We've hit that quiet time in the cabin building process -- for us, not for our contractor. While invoices are prepared, drawings completed, well reports written and submitted, engineering checks performed at the site for the suitability of the ground on which the cabin will sit and perc rates for the septic system, and the Colorado Rocky Mountain weather either opens the door to progress or closes it, we are far away in Tucson. We've just sent off a rather sizeable check to pay for the work to date, primarily the well. The well bid had been for a standard dig, 300 feet and a pump to accommodate that depth, and we had been warned that that was just as estimate and that were the most nebulous part of the equation that would give us the cabin we wanted. Instead of 300 feet, it was 600 feet, and essentially dry. The hydrofracturing was expensive but wildly successful -- and I understand already a bit of a legend in those parts -- so it was all worth every penny.
Still, neither my husband nor myself are used to writing five digit checks and it gave me a bit of pause about the magnitude of this endeavor. While I was fighting off nausea, my husband, whose money it was, was cool as a cucumber, an odd reaction from one of the most frugal people I've ever known.
"Doesn't this freak you out?" I asked him, amazed at the nonchalance with which he signed away new car buying money.
"Not at all," he replied. "I've been frugal all my life and this is my reward."
I knew this was going to be a huge decision in our lives, one that took us several years to make, and a commitment to where we'd be spending several months a year from now until our own forevers, as long as we were able. He has almost half a century of history with this place. I don't. But after several years of spending all the time there we could manage, we knew how happy we were there and that we wanted more of it. More of it in a way that we could enjoy more fully ourselves and with family and with friends. No more chilly mornings and evenings in the trailer, bundling up to withstand inside temperatures in the 50's, wishing we had a woodstove to feed and to relax in its warmth and flickering light. No more apprehension about the weather when we have guests -- how am I going to house everyone if it rains? No more attempts at feeding a dozen, or four, out of a kitchen where you can take no more than two steps and with no running water. We are building a home, small and cozy and significantly different enough from "real" life to be meaningful, adequate to the life we want to live and share and eventually pass on to family.
For me this is a wonderful surprise and the unexpected fulfillment of a life long day-dream to have a place in the mountains. But for my husband I'm beginning to suspect this will be one of the defining acts of his life. His parents were clear in their expectations and wishes -- when they were gone the cabin and land were to be kept and maintained for their children and their children's children. His father was gone before the cabin burned. His mother often said she wished she had been too. It was one of the great heartbreaks of her life.
We like to think they'd be happy with what we're doing. We certainly are.
