There are some people so rich and wonderful in spirit and voice that they simply stand shoulders above everyone else. They enter your life, take up residence there, and somehow you know there will never be another quite like them.

I knew such a woman for decades.

She was—and remains—the Goddess of the Central Coast.

At 94, she still took enormous pride in driving her original-owner convertible. Always clean and shiny, as you would expect for the car of a Goddess. Just months ago, she renewed her driver’s license all the way to her 97th birthday.

And drive she did. Right to the end. Safely, I might add.

When she wasn’t motoring up and down California’s Central Coast, she kept herself very well informed about current events. She had opinions. Oh, did she have opinions. She was intelligent, interested, curious, and completely engaged with the world around her.

And Grieving Gardener was definitely part of her life.

My blog went with her coffee and breakfast.

Any unexplained absence from my writing was likely to be met with a telephone call asking exactly why I thought I needed time away. Apparently, writers shouldn’t take vacations when the Goddess required reading material with her morning coffee. I tried to give her ample time to make another selection when I was away.

And if I happened to drift too far from her opinion of what a proper lady ought to write?

She set me back on course.

At first, she tried to correct my grammar.

We had to have a little talk about a writer’s voice.

That took care of that.

Mostly.

She was kind, considerate, stern, elegant, funny, and remarkably smart. She was a woman from another time who nevertheless kept up beautifully with this one.

For the last two decades, she lived as a widow in the cliffside home she and her husband bought so many years before, overlooking the blue Pacific.

Timeless and elegant.

Just like her.

Over the years, our visits became treasures. And in these last years, something especially lovely happened: my husband, Billy, fell in love with the Goddess, too.

And she fell in love with him.

Billy had the privilege of making two Valentine’s dinners for her. For the last three Valentine’s Days, we arrived with a single red rose for the Goddess. Just last February, she received a dozen peach roses from a special admirer. Her tree surgeon. She touched hearts everywhere.

A few months ago, this fiercely private woman did something extraordinary.

She invited us to stay with her.

She did not invite people into that inner part of her life easily. We knew what the invitation meant.

We belonged.

Last Thursday, at 94 years old, after enjoying her breakfast, the Goddess of the Central Coast settled in her favorite chair beside her blue Pacific and quietly passed away.

There is something terribly sad and yet wonderfully fitting about that. She was home. In her chair. In the house she loved. Beside the ocean that had been the backdrop to her life for more than fifty years.

Now the practical things begin.

Rooms will empty, doors will close, and eventually, someone else will look through those windows at the Pacific.

Her street will become just another street in Cambria, California.

But I don’t believe the Goddess will go quite so easily.

Some people leave quite a mark on this world.

If you happen to find yourself on the Central Coast, listen carefully.

You might hear a radio playing her favorite station through an open window.

You might hear the rumble of her convertible rolling down Highway 1 toward a hair appointment in San Simeon.

You might even imagine a very proper lady sitting down with her coffee and breakfast, opening Grieving Gardener, and preparing to let its writer know exactly what she thinks.

And somewhere, I suspect, there will always be one red rose waiting for her.

You are so missed, our beloved Goddess.

Heaven is lucky to have you.

For the past six years, I have been quietly writing my thoughts at GrievingGardener.com. As a new widow, I found writing to be an outlet during the COVID quarantine. It became an elixir of voice and grief that helped me through the worst days.

In the beginning, almost every early morning found me writing my thoughts and hitting “send.” At first, I didn’t know how to add pictures or videos. I just knew I had a story to tell. In the wee hours of every day, I poured my heart out on the screen while Oliver slept at my feet.

I hoped at least one other widow might find comfort in my words. Slowly, my tribe formed. Some were so interested, they would contact me if I missed a day. Friendships grew as I found my path toward healing.

Some of my posts were raw and heartbreaking, while others were downright shocking. It didn’t matter. If I had something to say, I said it. This helped me find a way back to my true self.

Since I first held my pencil in kindergarten, I’ve been a writer. With so much to say and not always many people to listen, I made pen and paper my friends. A safe place free from judgment or interruption of thought. My very own wonderful playground of words.

Over the past four months, I’ve been gathering and arranging those words into book form.

What an adventure.

From the first thought of a book to the moment I clicked the button to request a proof copy, there were hundreds of decisions along the way. Writing. Revising. Formatting. Pictures. Page numbers. Covers. Blank pages. More corrections than I ever imagined could exist in a single book.

And now, it is real. Four hardbound books sit on the coffee table. Banded with “Not for Resale”, my name is on every one. Already, the cover isn’t exactly the right shade. There are minor corrections. The illustrations need adjusting. As they call out for help, as every proof does, they also confirm it. I am a published author.

Widow: A Journey Toward Life will be available for purchase on Amazon on November 11, 2026.

To say I’m proud of it is an understatement. To hold my own story in book form is an unbelievable feeling. But pride or money weren’t the driving force behind my need to write.

My true hope is that one person in grief will find something useful in these pages. One sentence could make a hard day easier. The reassurance that someone else understands might comfort an aching heart.

Am I a counselor? No. Is this book meant as therapy? No.

It’s my story to tell. And I’m telling it to anyone who wants to sit for a while to read it.

Because, if I made the journey to a better day, you can too.

Not all at once.

Just one step at a time.

Keep walking.

Keep believing.

Follow your heart.

Your own journey will take you where you need to be.

Dear Friends,

For over six years, I’ve had the privilege of welcoming you to Winterpast almost every weekday. Together we’ve walked through grief, healing, laughter, gardens, hummingbirds, road trips, seasons of life, and the quiet moments that often teach us the most.

Today, I need to do something I don’t do very often.

I’m taking a short August sabbatical.

Sometimes life reminds us that even the writer needs a little time to refill the well. Rather than trying to force words onto a page, I’ve decided to spend the remainder of August working quietly behind the scenes.

What will I be doing?

I’ll be polishing older blog posts, improving SEO so more readers can find the stories already written, and sharing many of those favorites on Pinterest. Most importantly, I’ll be putting my heart into preparing my memoir, Widow: A Journey Toward Life, for its November publication. It’s an exciting season, and one that deserves my full attention.

Thank you for your kindness, your encouragement, and for making this little corner of the internet feel like home. Your comments, prayers, emails, and friendship have meant far more than you know.

I plan to return on Monday, August 31, refreshed, inspired, and ready to begin another season of stories from Winterpast.

Until then, may your gardens bloom, your hearts find peace, and your days be filled with the simple blessings that make life beautiful.

With gratitude,

Joy McIntyre
The Grieving Gardener
Where new life grows from grief

Lessons From the Watering Hose

The water bill arrived yesterday.

A collective groan could probably be heard from every gardener across the high desert. During August, opening the water bill is a little like opening a medical bill. You know it isn’t going to be good.

This month, our water bill is more than my very first house payment. Granted, that house payment was in 1977, but still. It seems outrageous.

I’ve often wondered exactly when they read the water meter. There aren’t meter readers running through the neighborhood carrying clipboards anymore. Sometimes I suspect they simply look at last month’s bill, double it, and mail it out.

According to our statement, we’ve used over 40,000 gallons of water this month. Forty thousand. I’ll simply take their word for it because there isn’t much point in arguing. Around here, the choices are fairly simple: pay the bill… or don’t get water.

Neither option feels especially satisfying.

Living on the high desert means accepting one simple truth. Water isn’t a luxury. It’s survival. Every green leaf, every rose, every tomato, every tree, and every blade of grass depends upon it. Miss a few days during August, and the garden lets you know immediately. Leaves droop. Flowers fade. The soil hardens. Life begins to struggle.

People aren’t all that different.

Some seem to need very little encouragement. They bloom almost anywhere. Others have lived through droughts we know nothing about. Their roots are shallow because life has been difficult. They need a little more kindness, a little more patience, a little more reassurance before they begin to flourish again.

I’ve also noticed that every plant drinks differently. The roses seem forever thirsty. The Japanese maple asks quietly for a long, slow soak. The lavender is perfectly happy with much less. Give it too much water, and it actually suffers. Tomatoes practically cheer when the hose comes their way, while the cactus rolls its eyes as if to say, “I’m fine. Move along.”

God must smile at His garden of people.

Some of us need words of encouragement every day. Others are strengthened by quiet acts of service. Some grow best surrounded by friends, while others need long stretches of peaceful solitude. None of us were designed exactly alike.

The trick isn’t giving everyone the same amount of water.

The trick is learning what helps each person grow.

Perhaps that means listening more carefully. Offering forgiveness a little sooner. Giving grace when someone seems unusually short-tempered. Checking on a lonely neighbor. Sending a note. Sharing a meal. Sitting quietly beside someone who simply needs to know they aren’t alone.

The funny thing about watering is that it rarely produces instant results. You don’t water a rose this morning and expect dozens of blooms by sunset. Growth takes time. Healthy roots develop slowly, one day after another, one careful watering at a time.

People are much the same. The kindness you offer today may not bloom for months. The encouragement you give someone may carry them through a season you’ll never know about. A simple smile may be exactly what another heart needed that day.

So yes, I’ll grumble just a little when next month’s water bill arrives.

Then I’ll pick up the hose once again.

Some things are simply worth watering.

There comes a point in life when we realize something important: we can’t go back. Not to childhood, not to yesterday, not to the people we used to be, and not even to the happiest moments we wish we could relive. Life simply doesn’t work that way.

For the longest time, I thought healing meant understanding every moment of my past, finding every answer, and untangling every knot. Over time, I’ve discovered that peace wasn’t waiting for me back there.

It was waiting here, in the garden, in laughter as Tanner and Oliver chased one another through the morning grass, in a cup of coffee on the porch before sunrise, and in a new rose opening for the very first time. The present is where life happens.

Of course, our memories matter. The people we have loved matter. The lessons we learned matter. They are woven into the fabric of who we are. But there is a difference between visiting the past and living there.

The ghosts of yesterday have a way of demanding our attention. They whisper about old regrets, painful conversations, missed opportunities, broken relationships, and things we wish had turned out differently. If we invite those ghosts to move in, they will rearrange the furniture of our hearts until joy can’t find a place to sit.

Today, I choose to acknowledge them politely and then return to watering my roses.

The older I become, the more convinced I am that hobbies aren’t just pleasant little extras. They are lifelines. Plant a garden. Write the story only you can tell. Learn watercolor painting. Build birdhouses. Restore an old car. Play the piano. Travel somewhere you have always dreamed of seeing. Volunteer. Bake bread. Take photographs. Read books that stretch your imagination. Do something that makes your heart quietly whisper, This is who I am.

Who knows how many summers remain?

Life is far too precious to waste a moment. We were created to keep growing, learning, laughing, and creating beautiful things. Every morning offers a fresh invitation. Every hour presents another opportunity to notice something lovely. Every minute is a gift we will never receive again.

So enrich your life. Cultivate interests that make you excited to get out of bed. Fill your calendar with moments instead of misery. Surround yourself with people who leave your soul lighter than when they found it. Forgive often. Smile easily.

Ditch the drama that steals your peace.

When the ghosts of the past come knocking, you don’t have to pretend they never existed. Don’t slam the door, but don’t open it wide enough for them to move in. Thank them for the lessons, then gently close the door. Life isn’t waiting for you back there. It is blooming right here, right now.

At Winterpast, I see that lesson every morning. Yesterday’s blossoms have already faded. Tomorrow’s buds haven’t opened yet. But today’s flowers are putting on a spectacular show, and I don’t want to miss a single one.

If there were one month I could erase from the calendar, it would be August.

Now, if August happens to be your birthday month, my apologies. My dad and my sister were both born in August. I have to admit, it’s a wonderful month for a birthday party. A swimming pool, juicy watermelon, hamburgers on the barbecue, children running through sprinklers… now that’s a celebration.

But the month itself?

Oy vey.

Here on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada, August can be downright miserable.

First comes the heat. Endless, relentless, baking heat. I truly love living in the desert, but August seems to take things just a little too far. The beautiful landscape that only weeks ago shimmered with touches of green and golden grasses has faded into endless shades of burnt brown.

Even the wild mustangs—not the shiny ones parading through Hot August Nights in Reno, but the real ones roaming our hills—wander farther each day searching for something to eat. Their summer buffet has all but disappeared.

Everyone begins hoping for rain. Well… almost everyone. The folks headed to Burning Man in just a few weeks probably have a different opinion.

Every summer, our local news stations announce that we’ve entered “monsoon season.” I have to laugh every time I hear it. Yes, of course. We are apparently knee-deep in a monsoon season.

Right.

Until one year, we actually were.

A few summers ago, the skies opened over Burning Man and dumped inches of rain onto desert soil that doesn’t absorb water very well. Roads disappeared beneath thick mud. Vehicles couldn’t move. Thousands of people found themselves stranded in what had quickly become an unforgettable disaster.

That’s life in the desert. It is rarely a little bit of anything. It’s either all… or nothing.

August is also the month when everyone groans as the water bills arrive. Some people stop watering their lawns altogether. Others simply surrender and let everything turn brown. Even the once-beautiful stretch of grass in front of our neighborhood strip mall has given up for the summer. A town needs a little greenery. Apparently, ours missed that memo.

So, if you happen to live somewhere that enjoys eighty-degree afternoons, gentle summer showers, and evenings cool enough to sit outside, please know just how fortunate you are.

As for us?

We’ll be staying inside for a little while longer, watching the weather report, hoping those famous “monsoonal rains” finally decide to show up. Until then, August remains the one month I’d happily erase from the calendar.

Have a wonderful day, my friends, and wherever you are, may you find a cool breeze and something beautiful to enjoy.

Hot August Nights—and Smoky August Days

It hasn’t been especially lovely here at Winterpast this week.

The sky overhead is a strange bluish gray, and wildfires are burning in nearly every direction. Smoke and temperatures above one hundred degrees are not the best companions. The beautiful mountains surrounding us are completely hidden behind the haze.

Yesterday, we took a drive to the little town east of us. The smoke was so thick that it felt as though fog had swallowed the entire high desert whole.

Except it wasn’t fog.

HHH and I have to laugh at the news when New York City is blanketed in smoke from Canadian wildfires. You would think their little world is crumbling. It’s just a part of life out here in the wild, wild west. Lightning strikes come in the summer, bringing with them fire. Add a side of crazy arsonists, and it’s the perfect storm. City folk would never last out here. Period.

Fires surround us in every direction. It’s just that time of year. August in northwestern Nevada. While the gardens droop, the mountains vanish, and the air conditioner works overtime, something much more exciting is happening in the Biggest Little City in the World.

Hot August Nights is revving up. The Pastor and Mr. Lovebird can think of little else these days. Engines, chrome, paint, wheels, horsepower, and more than six thousand entries—every kind of car imaginable are rolling through Reno.

There are polished classics, bright convertibles, muscle cars, hot rods, and vehicles that have probably received more tender loving care than most living rooms.

I must admit, I am not a car girl. I can appreciate a shiny automobile. I can smile politely when someone explains what is beneath the hood. I can even admire a beautiful paint job. But after approximately seven minutes, I am ready to go home and check the roses. Especially when it’s hot AND smoky. Given the choice between a roaring engine and the quiet trickle of a garden fountain, I will choose the fountain every time.

Still, Hot August Nights is part of summer life here. The cars arrive. The men get excited. The streets fill. Old songs play. Everyone suddenly remembers the first car they owned—or the one they wish they had never sold.

So, if you can bear the smoke and the heat, head into town and enjoy the cars. Admire the chrome. Listen to the engines. Wave to the happy drivers. And if the smoky air is simply too much, stay home. Filtered air conditioning is a wonderful alternative.

I’ll be here at Winterpast, indoors near the cool air, waiting for Oliver and Tanner to return. Until then, have a great day!

Six o’clock on an August morning at Winterpast is one of my favorite times of day. The baking Nevada sun hasn’t climbed high enough to remind us of the heat that will soon arrive. Instead, the garden seems to awaken slowly, refreshed by a night of cool darkness and ready for another day.

The roses are taking turns being the stars of the show. Their work is never finished. Fresh leaves appear almost overnight, followed by tightly wrapped buds that gradually unfold into beautiful blooms. Before long, those blossoms have given their best, waiting patiently for a quick snip from my clippers so they can begin the cycle all over again. Deadheading isn’t a chore to me. It’s simply making room for what comes next.

Nearby, the Chinese asters stretch toward the morning light, their cheerful pink and purple blossoms adding another splash of color to the garden beds. Every corner of Winterpast seems to be enjoying its own little performance.

Oliver and Tanner are convinced the yard belongs to them. The early morning is their favorite time to race through the grass, play tag, and investigate every scent carried on the gentle breeze.

While they’re busy entertaining themselves, HHH makes his rounds with the watering wand, checking plants and talking through plans for the coming week. Some plants are ready for a drink of Miracle-Gro to encourage new growth. Others need a dose of SuperThrive to help them recover from the summer heat. Every plant seems to ask for something a little different.

As the sunlight reaches the roof, the solar panels quietly come to life. Moments later, the fountains begin to bubble and splash, filling the yard with one of my favorite sounds. It is the signal that another day at Winterpast has officially begun.

August is a month of quiet transition. The annuals that faithfully bloomed all summer have nearly finished their work. One by one, they’ll be removed to make room for what comes next. The mornings grow just a little cooler. The shadows stretch a little longer. And even though summer still holds us tightly in its grip, the first whispers of autumn are beginning to arrive.

For now, I’ll savor these peaceful mornings with clippers in hand, grateful for another sunrise, another season, and another chance to watch new life unfold at Winterpast.

These days, the gardens here at Winterpast are in full bloom.

Roses of every color brighten the landscape, each carrying a wonderfully descriptive name: Tequila Sunrise, Happy Go Lucky, Grand Dame, Stainless Steel, and Bliss. Somehow, they all seem to fit their names perfectly. Especially Mr. Lincoln. He produces magnificent, deep-red tea roses with long stems, perfect for cutting and arranging.

Of course, the roses are not allowed to steal the entire show. Black-eyed Susans, zinnias, asters, and marigolds add their own cheerful colors throughout the gardens.

But this year’s true showstoppers may be growing in our garden boxes.

We didn’t plant an extensive vegetable garden this season. In past years, the garden has produced far more vegetables than we could possibly eat, or even give away. This time, we decided to try something different. We planted medicinal herbs and flowers.

What a fascinating project it has become. The anise may be my favorite, with its unusual and delicate blooms. The spearmint leaves will make a lovely tea and may help soothe the occasional sore throat. The toothache plant has the cutest little button-shaped buds.

And then there is the mystery beauty, not yet identified. Covered with strange little purple flowers, it towers above the delicate chamomile blossoms, demanding attention. Hiding in the shade, the chamomile quietly promises peaceful evenings and sweet dreams.

Yes, the medicinal plants have been the most interesting ones to watch this year. Every plant seems to have its own personality, purpose, and surprise.

This year, HHH and I have discovered the real benefits of garden journalling. By making notes about what took off and what withered and died, we’ll have a head start on planting next year’s seedlings. Which flowers handled the heat? Which ones bloomed the longest? Which plants attracted bees and butterflies? Which varieties would I happily grow again?

Those notes will guide us next March, when the seed packets come out, trays cover the tables, and the whole hopeful process begins again.

That is one of the gifts of gardening. We observe. We learn. We make plans. Then we begin again. And so it goes here at Winterpast, as the seasons go round and round.

If you have been enjoying the blog, I hope you will spend a little time this weekend wandering through the archives. There are many stories waiting there for you.

I’ll be back on Monday.

Thank you for reading, and have a wonderful weekend.

There is something deeply reassuring about men who quietly step forward when help is needed. They didn’t ask for applause or need their names announced. They simply noticed what needs to be done, rolled up their sleeves, and got to work.

On Monday, seven men from our church helped with a large memorial luncheon. While others prepared and served food, these men filled every gap they could find. They collected trash, watched over the food tables, directed traffic, carried things, solved problems, and treated every person who arrived with kindness and respect.

Our traffic director that day currently has no home. But he came to help us and did a great job. Even he showed up to help.

He could have easily decided that he had enough struggles of his own. Instead, he came to serve a grieving family and a church that needed him. He stood outside, directed cars, welcomed people, and became an important part of a beautiful day.

That is what stepping up looks like.

The men of our church have been doing a great deal of that lately. During the last week, they’ve been painting two of our church buildings, carefully applying the base coat and trim. The fresh dark blue trim catches your eye, but what it really reflects is the faithful spirit of the men who painted it. They outdid themselves, while never asking for attention or recognition. They simply saw something that needed doing—and did it well.

These same men have repaired fences damaged by our fierce zephyr winds. They have worked on cars when someone needed help. They have handled electrical problems, maintenance projects, heavy lifting, and unexpected repairs. Nothing seems too difficult for this team of men.

Their strength isn’t measured only by the buildings they paint, the fences they repair, or the cars they get running again. Their strength is also found in the way they care for people. They are kind, dependable, wonderfully manly men who step forward when someone needs help. They bring their humor, their spirit, and their willingness to serve wherever they go.

And while they are helping at church and in the community, they are also supporting the women they love. They are husbands and fiancés who work to make sure their homes are protected, cared for, and supported by their steady presence.

We are fortunate to have them.

Our church is stronger because of them. Our buildings are brighter because of them. Our gatherings run more smoothly because of them. And many people’s burdens have been made lighter because these men were willing to help carry them.

I am especially fortunate because I am married to one of them.

Thank you, HHH, for everything you do at our church and at home. Thank you for serving without needing praise, for helping without being asked, and for bringing strength, laughter, and love into Winterpast every day.

You are truly one in a million.