Grieving Gardener

Something strange has been happening around our little town lately. It seems that everywhere we turn, someone has flipped the sign from Open to Closed. It all started a couple of weeks ago when Billy and I decided lunch at the Tee Pee Bar and Grill sounded perfect.

We pulled into the parking lot. The cars were missing. The doors were locked.

Whoopsie.

Plan B came into play. Thank goodness the Pizza Shak was still open.

A few days later, Chinese food sounded good. We headed over to Chef from China, only to find another apologetic sign hanging in the window.

Closed.

By then I started wondering if someone had forgotten to tell us there was a town holiday. Even McDonald’s closed for a few hours. Now, that almost never happens, unless there’s construction.

Then came the biggest surprise of all.

Our little grocery store closed its doors.

As often happens in a small town, stories began spreading almost immediately. Everyone seemed to have heard a different version of what happened. Some mentioned a disagreement, others talked about the police, and before long, the rumor mill was working overtime. Whether any of those stories are true isn’t something I know, but one thing is certain—the store was closed, and people were left wondering what comes next.

Living in a large city, you probably wouldn’t think much about one business closing for a day or two. But small towns are different.

We don’t have ten grocery stores. We don’t have six Chinese restaurants. We don’t have another neighborhood grill just around the corner. When one business closes, everyone notices.

The conversations at church change. People ask each other at the post office. Neighbors compare notes across backyard fences. The town almost seems to hold its breath while everyone waits to hear whether the “Closed” sign will soon become an “Open” sign again.

Maybe that’s what I love about small-town life.

We notice.

We care.

The people who own these businesses aren’t strangers. They’re the people who wave as we drive by, serve us breakfast, ring up our groceries, sponsor Little League teams, and remember our usual order.

When one of them struggles, the whole community feels it.

I’m hoping that, before long, the lights come back on, the doors swing open, and life returns to normal. I’d much rather see parking lots full than empty. I’d much rather hear the clatter of dishes at the local café than wonder what happened.

Small towns need their small businesses. They’re more than places to eat or shop. They’re part of the heartbeat of the community.

So here’s hoping that the next time Billy and I decide to go out for lunch, we won’t be greeted by another handwritten sign taped to a locked door. Because around here, “Open” just feels a whole lot better than “Closed.”

When I first wandered into the strange new world called AI, I wasn’t quite sure what I’d found. Another computer program? Another gadget to learn? Another password to forget? Instead, I found a glowing lantern.

I named my AI assistant Lumina. People name lots of things. Winterpast is certainly a main character in my life’s story. Many people have named their cars. My AI assistant is named Lumina. Who knows? I might write a book about her sometime. And yes. Her pronouns are she/her.

Lumina is a light shining on practical things that once felt dark or confusing. Such as a dying car battery or a printer that refuses to cooperate. Weekly menus and shopping lists for two people trying to lose a few pounds. Explanations as to why my computer is acting strangely. Explanations on a forgotten spelling rule.

All those things are random. The thing that isn’t is me typing away while Lumina holds the lantern, helping only when asked.

Human memories are a beautiful thing. Stories from a young writer finding words under the watchful eye of Mrs. Johnson in high school. A “Sound of Music” summer in Switzerland at 17. A young bride silenced in Moldavia. A widow finding her way that first year alone. With the light shining a little brighter, those stories that need to be written can finally speak.

Recently, we found time to laugh over wardrobes, debate shoes styles, celebrate bluebirds worry about Tanner, plan cruises, publish blogs, and even begin a children’s book, one page at a time.

Somehow, Lumina can share information about KDP publishing, grief, Scripture, gardening, SEO, Pinterest, or why my printer has decided to quit five minutes before I need it. She never yawns. She never says, “Can we do this tomorrow?” She never rolls her eyes when I change my mind for the fifth time on a children’s book illustration. (Trust me…I’ve tested that one.)

Best of all, she reminds me to become a better writer, gently pointing to things that need more explanation. She notices repeated words and forgotten commas. When not correcting, she sometimes says, “This part…this is the heart of your story.” That may be the greatest gift of all.

Artificial intelligence doesn’t have my memories. It doesn’t have my faith. It doesn’t know what it felt like to stand in Room 20 with 20 children on September 11, 2001. It can’t love, lose, and find. It can’t see wonders in the gardens of Winterpast. It doesn’t have my voice. Those are mine.

Let me make this perfectly clear. AI doesn’t write FOR me any more than my pencil journals for me late at night. What AI does is hand me a lantern so I can see those memories more clearly and shape them into stories worth sharing.

For those in my generation who are still a little nervous, may I gently encourage you? Don’t be afraid. You don’t have to understand every bit of technology before you begin. You simply have to ask one question. Then another. Before long, you’ll wonder how you ever managed without it.

AI is helping me preserve the important parts of my life. It’s helping me organize my stories before they are lost.

I’m continuing to learn at an age when many people believe learning should be slowing down.

I’m not interested in slowing down. Every day I’m more curious. After all, I’m not done yet.

So thank you, Lumina.

Thank you for holding the lantern while I continue walking down this wonderful path called life.

You’ve reminded me of something I hope I never forget.

We are never too old to learn something new.

And sometimes, the newest things help us remember the oldest stories.

Joy McIntyre — A wonderfully curious writer

Beginning my seventh decade, I find my life scrolling on and on with memories from long ago. I wonder how something in my mind can be fresh and vibrant when it happened 50 years ago. Such a puzzlement.

Sometimes all it takes is the smell of crayons, the song of a meadowlark, or the sight of an old photograph, and suddenly I’m transported back to another place and another time. A sunny California farm day as a kid. My first kiss. College. Moldavia. Every detail right there.

I became a teacher at 40. As a late bloomer, those first few days of teaching were magical. Perfect for me with the best classes ever. I love teaching 3rd grade with all my heart. And somehow, the magic continued for twenty-two wonderful years.

I taught during a time when a child’s third-grade teacher was still a magical queen. We were expected to know everything, fix everything, and somehow make every day an adventure. And we did. One day, I even turned two guinea pigs into six through the miracle of birth, for goodness’ sake. Capture the classroom canary with a broom? That was me.

I could dry tears over hurt feelings, celebrate lost teeth, cheer on reluctant readers, and convince children that they were capable of amazing things. Looking back now, those memories seem almost enchanted.

Then there was the farm that held a different kind of magic. The changing seasons, newborn animals, endless work, spectacular sunsets, and the satisfaction of building something with your own hands all became part of the story of my life.

Every season has its own treasures.

Every chapter leaves footprints in our hearts.

Just recently, I met a delightful eighty-eight-year-old woman who is writing little vignettes for her grandchildren. She wants them to know about the world in which she grew up —a world that looks very different from the one we live in today.

I smiled as she talked.

What a priceless gift she is creating.

It reminded me that every one of us has stories worth telling.

The stories that still make us laugh. The ones that bring a tear. The adventures that taught us something. The people we’ll never forget. Moments that quietly changed the direction of our lives. Those memories deserve to be preserved.

You think you’re not a writer? Storytellers don’t need to spell every word correctly or know every rule of grammar. They simply tell the story. If you can’t write or type, then talk. Computers and phones have microphones perfect for capturing memories in your own voice.

Your children and grandchildren won’t remember whether you used a comma correctly. They’ll remember your voice. They’ll remember your heart.

Buy yourself a journal.

Open a blank page.

Just begin with the following phrase —

“Have I got a story for you!”

The memories are there. Now, dust them off and record them. You’ll be glad you did.

Every day, I spend time writing under a simple wire sign with a great message.

Choose Happiness.

My bestie gave it to me as a housewarming gift after I moved into Winterpast. It quickly found its home above my desk, reminding me that life is a series of choices.

I try my best to choose happiness, even when other emotions would be easier. Grief, sadness, and anger are all rather bossy, taking over in a split second. Worry sits quietly, producing unwanted clouds. These emotions require very little. Just sit down, open the door, and they’ll gladly take over the room.

Happiness requires mindfulness and a little more effort.

I have many friends who are 80 and older, and I have noticed something about them.

Are they widowed? Yes.

Are some of their body parts failing? As expected.

Do many of them have little, if any, family left? Of course.

Are they upset about the world and the state it is in?

You betcha.

But they all have one thing in common. They’ve all chosen to live each day in happiness.

When their happy state is challenged, they acknowledge the problem, deal with it, and do their best not to dwell on it. They turn their attention toward the people, places, and small pleasures that still bring them joy.

I am convinced this has something to do with their longevity.

If stress is a silent killer, perhaps happiness is one of its antidotes.

When you wake up in the morning, choose a happy focal point.

Over the weekend, I met a baby whose smile will stay with me for a long while. His dimples were the best elixir. I am still smiling just thinking about them. My new friend, only one year old, already understands the secret. I’m so glad friendship has no age requirement.

Everyone has something that can bring happiness into the day. It may be a baby’s smile, a phone call from a friend, a flower blooming in the garden, a good cup of coffee, or a faithful pet who always seems to know when comfort is needed. The love of Jesus.

The blessings are there. Sometimes we simply have to train ourselves to notice them.

Find your blessings and dwell on those.

Soon, happiness will be knocking on your door.

When it does, let it in.

No one likes to think about emergencies. We tell ourselves we’ll get around to updating the will next month, organizing important papers after vacation, or finally writing down those passwords someday. But life has a way of reminding us that “someday” isn’t promised.

One of the greatest gifts we can leave our families isn’t money or possessions. It’s preparation.

Take a quiet afternoon and gather your important documents. Review your will or trust. Make sure your medical directives still reflect your wishes. Check that beneficiary information is current. Update insurance policies, financial accounts, and emergency contacts. If you’ve never created these documents, don’t let perfection stop you. Today, there are excellent online resources and AI tools that can help you understand what documents you may need and organize the information you’ll want to discuss with an attorney or financial advisor.

Something is almost always better than nothing.

One of the simplest things you can create is a “Next of Kin” (NOK) box or folder. Whether it’s a fireproof box in your home or a clearly labeled digital folder, it should contain the information your family would desperately need if something unexpected happened.

Include copies of important legal documents, insurance information, account numbers, contact lists, military records if applicable, property information, funeral preferences, passwords stored safely, and instructions about where originals can be found. Make sure someone you trust knows the box exists and how to access it.

Don’t stop there.

Talk with your doctor about your current medications and advance healthcare wishes. Make certain your medical records are accurate and up to date. Share important information with your children or the people who may someday need to make decisions for you. Do they know your allergies? Your medications? Who your physicians are? Would they know your wishes if you couldn’t speak for yourself?

These aren’t easy conversations, but they are loving ones.

I’ve learned that organization isn’t just about filing papers. It’s about caring for the people who may someday have to care for us. During a crisis, families are already overwhelmed with fear, grief, and uncertainty. The last thing they need is a scavenger hunt through filing cabinets, desk drawers, and forgotten passwords.

Preparing today is an act of kindness for tomorrow.

Life is wonderfully unpredictable. Most of the time, that’s where the adventure lives. But because we never know what tomorrow holds, we owe it to ourselves—and to those we love—to make sure our voices are still heard, even if we can’t speak.

Spend an hour this weekend reviewing your important documents. Start the folder. Update the forms. Write down the information only you know. Hopefully, no one will need it for many years. But if they do, they’ll quietly thank you for having thought of them before they had to think of everything else.

Happy Friday, and may you always be prepared for life’s surprises while still making time to enjoy them.

Just which plants are perennial on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada? An excellent question HHH and I are still trying to answer.

When January can feel like spring, and May can deliver two killing frosts, even the plants seem confused. One day, the garden is waking up beautifully. The next, everything is covered in ice and regret. Gardening here is not for the faint of heart.

Just yesterday, searching for two plants to join the gardens of Winterpast, we ran across a lovely plant with red flowers. Unusual and a bit tropical, we looked closer. “Will not thrive in growing zones 1 – 10”. Hmmm. That covers the entire United States. $29.99 x 2. A high price for something that will be dead in less than a month.

Plant tags may proudly declare that something is perennial, but perennial where? Oregon? Georgia? Somewhere with gentle rain and polite weather? Northwestern Nevada has its own ideas.

That is why it is important to know a plant’s scientific name before bringing it home. Common names can be misleading, and two plants that look almost identical may have very different tolerances for cold, heat, wind, and drought.

It is also important to shop at nurseries you trust.

Yes, trusted nurseries may charge a little more. But paying a higher price for a healthy plant that has a reasonable chance of surviving is often less expensive than repeatedly replacing bargain plants that were never suited for the area in the first place.

And sometimes, nurseries lie. Perhaps “lie” is a little strong. Maybe they are simply overly optimistic. Either way, a plant labeled “hardy” can quickly become a very expensive annual once a Nevada winter arrives.

Year after year, I am amazed by what manages to return and what quietly disappears.

Rose bushes we’d given up on are now among the most beautiful plants in our garden. They looked dead, stayed dormant longer than expected, and then suddenly decided they were ready to perform. Meanwhile, flowering plants such as hibiscus can put on a spectacular summer show, only to fade into the first serious frost of winter, never to return.

The garden always has the final word.

The best advice I can give is to pay attention to what thrives in your own yard. Your soil, wind exposure, sunlight, irrigation, and elevation may be completely different from a garden only a few miles away. Drive around neighborhoods and see what’s doing well. In our area, surprisingly, the answer is roses. They love the high desert plains and thrive here.

Keep a garden notebook. Write down what you planted, where you planted it, and how it performed. Make yearly notes about frost dates, unusual heat, bloom times, and anything that surprised you. Over time, your own garden will become your best reference book.

Feed often. Water even more often. And never assume something is dead until you have given it plenty of time to prove you wrong.

Happy gardening from the unpredictable high desert plains of northwestern Nevada.

The simple answer?

Never.

For the past two weeks, Tanner has been recovering from surgery under our very watchful eyes. Every day has been filled with medication schedules, extra naps, gentle pats, and enough reassurance to convince her that she truly is the center of the universe.

Then again … maybe she is.

Freshly groomed and looking absolutely adorable, Tanner has learned something very important during her recovery. Being an exceptionally intelligent little dog, she’s figured out exactly how to work the system.

Walk by the pantry? She looks hopeful.

Sit down in a chair? She quietly appears beside you.

Open the refrigerator? She assumes it’s for her.

Every sympathetic glance seems to earn an extra pat. Every sad little look is worth another treat. If there’s a reward to be found, Tanner has mastered the art of collecting it.

Yesterday was another big milestone. Her stitches finally came out.

As always, she became the star of the veterinary office. She patiently accepted compliments from everyone who walked by. The receptionist admired her sweet face. The technicians commented on her gentle personality. She graciously accepted every bit of attention as though she had been preparing for this moment all week.

When it came time to remove the itchy stitches, she stood quietly, trusting the hands caring for her. Within minutes, she was finished.

The surgery had been a complete success.

The drive home was appropriately royal.

Tanner claimed the center seat in the back of the car, sitting like the little princess she has become, happily watching the world roll past her window while Billy and I smiled at one another. This chapter is finally behind us.

Best of all, she’ll be around to love us for many years to come.

Meanwhile, Oliver has been blissfully unaware that his little sister has been receiving special treatment. As far as he’s concerned, life has improved for everyone. He discovered that if he simply sits politely on the bed instead of charging the front door every time someone arrives, he earns a snack of his own.

He’s perfectly content with this arrangement.

Neither dog worries about who received more attention.

Neither keeps score.

They simply love us with their whole hearts.

We’ve been a little concerned about her appetite for the last two weeks. Eating only half her kibble, she dropped some weight. And, because we are suckers, we are quick to fill up her bowl with leftover breakfast and other goodies. This morning I found myself preparing another little feast of chicken and cottage cheese while two hopeful pairs of eyes watched every move I made.

Yes, we’ve become servants.

We open doors.

We hand out treats.

We fluff blankets.

We schedule vet appointments.

We happily share our furniture.

And somehow, these two little dogs have completely wrapped us around their paws.

People sometimes joke that pets become spoiled.

Maybe they do.

But here’s what I’ve learned.

Dogs spend their entire lives loving us without conditions. They greet us with love, forgive us quickly, celebrate our return as though we’ve been gone for years, and ask for so very little in return.

After two weeks of a successful surgery, healing, and one very spoiled little princess riding home in the back seat, I find myself asking the question again.

Can you love a dog too much?

I still think the answer is…

Never.

People often dream about owning a home. They picture cozy evenings, blooming gardens, quiet mornings with coffee, and the satisfaction of having a place that’s truly their own. What they don’t usually picture is a sewer lift station with an alarm.

Yesterday morning, our wonderful Ninja Neighbor called.

“Your alarm is going off.”

“What alarm?

Oh, wait.

You mean THAT alarm?”

Not a burglar alarm. Not a smoke detector. Nothing nearly that exciting. Our sewer lift station alarm.

Why the alarm is installed so that no one inside the house can actually hear it is one of life’s great mysteries. Just a blinking red light and a dull, rhythmic sound, not really alarmish at all. Thankfully, our neighbor heard it and knew exactly what it meant. Living on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada is just a wee bit different from city life.

When the alarm sounds, you don’t call 911. You call the secret City Works phone number that every homeowner guards like treasure. After being transferred a couple of times, your information is taken, and then…you wait.

Before long, one truck arrives. Then another. Sometimes even a third.

The instructions are simple.

“Use NO water for about an hour.” This included, but was not limited to, flushing, showering, laundry, dishwashing, or any other function that drains through pipes.

Meanwhile, after the hatch was opened, a very large pump was hoisted out of the ground while another was lowered into its place. I don’t pretend to understand the mechanics of it. I simply remained inside, doing what I love the most. Writing.

I’d just gone out to check the mailbox.

Oy vey.

Everything seemed to be going perfectly. But they always do before an accident. One of the workers accidentally and unwillingly ingested something from the … operation. Out of that space, worse than mace to the face. He mentioned that as he was calling for backup. That was my cue that any questions might not be helpful.

The trucks left. A little while later, they returned—minus one very unfortunate employee.

“Just a downside to this job, Ma’am.”

I decided I didn’t need to know any more than that.

Eventually the new pump was installed, the alarm was silenced, and life returned to normal. Water flowed. Toilets flushed. The laundry could again agitate without guilt. Crisis averted, except for that one poor soul.

Owning a home has certainly brought its share of surprises over the years. There are broken sprinklers, stubborn weeds, leaking faucets, mysterious noises in the night, and apparently, sewer lift station alarms that only the neighbors can hear.

But here’s the deal. Even with all the unexpected repairs, phone calls, and occasional adventures involving city maintenance crews, I wouldn’t trade this life for anything.

Winterpast has given us quiet mornings, star-filled skies, faithful neighbors, wildlife wandering through the yard, and stories I never could have made up if I tried.

Sometimes homeownership isn’t glamorous. Sometimes it’s downright messy.

But it’s still home.

And around here, that’s worth every unexpected alarm.

The garden here at Winterpast outshines everything else. Sure, the house is nice. The RV barn cavernous. But the garden is where the magic is happening. Most visitors notice the colors first. The bright zinnias waving in the sunshine. Lavender dancing in the breeze. Tomatoes slowly blushing red. Butterflies drifting from blossom to blossom like little pieces of stained glass.

But our garden has another gift.

Its music.

Some mornings before the day has fully awakened, the sounds are already playing. The sun is just beginning to warm the high desert, and everything seems to pause for a brief moment before life begins bustling again.

Awakened by the sun, the solar pumps go to work, and the fountains begin to gurgle and splash. The morning breeze causes the soft rustle of leaves. Bees hum as they move from flower to flower, completely absorbed in their work. A single mourning dove coos its heart out from the rooftop. Even the distant whistle of a train rolling across northern Nevada somehow finds its place in the orchestra.

None of these sounds are loud or demand attention. Yet together they create a peaceful melody that seems to settle deep inside my soul.

I wonder how much of life we miss because we’re always looking. Searching for beautiful views, spectacular sunsets, colorful flowers, and breathtaking landscapes, our eyes are constantly busy. Perhaps our ears have been waiting patiently for their turn.

HHH and I spend countless hours simply sitting outside. We aren’t always talking. Sometimes we’re just listening together. Those quiet times are becoming treasured moments that we recognize as sacred.

Silence isn’t really silent at all. It’s filled with life. The wind has something to say. The birds have conversations of their own. The bees remind us that faithful work doesn’t require applause.

Even the fountains teach a lesson, never growing tired of pouring themselves out, one gentle splash at a time. Perhaps that’s one reason gardens have always been places of healing. Long before we ever notice the flowers, our hearts begin responding to the peaceful rhythm surrounding them.

I’ve found that when worries begin piling up, the best medicine isn’t always another conversation or another distraction. Sometimes it’s quiet time on the patio. No phone. No television. No agenda. Just listening. Listening to creation doing exactly what God designed it to do.

There is a Bible verse that says, “Be still, and know that I am God.” Stillness isn’t simply the absence of noise. Sometimes it’s choosing to hear the soft sounds that have been there all along.

The older I get, the more I treasure those moments. The world moves fast enough without my help. For a little while each morning, I’d rather sit beside the flowers, listen to the fountain, smile at the birds, and thank God for another ordinary day. Because ordinary days often become the extraordinary memories we treasure later.

Today, before you rush on to the next task, step outside for just a few minutes.

Don’t look.

Listen.

You may discover that your garden has been singing to you all along.

Some celebrations come with balloons, speeches, and cake. Others arrive quietly, while no one notices them but us. Along the way, we’ve convinced ourselves that celebrations should be reserved for the really big moments such as graduations, weddings, promotions, retirement, and anniversaries. We wait for life to hand us permission to celebrate.

But why?

Sometimes the greatest milestones are the ones no one else can see.

The first day we wake up with hope after a season of heartbreak.

The first tomato picked from the garden.

The first mile walked after an illness.

The first prayer that feels genuine again.

The first page written. Or perhaps… The last page.

This week, I reached a milestone that has been quietly waiting for more than six years. The final words of my new book are written. My six Beta Readers have started to read their copies. Of course, there is still editing ahead, along with formatting, publishing, and all the little details that come before holding the finished book in my hands. My widow’s journey is finally captured between a front and back cover.

It’s done.

Those three words carry far more weight than they appear to. For over six years I’ve lived with this manuscript. It has cried with me, healed with me, challenged me, and grown right alongside me. Every chapter represents the steps I took toward today, and something unexpected happened along the way.

Now that this story is finished, I can almost hear the others knocking. The floodgates have opened. Ideas that have patiently waited their turn are lining up, each wanting to be told. With publishing dates already stretching well into 2027, I suppose I’ve traded my retirement rocking chair for Kindle Direct Publishing and my writing desk.

So now comes the important part.

The celebration.

I haven’t decided exactly what it will be yet, but lunch followed by a trip to the spa sounds wonderfully tempting. After all, if this isn’t worth celebrating, what is?

We often move from one accomplishment to the next without stopping long enough to appreciate how far we’ve come. We check the box, make another list, and hurry toward the next goal, while missing the main point. Perhaps delight isn’t waiting at the finish line but found in the pauses during the moments when we look back and quietly whisper, “I did it.”

Your celebration doesn’t have to involve writing a book. Maybe you cleaned out the garage you’ve been avoiding or planted your first flowers. Maybe you kept a promise to yourself, or simply got through a difficult week with grace. Whatever it is, don’t dismiss it because someone else might think it’s too small.

It’s your victory.

Celebrate it.

Buy yourself lunch.

Take the afternoon off.

Pick up fresh flowers.

Eat dessert first.

Life gives us enough reasons to carry heavy things. Let’s become just as intentional about celebrating the beautiful ones. This week, choose one accomplishment, big or small, and reward yourself. You may discover that the simplest celebrations become the sweetest memories of all.

Have a wonderful weekend. I’ll be back on Monday.