I was down at the spot yesterday, tarping up the burn pile to make sure it stays dry enough to torch this winter. I think I'm gonna wait until there's a nice accumulation of snow and throw the fire up high-high for the homies in the sky and the ones down in the hole, and get drunk, and dance around it.
I was meeting my timber guy to talk about what to get done this fall. He snuck up on me, parked down at the end of the drive and walked up while I scrambled on the burn pile with the biggest tarp I could get my hands on, arranging the top of the mound and weighting the tarp down with stuff just barely small enough to wrestle by hand on the treacherous footing.
I don't know how long he watched me while I was occupied, but when I was done I turned around and he approached me from the campsite, where I'm sure he'd been checking out the rigging on the tarps and the progress on the big stone fire pit, and probably eyeballing the little chunk I marked out and have slowly been leveling out for a 12 by 12 pavilion - a hard roof to work and sleep under while I mill timber next year.
We talked about the trench for the grid connection, and the culverts and rock for the ditches and drainage cuts on the driveway, and leveling out a place at the top of the driveway for a 20 foot container. We talked about likely spots for the septic system. We talked about boots, and chainsaws, and the neighbors who paid out the nose for a tear-down and who were living in an old Airstream trailer uphill from the rubble pile.
On the drive up to the spot, windows down, sun shining in over the cow field at the bottom of my mountaintop, I was happy. Really happy. I was still happy when I left, knowing that my timeline has been extended.
Not so long ago, my budget tripled. After 10 years of fighting the VA, I spent a lot of money I didn't really have on one last hurrah. I found a highly specialized professional with the right credentials and experience and resources, I drove four hundred miles to her office, and sat for exhausting hours of evaluation. I scoured the regulations, procedures, and handbooks to help her draft her paperwork. I shoved it down the VA's throat and washed my hands, deciding that if that wasn't enough, I could no longer spare the psychic load of fighting or, frankly, hoping.
A few weeks ago the paperwork came back "Oops, our bad. You were right."
So I'm rich now, by the standards of a year ago. The back pay is taking care of the ditches and the trenches and the container and the grid hookup, and the medical bills for my best friend.
I owe my dog my life, and I'm so glad I can make sure he gets the most good time he can at the end of his. Being able to take him in and say "Yes, of course run a full diagnostic." and "Yes, of course run the specialized bloodwork." and "Yes, of course, just keep this plastic on file." A year ago it wouldn't have been out of the question, it would never even have made it to the question.
I hope he can hold on long enough to see what we've been fighting for.