“He was shaken by the overwhelming revelation that the headlong race between his misfortunes and his dreams was at that moment reaching the finish line. The rest was darkness."
-Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The General in His Labyrinth
Here at Wyldswood for maybe another hour or so, before making the trek back to Panama City for trial tomorrow morning.
My only companions: two mean old ganders who honk and hiss and try to bite me whenever I leave the safety of the porch.
It wasn't supposed to be this way.
At the height of the pandemic Peg mused on how we'd spend our first Halloween together here on the farm after the Covid smoke cleared. There would be a huge bonfire, of course--P's a pyromaniac of the first order. The kids would come down. We'd invite the fire department. We'd invite the Elks. There would be music and barbeque and cold beer for whoever wants it. The resurrection of Wyldswood would be complete.
Instead, here we are, these two obnoxious geese and me. Peg's still in Corning, and she'll be at work tomorrow the same as me, albeit a thousand miles away. When will we see each other again? Hell if I know. As soon as my in-person commitments here abate, I'm off to Texas to shop assisted living facilities, talk to lawyers about guardianships, and get some work done on the Columbia. It may be Thanksgiving. It may be a week from now. I just don't know.
This is no way to live, no way at all. We're about to have a very good work year as a household, but still must scramble to keep up with the commitments associated with this archipelago of properties. "I am not a rich man; I am a poor man with money." Another great Marquez quote. I get it now.
It's hard to see this arrangement lasting very long, living apart most of the time because there's nothing for me to do up there. But our accumulation of stuff, coupled with the monthly ransom we're required to send west, requires it, requires that I bill and collect as much as I ethically can while doing good work for clients who trust me. We've built a fine trap for ourselves, as I look at things.
The growing pile of bills is obviously going to soak up any extra pay I get in December. Someone who used to live here poured fix-a-flat into the cooling system of the Gator, and we drove it so little we're just now figuring out the vandalism. That's $7,000 or so for a new engine, or $20k for a new Gator.
The tractor's sitting out there in one of the pastures, apparently with a transmission issue. $40k to replace, and who knows how much to fix. It's old, and wasn't maintained while we were away.
The roof is sagging at Tara, and our friend Steve has warned us not to let anyone stay in Laura's room lest they disappear in an avalanche of plaster and old timbers when it all comes crashing down. That's about a $30k problem, or maybe more.
So I'll work all day today, and probably bill another fifty hours between now and Friday. I'll have billed nearly 200 hours in October, the most I've put on the books in a single month in probably ten years. Peg will pull the hours we need in the operating room.
I remember a couple months ago peering over the horizon and seeing this situation coming, us getting together for the occasional conjugal visit every month or two for maybe several more years until we're too old and sick to keep working at this pace. Now here we are.
It wasn't supposed to be this way.
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