We're ON!

After all the years of "that's crazy, the trailer's good enough", the yearning for a wood burning stove to cozy up in front of, the desire for a bit more of a kitchen WITH running water (the outhouse never bothered me), and wanting enough space to have family and friends join us in a way we could all actually enjoy, last summer we made the decision to rebuild a cabin to replace the one that stood on this land from the mid-60's until the Hayman fire claimed it in 2002.

Honestly, there were a few things that made the decision easier.  My husband is no more than two years from retirement, and hopefully only one.  We'd spent enough years there in longish vacations in the trailer to know we both loved it and would be happy with the simple life of puttering, hiking, bird watching, and star gazing -- and sharing all of that with family and friends -- for the rest of our years to make the investment in money and the commitment in time.  Perhaps the clincher was my husband's grandsons, at five and seven old enough to know if they enjoyed their time in the mountains, and it was oh-so clear that they did -- from fort building in a rock outcropping down the hill to tirelessly hiking to the meadow and Karen's overlook and trails beyond, to crying half way back to Denver when it was time to leave, this was a way to give to them what my husband's children knew their whole lives, at least until the Hayman fire.  More time to look like something out of Where the Wild Things Are:

Our contractor, Brian Shelton, called this morning to say that the building permit would be in his hands come Monday and that work on the foundation would begin this coming week.  It's been over seven months since we first met with him up at the trailer, thinking then that we'd not be building until next year and later deciding not to wait.  This year will be the building year; next year the occupying year.  Hopefully we'll get a bit of time in the cabin before summer's end and are planning a week at Thanksgiving, but we have our fingers crossed that next summer will be the first summer of the rest of our lives, with months of time spent in the Colorado Rockies, getting used to the wonderful rhythms of life spent enjoying the long days at 8,600 feet.


By the time we get there, four weeks from today, there should be a foundation fully decked and lumber staged for the framing of the walls.  My husband will get to help raise those walls just as he did over four decades ago with his father, other family members, and neighbors.  After the nightmare of losing the original cabin, being part of rebuilding of the new cabin will be the fulfillment of a dream.

Lost and Found

During the couple of weeks of building permit limbo and just over a month before leaving for the site in Colorado, I decided it was about time for me to make that housewarming visit to my sister and her husband.  They had relocated last fall to El Paso after decades in upstate New York.  It had been more decades since we lived within an easy half day drive of one another and I wanted to establish what I hope will be an easy exchange of short visits several times a year.

I decided to go alone mid-week for just a couple of nights, my rationale being to get a little solo sister time -- it had been almost two years since we were together, sadly a shorter separation than typical for us -- and to avoid leaving our very elderly and much beloved dog Max without one of his "humans".  The outward bound trip was lovely, less than five easy hours on an empty stretch of I-10 watching the Sonoran desert transition into Chihuahuan, with vast stretches of bajada gilded with carpets of Mexican poppies before butting up against distant rugged mountains.

My sister's home is warm and inviting with charming river stone garden walls, good-sized bird-filled trees and views of the nearby Franklin Mountains.  We walked her handsome and gentle German shepherd, Luke, on three miles of the Rio Grande river walk, throwing the Frisbee for him and trying to identify water birds.  We sat out back during the slow twilight while her husband grilled steaks and salmon and veggies over a mesquite fire and then ate the delicious results.

At some point during the day my sister had mentioned a quilt she had that she wanted to give to me.  She wasn't sure about the origin, but thought it was from our grandmother we'd lived with until I was nine and she was three.  I thought she was talking about a partially completed quilt I'd seen long ago at my mother's, but I didn't associate it with my grandmother, the woman who'd been more of a mother to me than my own Mother in my early years (much to my Mother's irritation I'm sure).  When my sister brought the quilt out I almost fell off the couch -- it was THE quilt I'd grown up with, a wedding ring quilt hand patched and quilted -- every stitch -- by the hands of my Grandmother.  It was the quilt that always covered me when I was feeling puny and was upstairs for special Grandma treatment, the one when miserable from one or another childhood ailments I'd try to find all the matching fabrics, and there were many to find matches for.  Its puckered worn surface was so familiar, the softly colored patterns on the white background, all edged in a rosy pink calico.  I thought of it many times over the years, assuming it had gone to the "other" part of the family over three decades ago.

Early the next morning I got a call from my husband that our sweet old dog was having a crisis, probably a stroke, and could not stand.  He took Max to the vet where they cared for him until I could make what now was a too long and too sad drive of over 300 miles to a place and task I did not want to face.  Shortly after arriving at the veterinary hospital my husband and I performed the last kind act we could for Max, holding him close while he was euthanized.

During that long day I did not know I had that many tears in me.  Part of them were shed on that old quilt, folded into a soft memory of comfort and love, and unexpectedly found during a time when something so beloved was lost.  I only wish my old companion, Max, could have lasted the several decades the quilt has existed instead of the 16 years -- extraordinary for large dog -- that he had been able to give me.  We had hoped Max would be with us this summer in the Rockies, snoozing in the sun and watching the chipmunks during the cabin build, but that is not to be.

Back home, while I laid on the couch with a cold wet cloth on my face, so distressed that I feared I might join Max in the Great Beyond, my husband brought a large box from the porch that had been delivered that day.  I knew it was the quilt I had bought online for the cabin.  It took me a few days to have the heart to open it, but I was not disappointed when I did.  It is nothing like the delicate handwork of my Grandmother's quilt, but intricate and well-crafted enough, and the colors are those of a ponderosa pine forest at dusk.  It will look wonderful in the cozy bedroom of our new cabin, a tailored denim bed skirt below and made up with sage green chambray sheets; a nice place to rest after another lovely long day in the thin clean air at near 9,000 feet.

My Grandmother's quilt is now folded across the foot of the old painted brass bed in our Tucson guest room, only for its beauty and cherished memories.  It is too fragile for actual use, that is until this found again quilt is needed for a loss that is almost too much to bear.

For more about Max and what he meant to us see the Tribute to a Good Dog post in my Writing Down the Desert blog.

Thaw

Our contractor promises us the snow is melting and that the cabin will soon start going up.  The flurry of signatures on county building applications and checks for application fees and engineers has been the extent of our own personal activity for the cabin of late.  Unless, of course, you count the little bit of adding to the cabin trousseau I've been doing.  I found a wonderful old Mennonite bench from Mexico, six feet long and with the original old red paint.  It will do dual duty for us in the cabin, either sitting along the dining table for extra seating or under the front windows serving the same purpose in the area around the wood burning stove.  Until it makes the journey from southern Arizona to central Colorado it's sitting happily in my guest room.

The building permit is hoped for this coming week, and expected the week after that.  It's very strange to think that the next time we are on the Colorado property there will be the beginnings of a cabin sitting there.  We are counting the weeks, though we're not totally sure how many we need to count as our departure date is a bit up in the air due to some unexpected work commitments, but somewhere between six and seven.  In some ways that seems way too far away and in others it seems way too soon.  There's much to do and decide in the next few weeks; decisions easier to make here where Lowes and Home Depot are 15 minutes away, not an hour and a half.

I am thinking red.  A light-hearted cherry red.  A cheerful red front door, maybe a kitchen counter.  White walls -- I don't want to be locked into a color scheme.  I'd toyed with oil-rubbed bronze hardware and plumbing fixtures, but it's a new cabin and I want to celebrate and honor that a bit, so we'll go with brushed nickel.  Not only much more available and reasonably priced, it'll go nicely with the hammered aluminum I've been collecting for the cabin.  These trays (and several more) will decorate the wall in the dining room, gently reflecting the warm light from the wood burning stove.

I've been dreaming of a cabin all my life it seems, and it always seemed a fantasy.  Until last summer I was sure we'd make-do with the trailer, and a nice make-do it was too, but since we decided to rebuild the cabin I have been living inside this imaginary structure, and stocking up on Ebay, Etsy, and Goodwill goodies to make the dream more concrete now, and quicker to realize when the cabin is done.

I'm thinking pie...cherry.  I can almost smell it.