Shoes and Strings and Ceiling Wax

Tired.

A presentation of irony:

It is 6:30 in the morning and still dark outside the cabin. There is a stiff, frigid wind bringing in the first snow of the season. It began overnight as a light dusting but has thickened now, and has taken on an icy quality, the flakes stinging as they hit our faces. Inside it is still warm, there is coffee dwindling in cups, and the lights cast a comforting glow out the windows as we finish loading up the truck, drain the water lines, unplug the appliances and put the cabin to bed. At 7:01 we climb in, congratulating ourselves on finally running on time. The moment the truck starts to roll back we know there is something not right, but it takes us the whole length of the drive to figure out that it's a flat. Completely flat. Tire hanging off the rims flat. We sigh, and slowly pull back towards the cabin carefully parking by the outside lights. When we open the door to turn them on though, nothing. Click, nothing. Click click click, nothing. In the five minutes since leaving the power has gone out with the storm. We will do this by flashlight. From behind us we hear the deep voice of our old-man neighbor with whom we share the property. "Welcome to the high desert." He chuckles. "You want me to get the air jack?" 

It was fine. It was fine and easy and quick and dark and very very cold. It was a late start, dirty clothes and stiff fingers. It was fine, and the moment we packed back up to roll out, the power came back on. Welcome to the high desert.

Photograph Courtesy of:

http://www.junk-king.com/locations/coloradosprings/tag/get-rid-of-old-tires/