Friday, April 8, 2011
Hanging By A Thread
Whatever happened to the weather last night I will never know, because after so little sleep since the start of the White Fire I was out like a light. I woke up at 5.30am so stiff and sore I felt like I had gone through the frigid winter again. Even by noon my hips, spine and shoulders were so stiff I could hardly walk.
Even though it's in the 60's, it's windy and pretty depressing.
Someone posted a photo of a home made out of a renovated fire tower that is simply delightful. I can't even manage to get this single wide livable but the fire tower is so gorgeous I couldn't resist dreaming..
This is one of those days you literally chew your lips with frustration. Even with help there really isn't a way to work on the property - which is as well, because I don't have the help I need.
I heard about the diesel Ford350 yesterday, the new owners need to put in a new motor amongst many other repairs. They are looking at a minimum $5,000 repair cost. It somewhat breaks my heart that something that looked so clean and pretty was no longer financially feasible to keep running. I miss it a lot. Work is so much harder - and often impossible - without a hauling truck, but everyone I know who has owned a 2003 diesel powerstroke motor has had the same heartache with them once they pass the 140,000 miles. The warranty on Jan's powerstroke just expired and her repair costs, while under warranty, are terrifying her now that she will have to pay for them.
There is a lot to be said for horse power.
I'm not too sure how I can get the work on my property started, or if I can do it. Emotionally I'm hanging by a thread pretty frightened that I will have to face another winter homeless. I desperately need a miracle. A wondrous miracle.
People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don't even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child -- our own two eyes. All is a miracle. ~ Thich Nhat Hanh