Leaks, leaks, leaks.

September 13, Lake in the Hills.

Fierce rain all night. The trailer's still leaking. No, the trailer is leaking in new places (upper left-hand corner kitchen cabinet,) although not so new, as cracked ceiling wallpaper has testified all along.
The guy who sold me the trailer said the rumpled wood on the counter where I'm writing this now was not damaged by a water leak but by a wet towel, clearly showing how inventive people get when trying to sell you something. Above the counter the wood of the upper cabinet also showed clear signs of water damage, leading to the million-dollar question: how would a wet towel lay on a vertical surface? (sounds like a zen question.) Then there were water marks on the ceiling, which came to life in a California downpour, the above-mentioned kitchen cabinets marks, the wall marks around the central window, the wall marks above the rear window, etc.
I don't regret for a second having purchased the trailer, as it paid itself off in only a year of not paying Southern California rent, not to mention that I got to live in a trailer park in a rough part of Riverside going by the delicious name of Rubidoux thereby meeting some fascinatingly peculiar people you wouldn't want to miss.
The trailer is so much my home now, fifties-style linoleum, red paint and all, that I can't even think of selling it - but if I did, there'd be a likely culprit in my sales pitch: the wet diaper.