Grieving Gardener

Leaving the house in the hands of a very capable young man, we drove away not knowing what would live and what would die.

That is the thing about gardening on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada. You can make plans. You can plant seeds. You can water, fuss, mulch, pray, and whisper encouragement over tiny green things. Then you leave town for a few days and hope for the best.

When we came home, summer had finally made up her mind.

The weather is no longer flirting with warmth. She has thrown open the oven door and announced herself. With 100-degree days lined up for the foreseeable future, it is time to be on high alert with the hose. Around here, that means morning patrol, evening patrol, and the occasional emergency rescue mission when some poor plant looks like it has given up the will to live.

But some babies made it.

After weeks of wondering if the seedlings were ever going to do anything besides sit there looking fragile and offended, they have finally decided to take hold and grow. It is such a small miracle, but I’ll take it. Every little leaf feels like a victory.

Of course, we are still fighting mildew, because gardening would apparently be too easy without a little drama. But the babies are growing. That’s what matters.

And I am already waiting for next February, when I will put the seeds out way too early again.

I know better.

I will do it anyway.

The roses have gone through one full bloom, and oh, the roses we have. Every color. Every fragrance. Every form of beauty standing right outside our door like a living bouquet.

HHH didn’t want any grocery store flowers for his bride.

Nope.

He wanted the real deal. Flowers growing in the ground. Flowers that bloom and fade and bloom again. Flowers that need pruning, water, patience, and love.

Just like the rest of us.

The dogs will be home from puppy camp in a few hours. I must say, it has been rather quiet around here without them. Too quiet, maybe. But then again, we all need a break from time to time. Even dog people. Even garden people. Even retired people who somehow remain busier than they were before retirement.

Our reunion will be action-packed. There will be barking, wiggling, joyful chaos, and probably a few hurt feelings over being abandoned at camp, even though they were spoiled rotten the entire time.

Along with the plants that are supposed to be growing, the weeds are also in full production. They did not need encouragement. They did not need pampering. They did not need carefully timed watering or whispered prayers.

They simply took one look at summer and got busy.

And so, the summer begins.

The roses are blooming. The seedlings are growing. The weeds are winning for the moment. The dogs are coming home. The hose is ready.

Some babies made it.

And in this garden, that is always enough reason to rejoice.

Last week, we enjoyed giving and receiving the gift of time.  Without any real agenda, we drove over Donner Pass and through the Wild-Wild-West toward pockets of California love. HHH and I suspect there’s a true “Blue Zone”, although longevity may flourish when one embraces daily happiness and fills their heart with love for others.  Whatever the case, time stops when we visit these wonderful friends, and love multiplies in the best ways possible.

Without HHH, this wouldn’t be possible.  Without giving it a second thought (but maybe a few grumbles), he navigated and drove through an active shootout with police and news cameras.  Through an entire town that was shuttered due to a burst water main.  Through truck drivers looking down at their phones instead of the road (I counted eight, which should concern every driver).  Through erratic drivers who shouldn’t be on the road.  Ten hours of nerve-wracking near collisions, all avoided because of his expertise.  HHH, giving me time with family is the most precious gift of all.

Time to laugh with a true Goddess of the Central Coast.

Time to meet the Goddess of the Coastal Forest.

Time to hug my Godmother, who has gotten her assignment right for nine decades. Heaven knows, it’s not always been an easy assignment.

And then there is Miss Firecracker.

Miss Firecracker, didn’t merely sit beside her birthday cake. She became the sparkler on top of it. 40 years old, with 50 more in the rearview mirror, she’s still shining, laughing, and casting light into the room because each year has only made her brighter.

Between all of us, we’ve lived 494 years, which sounds almost biblical. Nearly five centuries of birthdays, babies, heartbreaks, recipes, funerals, gardens, road trips, prayers, mistakes, forgiveness, and laughter. Almost five hundred years of stories sitting together in one small bubble of time. 

Auntie TJ has witnessed all of my 70 years.  Always there.  Always smiling.  Choosing happiness every day, even when it was hard to find much to be happy about.

That is no small thing.

It made me realize once again that time is the most precious gift we are given. Not things. Not money. Not perfect schedules or polished plans. Just time.

Time to listen.
Time to talk.
Time to hold a hand and receive a hug.
Time to make a new friend.
Time to sit beside someone who has walked this earth for ninety years and understand that wisdom does not always arrive loudly. Sometimes it comes wearing lipstick, eating birthday cake, and sparkling all over the room.

Each day, HHH and I had 24 hours of vacation time to spend as we chose. Some of those hours were spent on the ordinary business of living. But those hours spent in the presence of these women made priceless memories. 

Last week, every story mattered.  Every giggle was golden.  Holding hands again, we were suspended in one big ball of happiness.  Time stopped in a blue zone.  I think that must happen a lot in their little spot of heaven on earth.

We stood by the steps of a brand-new house in 1998 that would be Auntie TJ’s home in 2026. We went dress shopping in San Francisco, and were invited to watch a young bride walk down the aisle in Rhode Island. We met family members in Pennsylvania. Stories were shared about this stubborn little blonde (me) who knew what she wanted out of life early on. All while sitting in a magical kitchen that brought out the best in everyone.

Last week, while driving down highways, sitting at tables, laughing over old memories, and making new ones, time didn’t need to be fancy to be sacred.  I wish it could’ve stopped for a bit longer, because, as we all know, there is never enough time to be with those you love.

Everyone has the gift of time waiting to be given.  Last week, we spent some of ours on true-to-life Goddesses and Firecrackers.

You just might have some of those in your life, too.

The question is, just how will you spend yours?

More tomorrow.

I need a vacation.

There. I said it.

Not a vacation from life. Not a vacation from Winterpast. Certainly not a vacation from Oliver and Tanner, who would immediately file a formal complaint unless they are going to puppy camp.

I simply need a vacation from my own brain.

For the past several months, I have been buried in words. Thousands upon thousands of words. I’ve been reliving widowhood one chapter at a time while turning six years of blogs, journals, memories, tears, laughter, and life lessons into a book.

It has been wonderful. Every single moment.

It has also been exhausting.

Writers live in two worlds at once. We inhabit the present while constantly visiting the past. Most days, I find myself sitting in my comfortable chair at Winterpast while simultaneously standing in 2020, trying to remember exactly what happened on a particular day, how something felt, or what lesson God was teaching me at the time.

After a while, even the most enthusiastic writer needs to come up for air.

Poor HHH has gardened about as much as a man can. He would like a wife who actually walks and talks, like he used to have.

So, we are taking a little break.

The flowers will continue to bloom without his supervision. The birds will continue to argue over real estate rights in the yard. Oliver will continue his campaign to destroy anything made of plastic. The weeds, unfortunately, will continue their relentless march toward world domination.

Life at Winterpast will carry on.

And that’s a good thing.

Sometimes we need to step away from our routines to appreciate them again. We need new scenery, new conversations, and perhaps a few new adventures to remind us that life is meant to be lived, not merely documented.

When I return, the words will still be waiting.

The book will still be waiting.

The garden will still be waiting.

And hopefully, so will you.

Until then, be kind to yourselves. Notice something beautiful. Take the scenic route. Eat dessert first once in a while. Laugh loudly. Call a friend.

And if you happen to find yourself needing a little break, too, take one.

The world will survive.

Away.

Oy vey.

Enjoy the last few days of spring. I’ll be back on June 22.

I’ve spent the last several weeks working on my book, sorting through old journals, blog posts, and memories from the first year after Terry died. It has been a little like opening a giant puzzle box and dumping thousands of pieces onto the table.

Some pieces are easy to place. They belong exactly where I remembered them. Others have surprised me.

There have been stories I was absolutely convinced belonged in one chapter. The tone matched, the timing seemed right, the memory fit the theme, and I was certain I knew exactly where it belonged. Yet every time I tried to place it there, something felt off. It wouldn’t quite fit.

Like any stubborn person, my first instinct was to make it fit. So, I rotated it. I looked at it from different angles. I tried again.

If I’m being completely honest, there were moments when I would have happily reached for a hammer.

But puzzles don’t work that way.

Neither does Life.

Sometimes we need more pieces before we can see where one belongs. A memory that makes no sense standing alone suddenly becomes clear when another piece is placed beside it. A difficult season reveals its purpose years later. A friendship, a move, a loss, or an unexpected blessing finds its proper place only after the surrounding picture begins to emerge.

On many days, writing reminds me how often I have done this in life. There were seasons when I thought I knew exactly how my story was supposed to unfold. I had plans. Expectations. Certainties. Then life quietly picked up the piece I was trying to force and placed it somewhere entirely different.

At the time, I didn’t understand.

Looking back, I can see that life was right.

Losing Terry felt like the piece that shattered the entire puzzle. Nothing made sense. The picture I thought I was building disappeared overnight. Yet over time, new pieces appeared. Winterpast. New friends. A church family. A blog. Writing. A deeper faith. Love and laughter where I never expected to find them again.

None of those pieces were visible when I was staring at the empty spaces before me.

The same thing happens in the garden. A bare patch of dirt looks hopeless until spring arrives. Then, suddenly, tiny shoots appear where there seemed to be nothing at all. What looked empty was simply waiting for the right season.

Perhaps that is true of life as well.

We spend so much time focusing on the missing pieces that we forget to step back and look at the picture as a whole, becoming frustrated by what isn’t finished. We worry about what doesn’t make sense and try to force things into places they were never meant to go.

Meanwhile, God sees the entire picture.

He sees the pieces we’ve already placed. He sees the ones still waiting in the box and knows how they fit together long before we do.

Faith isn’t about understanding every piece. It’s about trusting the One who holds the picture on the front of the box.

Today, I’m grateful for the pieces I understand. And I’m learning to trust the pieces I don’t.

After all, the puzzle isn’t finished yet.

I thought I was looking for background information for my upcoming book.

Instead, I found a binder.

Not just any binder, mind you. A thick, heavy one that was stuffed with printed blog posts, journal entries, notes scribbled on scraps of paper, and thoughts I had carefully tucked away years ago. Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten it even existed.

Lately, I’ve been spending my mornings working on the book. Digging through old blogs. Reading journal entries. Trying to piece together the story of widowhood’s first year. Some days it feels a bit like archaeology, while dusting off old memories to decide which ones still belong.

After reading a journal entry from January, 2020, I remembered the binder.

Years ago, when I first started writing, I printed many of my blog posts. Not all of them. Just the ones that seemed important at the time. The ones that made me stop and think because they carried a little extra weight.

As it turns out, those pages of yesterday were yesterday’s found treasures.

Sitting in my chair with the binder on my lap, I began turning pages. Some made me laugh. Some made me wince. A few brought tears to my eyes. More than once, I found myself thinking, Did I really write that?

Apparently, I did.

What surprised me most wasn’t the writing itself.

It was meeting the woman who wrote it. Grieving the loss of her husband, she was so very lonely while trying to figure out what would come next.

She was learning how to live in a house she had never planned to occupy alone. Learning how to make decisions by herself. Learning how to survive birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, and ordinary Tuesdays.

She was far stronger than she knew.

At the time, she didn’t feel brave. Most days she felt frightened, exhausted, and overwhelmed. Yet there she was on those pages, getting up every morning and putting one foot in front of the other.

Writing.

Praying.

Walking.

Trying again.

And somehow, without realizing it, she left breadcrumbs for the woman I would become.

One journal note simply read:

“I miss dating. But I need to be very careful not to confuse loneliness for anything other than what it is.”

Wise words.

Words I had completely forgotten that I wrote.

There were other notes as well. Little observations. Tiny moments. Thoughts captured before they could drift away. Most would never mean much to anyone else. Yet together they told the story of a life slowly rebuilding itself.

Page after page reminded me that healing rarely arrives all at once. It comes in small pieces.

One day, you manage breakfast. Another day, you laugh unexpectedly. A few months later, you realize you have gone several hours without crying. And one day, years later, you open an old binder and discover that God was doing far more than you realized at the time.

As I read through those pages, I began to see something I couldn’t see at the time.

The book didn’t begin this year when I sat down to organize chapters. It didn’t begin when I decided on a title. The book began in every moment I chose to keep going.

Every blog post.

Every journal entry.

Every prayer.

Every tear-stained page.

Every tiny act of faith.

God was writing the story long before I knew there would be a book.

Maybe that’s true for all of us.

We spend so much time looking ahead that we forget to look back. We assume growth is happening somewhere in the future, just beyond our reach. But sometimes the evidence is already there, tucked away in a drawer, a photo album, an old journal, or a forgotten binder.

Waiting patiently to remind us how far we’ve come.

So today, I am grateful for a dusty old binder. Not because it’s helping me write a book, but because it reminded me of something much more important. The treasure was never hidden somewhere else. It was hidden in the story all along.

And sometimes, all we have to do is turn the page.

— Joy
Where new life grows from grief.

As a little girl growing up as a farmer’s feral daughter in a forest of grapevines, my summer world was vast and green.

Long tendrils grabbed at my hair as I scampered across the berms from row to row. There were mud pies during irrigation days, horned toad captures during the dry months, grape snacks in late August, and vine-dried raisins in October.

I thought it would last forever.

As a young earth mother of the early 1980s, I thought my babies would last forever.

Chubby cheeks smiling up at me. Sleeping babies snuggled against my shoulder. Days spent discovering a praying mantis in the garden, lying on the lawn watching birds soar overhead, and naming clouds as they drifted across the sky.

I thought my babies would last forever.

Then life continued doing what life always does.

Engagement rings were exchanged for divorce papers.

New vows were exchanged for a death certificate.

I thought both marriages would last forever. But they didn’t

Homes were bought.

Homes were sold.

Children were small.

Children grew up.

Friends lived next door.

Friends moved across the country.

Seasons changed.

People changed.

Life changed.

Day after day, life continues to teach the same lesson.

Forever has an expiration date.

Nothing stays exactly as it is.

Not the grapevines.

Not the babies.

Not the homes.

Not the friendships.

Not even the people we love most.

At first, that truth was heartbreaking.

But slowly, it has become a gift.

Because when one accepts that nothing lasts forever, today becomes the exquisite and priceless gift that it is.

If a sunrise is waiting outside your door, go watch it.

If a watermelon is ripe, pick it and eat it.

If leaves are falling, run through them.

If someone you love calls, answer the phone.

Life is happening now.

Nothing lasts forever.

Forever is right now.

Life is short. Don’t waste it.

Creating a wildlife habitat sounded official.

We sent a formal application with some money. A few weeks later, a metal sign arrived at our door. It declared that Winterpast is now a certified wildlife habitat, offering food, shelter, water, and nesting areas for birds and pollinators.

They forgot to mention the wayward and destructive little friend, the squirrel.

After finding the perfect spot for the sign above the shed doorway, it seemed the birds understood it right away. The hummingbirds began hiding in the Happy-Go-Lucky rose. The robin made her nest on the patio. The finches arrived in cheerful little flurries. The doves settled in like they owned the place. The quail didn’t miss the invitation, either.

Meanwhile, the squirrel sat plotting from the neighbor’s yard, studying the slick fiberglass fence and wondering just how he might make it over or under.

That is the best part about creating a wildlife habitat. I get to watch their stories unfold from my desk.

Each morning, Winterpast wakes with me. The quail hurry across the yard. The doves coo from hidden places. The finches dance from branch to branch. Robins hunt through the grass. Hummingbirds hover like tiny miracles. Occasionally, a hawk passes overhead, reminding everyone who is really in charge.

Just like HHH and me, they have found a little piece of paradise.

If all the animals aren’t enough, the sound of water soothes all of us. In 2020, I needed the soothing sounds of a fountain. It wasn’t long before I found one at the only real hardware store we have in town. The store carries little of this and a little at different times of the year. They know what the residents of our little town want and need.

In the spring, day-old chicks and ducks arrive for a short stay. Keeping egg-layers is a big thing in any rural town. Ours isn’t any different.

From sun dresses to fertilizer, this place has everything. That first year, they had a three-tier fountain that found its way home. Those first few seasons, it sat on the patio by the back door until the pump stopped. For two years, it provided water to the bees, but remained silent.

With the invention of solar pumps, all that changed this year. With three beautiful fountains in the yard, we are beginning to sound like one of those fancy nurseries that sell water features. In the bird world, news has gotten out that we now have three deluxe bathing pools and a great buffet.

We hope they plan to stay awhile.

Well, most of them, anyway.

Some women collect designer purses while others have boxes of expensive shoes. Some stock their jewelry boxes with sparkling treasures collected over a lifetime.

There are those men who race around in fancy cars or spend every spare hour chasing a little white golf ball around expensive courses.

HHH and I are not those people.

We

Garden

At

Winterpast.

And let me assure you, gardening in the Nevada desert is not for the financially faint of heart.

This week, our water bill arrived.

I should have known trouble was coming when the envelope felt heavier than usual.

Last year, our May water usage was twice this year’s. This year, we were gone for half of May on vacation. The weather was cooler than normal. It rained. It frosted. The sprinklers spent much of the month taking an unexpected vacation.

Apparently, the City did not receive the memo because our water bill doubled.

Studying the numbers several times, we were convinced there must be some mistake. Surely using half as much water should result in a smaller bill.

That would seem logical.

Instead, I discovered that logic and utility billing maintain a casual, non-dependent relationship.

The projections for August’s water budget are now moving from “expensive” into “ridiculous” territory. And, quite possibly even “sit down before you open it” territory.

These kinds of bills require a cup of coffee, a deep breath, and perhaps a brief prayer.

Still, none of this came as a complete surprise.

When buying Winterpast in April 2020, a bargain was made with the plants. Water is precious in the desert. Every green lawn, every blooming flower bed, every shade tree and rose bush exists because somebody watered them.

Nothing grows here by accident.

Life on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada requires investment. Sometimes that investment comes in the form of a utility bill large enough to make a grown adult whimper.

Winerpast will survive, as HHH heads outside with a hose in hand, making sure every sprout has enough to drink.

The roses are blooming.

The robins continue to nest.

The trees cast their welcome shade over summer afternoons.

The lawn grows thick and green against a backdrop of sagebrush and sand.

And Winterpast continues to thrive as an oasis in the middle of the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

That matters.

Life matters.

Beauty matters.

Everyone spends their money somewhere.

Some people buy boats.

Some buy jewelry.

Some buy golf clubs.

We buy flowers, shade, and bird habitat.

Grass for bare feet.

We buy a place where life flourishes.

Frankly, there are worse investments than water.

Fortunately, this water bill will not take food off the table. The dishwasher will continue its faithful service. Our clothes will remain freshly laundered. HHH will continue watering. I will continue planting things that probably cost more than they should. Life at Winterpast will continue on as it always has.

For now, however, the flowers win.

After all, water may be expensive in the desert.

But a life without beauty would cost far more.

Now, if these water bills ever begin competing with cruise dollars, HHH and I may need to have a serious conversation.

Because while we dearly love our roses, we’re always searching for the next gangway onto a ship headed anywhere on the open seas.

— Joy McIntyre

Writing is Life

African violets are a lot like me.

For years, I thought they were delicate little things meant for people gentler and more organized than I had ever managed to be. The kind of plant that belonged in spotless kitchens with lace curtains and women who never forgot to water anything.

Clearly, those women have never lived at Winterpast.

Out here on the high desert plains of Nevada, survival usually belongs to the stubborn. The wind blows hard enough to rearrange patio furniture. Summer heat scorches without apology. Winter arrives with little concern for carefully laid plans. Even the irrigation system occasionally behaves like it has entered an active rebellion against me personally.

And yet somehow, African violets survive.

Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.

Blooming in windowsills while the desert summer’s heat has arrived early.

I admire that. I wilt by 10 am.

Years ago, I killed every African violet unfortunate enough to cross my path. Overwatered them. Underwatered them. Ignored them. Hovered over them. Loved them entirely too much or not carefully enough. In hindsight, there may be similarities between my plant management and portions of my actual life.

The poor things never stood a chance.

But age changes people.

These days, I understand both African violets and myself a little better. Neither of us does particularly well in harsh conditions anymore. We prefer softer light. Steadier temperatures. Quiet mornings. Enough room to breathe, but not so much space that we feel lost.

I’ve also learned something else surprising about African violets. They bloom best when slightly rootbound. Their roots actually prefer a smaller container. Too much room can keep them from flowering.

Now there’s a metaphor if I’ve ever heard one.

Because sometimes people bloom the same way.

Not when life is easiest.
Not when everything is perfect.
But when they learn how to grow within the spaces life actually gave them.

Grief taught me that.

There was a time when I believed healing would mean becoming an entirely different person. Stronger. Fearless. Completely repaired. Instead, healing arrived more like an African violet blooming quietly on a windowsill after a difficult winter.

Small signs of life.
Unexpected color.
Gentle resilience.

Not flashy enough for the world to applaud, perhaps, but enough to remind me I was still growing.

I think that is why I love plants so much now. They ask nothing except patience. No pretending. No explanations. No need to have life figured out. Just water. Light. Time. Care.

And occasionally a little neglect, apparently.

At Winterpast, the violets and I have reached an understanding over the years. We’re all simply trying our best out here. Some seasons are glorious. Others leave us hanging on by a thread and a prayer. Frost arrives unexpectedly. Winds break things. Heat exhausts us. Still, every spring, tiny green shoots push upward again as if hope itself were rooted underground.

I understand that now in ways I never once did before.

Like African violets, I no longer need to be the loudest bloom in the room. I no longer expect life to be perfect before I allow myself joy. I no longer confuse softness with weakness.

Some of the strongest things in this world bloom quietly beside windows while no one is paying attention.

And perhaps that is enough.

— Joy McIntyre
Writing is Life

Mildew and baby robins don’t seem to belong in the same story.

One quietly steals beauty.

The other arrives carrying it.

And yet, both showed up at Winterpast this week.

Of course, the mildew came first.

After months of unpredictable weather, HHH was finally beginning to believe his beloved roses might have a chance. The bushes were healthy. Tiny buds had begun to appear. Perhaps spring had finally decided to arrive.

But something wasn’t right. Looking closer, he spotted it.

Powdery mildew.

Not on one rose.

Not on a few roses.

On every rose bush.

Every. Single. One.

The buds continued to grow, as the leaves were covered by that destructive white coating gardeners dread. I watched the disappointment settle across his face. Anyone who grows roses knows they are more than plants. They are hope wrapped in petals. They are anticipation. They are promises of beauty waiting to bloom.

Instead of enjoying armloads of June blossoms, we’ve found ourselves purchasing expensive rose food that promises to rid us of the problem. Of course, HHH also spent hours carefully spraying every bush with Neem oil just to be safe.

Honestly, I don’t think we spend that much money on medicine for ourselves.

The rose bushes are strong plants and will recover. We know that. But healing takes time.

And a lot of patience.

A few hours later, while HHH tended sick roses, I wrote at my desk, and life offered a completely different lesson.

Above the patio on a wide beam, there was constant movement in full view of the desk.

First, two parents building their nest.

Then, a patient mama protecting her eggs while keeping them at just the right temperature.

Soon, baby robins.

Last year, several of them perched together on a similar nest, looking as though they had been assembled moments before. Their feathers were fluffy and unfinished. Their tails seemed too short. Their expressions curious and confused.

Oliver noticed them too.

He sat beneath the beam, watching intently.

Not because he wanted to chase them. Oliver is long past such ambitions. Instead, he looked upward with great interest, as if waiting for someone to drop a snack.

Above him, Momma Robin sat nearby keeping watch. She seemed entirely unimpressed by Oliver’s hopes and completely focused on caring for her young.

The babies waited.

Oliver waited.

Momma Robin waited.

Last year, Oliver won.

What is it about this dreadful year in the garden? The mother dove chose a perfectly good Japanese Maple in which to build her nest. A late frost made the leaves fall as if it were October. She was exposed to wind and rain, finally losing her battle to protect her eggs.

The robins chose a safe place next to the house before the temperatures changed again. Today it will be in the 90’s, and there in the afternoon sun, she’ll suffer through. With over 30 trees to choose from, some in the front yard beyond Oliver’s reach, she chose that space. Hopefully, this year, the chicks will survive.

As evening settled across Winterpast, I found myself thinking about those roses and those robins.

One was a reminder that beautiful things sometimes become damaged.

The other is proof that beautiful things keep arriving anyway.

That seems to be how life works.

Grief and joy.

Loss and love.

Mildew and baby robins.

One season brings disappointment. Another brings healing. Sometimes they arrive on the very same day.

As a naive girl, I believed happiness would come when all the problems disappeared. A pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, when nothing broke, nothing leaked, nothing died, and no mildew dared touch a rose.

Life has gently corrected that misunderstanding.

A good life isn’t the absence of difficulties.

It is learning to notice the baby robins while treating the mildew.

The roses will heal.

The robins will fly.

Oliver will continue hoping for falling snacks.

And here at Winterpast, another ordinary day will quietly become a memory worth keeping.

All that is enough.

Mildew and baby robins don’t seem to belong in the same story.

One is soft, hopeful, and fluffy enough to make your heart melt.

Writing is Life