A little over twelve hours from now, about the time the sun is getting around to melting the ice in the stray cat water bowl, the solstice happens officially; eight fifty eight in the morning.

I have always thought of the winter solstice as a thing that happens in the deep of a cold night. So this is it, or, the next closest thing. This is the most holy evening in my pagan calendar. This is my Christmas.

There should be candles lit. There should be structured contemplation. There should be an abiding spirit of tranquility and repose. In reality there are none of those things.

For a long week and more there’s been the jagged tension of mostly pointless argument and a fundamental difference of opinion about things that are anything but pointless, though they might seem it. A week ago I was handling it gracefully, in quiet solidity and that fierce mien when appropriate. On the darkest night I’m cold when I don’t need to be. I feel imbalanced, not to a hip-breaking extent, but as if gravity’s shifted just a bit.

It’s entirely possible that this is the true and real spirit of this holiday.

You know I bought a truck, and today the mechanic’s verdict came back. It’s in very good shape. It needs a battery, and it needs a small oil leak traced, but they couldn’t bring themselves to charge me more than 400 dollars for any of it, inspection and all.

Even so, what seemed like an extraordinarily great deal is now only a good one, maybe even only fair in the best sense. That’s because the “new engine” 30 thousand miles ago was a lie.

There was extensive engine work done, those two years back when the original owner still held the key. But it seems the heart of the truck was not new, and not even rebuilt, but the same block and basics that have been running for almost three hundred thousand miles now.

I’m imbalanced, about what to think and do about that.

The realist in me says: Flip it. The price of used vehicles and especially trucks has been accelerating for some time, and there’s no reason to think that I couldn’t turn it around for a thousand or two worth of profit.

The romantic says: We know her bones are good. There’s no rust to speak of. So what if it needs an actually new engine a year or five from now, and a transmission the year after that? You’d still have 4WD and a longbed, mechanically updated to perfection, for 20 or 25 percent of a new one … and your aesthetic is a classic one. She matches it. Fall in love.

But More Than This …

There’s a critical and growing need here for getting a roof on her and a sleeping bed in her. The mountain is calling and I must go.

So the next step isn’t becoming a used car salesman and starting over.

It’s locating a used version of that camper shell and having that opportunity to bug out, and bug out creatively with a camera.

There is no perfect rig, but right now I don’t have a Rig at all, only a collection of tools and a garage sale puzzle with pieces missing.

I aim to fix that first.