborhoods were smaller – with 6–10 households (more or less), which is a natural scale of sociability among humans. These are one’s closest neighbors who relate informally during the comings and goings of daily activity. Then I recognized that most (but not all) cohousing communities are configured with a series of pocket neighborhood-like clusters. The larger community is an aggregate of smaller subgroups. My hunch is that this was design by common sense, rather than an intentional social configuration.

Pocket Neighborhood clusters within a cohousing community.

Pocket neighborhoods that were not originally organized as cohousing communities sometimes become more cohousing-like by instigating regular shared meals, garden work parties, social events, and decision-making and dispute resolution practices.

Cohousing, with it’s larger size and it’s emphasis on community, will usually have a large (3000–5000 SF) common house with a commercial kitchen, community dining room, living room, guest rooms, children’s playrooms, workshop, exercise gym, and more.

Cohousing common houses have extensive spaces and amenities to serve the community.
(Common House at Nevada City Cohousing)

Pocket neighborhoods initiated by developers tend to have modest community facilities, but they have at least a place where nearby neighbors can come together – such as a picnic shelter or open-air barbecue. If budgets allow, they may have a four-season community room with a kitchen and bathroom, and perhaps a guest room. They almost always have a shared toolshed.

Pocket neighborhoods have more modest common gathering spaces, such as a community room or outdoor fireplace. (left: Salish Pond Cottages; right: Seabrook)

Whether a pocket neighborhood stands on its own, or is a sub-cluster of a larger cohousing community, the social size of the cluster is what they are about. Of course, other patterns factor in to their design, but their essential ingredient is the particular scale at which neighborly relations tend to blossom.

Hope this helps. Please chime in with your perspective and experience.

—Ross Chapin

*post script: the US Cohousing Association recently updated their definition of cohousing, loosening the requirement that residents be involved in planning their communities to use the term “cohousing”. A common house is not a requirement either, though there is an expectation to have ample common amenities.

A Camp for Life-Long Children

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I am engaging in a lively Facebook conversation with friends from high school. The thread stemmed from one of those alluring photos of a row of tiny houses for a group of friends. One of my classmates asked, half jokingly, if anyone knew of a spot with a warm climate (we’re from Minnesota) where we might do it. As the conversation went on, I asked if they imagined this to be a cluster of cabins for occasional long weekend retreats, or a place to retire to. And (nudging a more serious question), if they were serious, then when would they imagine? The answer from one: full time, in three years.

In response, I’m pulling up a story from my Pocket Neighborhoods book about a group of friends who did just that …

The camp began as an idea among friends as a place to retire.

It started like so many close friends who’ve said, “Imagine us all growing old together!” Except in this case, these friends acted on their dream. In 1987, seven households bought 20 acres of rural land in Northern California, hired a renowned architect from Berkeley, and built a collective house to retire in.

Five members of the seven households trace their friendships to the early 1960s in southern California, where they organized a co-operative nursery school for their children. The families grew close as they vacationed together, saw their children off to college, and celebrated weddings, births, and deaths. “Our kids grew up together, knowing each other like cousins,” says Jill Myers. “When we thought about retirement, we wanted this family sense of intimacy to continue, especially for our grandchildren.”

Wide covered porches of the Common House accommodate outdoor dining and chairs for conversation, and broad steps cascading down to the lawn make ideal seating for grandchildrens talent shows.

The group imagined a kind of year-round summer camp with an open invitation to their children’s families and friends. Laura Hartman and David Kau of Fernau+Hartman Architects helped develop the camp theme into a design with informal and spirited buildings rather than standard fare housing.

Seven households live together in four buildings that form a wide V-shaped compound facing a sunny clearing.

Four colorful buildings—raised on stilts above the flood plain—form a wide V-shaped compound embracing a sunny clearing in the Redwood forest. Residents pass from one building to the next via connecting pergolas and covered walkways. Is this a hardship during inclement weather? “It’s never been an issue,” replies Myers. “If it’s raining hard, we use the dash method!” During warm weather, living space expands out to covered porches for outdoor dining and overflow sleeping, complete with hooks for hammocks. And when grandkids and their friends come for the annual Summer Camp, the broad steps that cascade from the deck make ideal seating to watch their talent show.

Four couples and three single women have their own apartments and share a common kitchen/dining/living area, library, and laundry-sewing room. Their private units have a large bedroom, sitting room, and loft, but no kitchen.

All the buildiings are raised up on stilts to be above the flood plane of a nearby stream. The forms of the buildings are fixed on the courtyard side, however, residents can opt to extend their units on the back side, expressed by different accent colors and materials.

All the buildings are raised up on stilts to be above the flood plane of a nearby stream. The forms of the buildings are fixed on the courtyard side, however, residents can opt to extend their units on the back side, expressed by different accent colors and materials.

Dinners are shared in camp-style fashion, with residents fending for breakfast and lunch on their own. The 15-ft. x18-ft. common kitchen holds nine in a squeeze, working at a commercial-style stove, two sinks, counters, and baking area. A saddlebag eating nook and spacious pantry supplement the space.

Meals are made in the compounds only kitchen. Breakfast and lunch are “on your own”, whereas dinners are prepared by rotating cooking teams and served “sit down” to the whole family of friends.

Meals are laissez faire. As one resident describes their arrangement, “While the kitchen is communal, no one is required to cook, or even eat with the group. ‘Those who like to cook, cook; those who only like to eat, eat,’”. There is a caveat to this arrangement, however. If you eat and don’t cook, you have to clean up.

Contingencies have been considered for an elevator and ramps to allow for easier accessibility, but the group has not yet felt the need to act on these plans. Their first defense against infirmity is “being young at heart.”

Ross Chapin Architects

Innovative Neighborhood Design

Author Archives: Ross Chapin

A Simple Self-Closing Gate

Water Dancing on the Ceiling

Serving Ourselves / Serving the Whole

Pocket Neighborhoods for Special Niches

Cohousing vs Pocket Neighborhoods – What’s the Difference?

A Camp for Life-Long Children