Yesterday was Day One of our home construction. I pick up the phone. It’s Ken, the builder, who is at the site 85 miles away. “Bret,” in his ever-calm tone, “we don’t have any power out here”. I learn they have drilled the holes for the pilings and, “We need to cut some steel, cause I’ve got the cement trucks comin’ later.” I can’t figure out what might have happened. I set the T-pole last week, and it worked fine when we left. My mind races to come up with an answer. He continues, “I’ll get my electrician to come over”. Great. First day and we’re over budget. Like the cartoons, I see the dollar signs flash in front of my eyes, accompanied by that old-timey cash register sound, you know; ka-ching. A short time later Ken calls back. The electrician discovered that the main line is dead. Ken tells me he’s going to another job site. I call the electric Co-op, and Roy in the dispatch office tells me they’ll be out there within the hour. Nearly 60 minutes later Roy calls to say it’s back on: there was a blown fuse inside the transformer box. “It must have been due to the big storm the other day” Roy tells me. I call Ken, but he already knows what has transpired (he and Roy are probably cousins) and is back at work on our property.

I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Is this how it will be for the next nine months? I wonder what the doctor might prescribe for me.