Recession Diary: Our 11-acre front yard.

(Editor's note: Unlike past recessions, the current downturn has taken a significant toll on sectors of the economy virtually unscathed by earlier economic crises. This is the latest in a series on one family's struggle.)

SKOKIE, Ill., Sept. 7 (UPI) -- Fred and I are desperate to hold onto our house until we can sell high enough to buy or rent something small. But how much longer can we hang on without additional income?

We appreciate it's just a house and thus not what's truly important in life. Nevertheless, we'd love to be able to keep it.

I'd discovered the house after a long, discouraging search, and knew it was home the minute I walked inside. It needed work, some of which we knew we'd never be able to afford. No matter, it would be home regardless of -- and in certain ways because of -- its imperfections.

In early spring, I started escaping my job search for a daily half-hour brisk walk around the neighborhood. Increasingly, I just strode the circular path in the park across the street -- we call it "our 11-acre front yard."

Along our front yard's path, I pass the sun-dappled playground, the ubiquitous ice cream vendor driving his Pavlovian-response musical truck, the tennis players grunting away at their game. I peer at my own house and those of my neighbors through the little cluster of trees whose species I never quite manage to investigate. I'm amused by parents, their fingers hooked through the chain link bleacher guard, shouting encouragement to their brightly uniformed ballplayers. Our idyllic front yard teems with humanity at its happiest.

By July's end, I recognized the most gorgeous part of our yard allows me a "stay-cation." Here the path becomes a slightly elevated boardwalk meandering through a wildlife prairie. Toward one end is a gazebo, a romantic setting for quiet conversation or private meditation. The moving sun spotlighted charming pockets in their turn: Queen Anne's lace and black-eyed Susans; monarch and yellow butterflies; chipmunks skittering across the wooden planks; tall tree tops whispering in the breeze; a pair of apparently escaped canaries enjoying their new habitat.

August wore on, and the cricket choruses began earlier and intensified around me as I entered the grove on each lap. The giggly squeals of children splashing in the park's pool made me feel proudly proprietary -- they were swimming in "our" pool.

These tableaux transport me to a resort in Tortuguero, Costa Rica, where we once visited -- but I'm in Skokie, Ill. I don't need to travel. I've got everything I want right here. I'm overcome with love for this place and fiercely resolve to stay. Then I remember that unless I can bring in some income, I'll have very little control over this part of my destiny.

If we must move and are lucky enough to be able to buy or rent another house, we'll call it home and we'll make it home. Meanwhile, I'll inhale as much of our front yard and our house as deep cleansing breaths will permit and be grateful for every day this house remains our home.