In 1989, I had the opportunity to fulfill a dream conceived in my days of apartment dwelling in California. There isn’t a much better way in the world to convince one that moving out of the city would be a good plan than living in an apartment complex in the LA basin.

The apartment was in 1975, so the dream was a long time growing, and a lot longer in being fulfilled. My ex-husband and I purchased fifteen acres of unimproved Missouri hillside—a side view of the property resembles a sine wave. It had 3 dry weather streams running across it (that means they were wet when it rained, and dry the rest of the time), and a steep slope at the roadside making access more than a little difficult.

The dream might have gone along a little bit better, had not my grandmother had a stroke that spring. She didn’t want to go into a nursing home, so I spent from April to August attempting to take care of her. I say attempting, because with the best will in the world, by the time I cooked, cleaned, bathed her, made sure everyone had food, I was exhausted—and so were my finances. Hers were also exhausted. Whatever may be said of caring for an invalid, it involves extra linens and pillows, different food stuffs, medicines, and mechanical devices. All of these things have a price tag, and they add up alarmingly.

It is very hard to build a dream home from scrap lumber and green poles. However, by August we had managed an A-frame storage building and a frame shanty with three small rooms. It was blazing hot in the summer months on that hillside, and as autumn came on, it became freezing cold. We were attempting to heat the house with a wood cooking range.

While I was a stay-at-home mother (the first winter), it wasn’t too bad. I understand wood heat—I grew up with it—and I understand how to use it to heat water for cooking, cleaning and bathing. We hauled water from a near-by church, and hoped for a time when we would be able to afford a well.

Times got hard, and my ex developed a wandering eye, wandering hands, and wandering other things—I’m sure you’ve all heard that story before. There came a time when he had to go…no question about it, the end had come—he had to be history. So there I was on 15 acres of only somewhat improved land, no well, a part-time job at minimum wage and three kids to raise—this was just after Christmas. By spring, I had a second full-time job (still at minimum wage), and times were hard, indeed.