Leaks.

March 19, Whitesboro.

The trip over lasted forever, and Dylan and Nicolas didn't like it. The severe weather finally came to an end some time late into the night, it was still raining hard when I woke up at four. My pillow was getting drenched by a steady source of water drops just above my head where Fridman had reconstructed the wall in California (they say water always finds its way in; the crack is most likely in the roof that I sloppily treated with sealant three years ago.) In the afternoon we had found a leak in the center of the trailer, just above where Dylan's train station house usually sits being picked apart by Nicolas. The water was dropping in through the TV antenna crank lever on the ceiling, and I devised a way with recycled rubber bands to hold a plastic cup to the lever to collect the water, as putting the cup on the floor quickly proved a bad idea because of the afore-mentioned 11-month-old fast-not-on-his-feet named Nicolas. It worked.
This morning the skies cleared. It turned cold though, and the wind hasn't let up.