Grieving Gardener

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

The dog I always wanted was delivered into my life on Christmas Day in the middle of a casino parking lot. The breeder brought him to me disguised as a discount puppy. The leftover of the litter, he was a four-month-old whirlwind that stole my heart the minute he snuggled next to it. A twelve-pound thief of love.

This was not immediately obvious to other people.

To outsiders, Oliver was adorable. Wire-haired dachshunds have that effect on humans. Their short little legs and expressive eyes convince people they are charming companions sent directly from heaven. With his bonus of green eyes, he had strangers at the first hello.

Those people have never chased him barefoot across Virginia City, while yelling apologies to strangers.

Oliver entered my life like a furry tornado fueled entirely by poor decisions. He ate things no living creature should consume. Toads. Bugs. Mysterious objects discovered in the yard. Even money, when he could come up with a stray wallet. He escaped whenever possible with the confidence of a seasoned criminal and the survival instincts of a shopping cart.

There were moments when I genuinely questioned whether he possessed a single functioning brain cell or thought for more than two seconds. Although he’s clearly mastered telling time, and never misses 5 am breakfast, 3 pm Greenies, or 4 pm dinner. Those, he knows to the minute.

Training him felt less like raising a dog and more like negotiating with an emotionally unstable woodland troll. Other people spoke lovingly about puppyhood while I researched whether dogs could somehow be returned to nature.

And yet somehow, year after year, Oliver remained.

Destroying things.
Creating chaos.
Testing my patience.
Loving me anyway.

At the time, I thought I wanted the perfect dog. Calm. Loyal. Well-behaved. A faithful little companion who would walk politely beside me through life without causing public embarrassment or requiring emergency veterinary consultations.

Instead, I got Oliver.

Life has a sense of humor that way.

Somewhere over the years, though, things have slowly begun to change.

Not all at once.

There was no magical transformation scene with inspirational music as Oliver suddenly matured into a dignified gentleman dog. Frankly, that would have required a personality transplant.

But age has softened both of us.

The wild puppy who once sprinted recklessly through every day has decided to stay closer. The dog who never listened has quietly learned our routines. He’s been watching me differently somehow. More aware. More connected. It’s as if all those years together finally taught him what home meant.

Or perhaps they taught me.

Because lately, I’ve realized something I never expected to say.

Oliver is becoming a good dog.

Not perfect.
Still occasionally ridiculous.
Still capable of making questionable life choices.

In his case, good is enough.

The older I grow, the more I understand that love is rarely instant perfection. The best relationships often evolve slowly through ordinary years spent together. Through frustrations. Through routines. Through shared seasons of life.

Oliver and I have survived 8 years of seasons now.

Grief.
Loneliness.
Laughter.
Quiet mornings at Winterpast.
Long evenings on the patio beneath Nevada stars.
Days when life felt impossibly heavy.
And, the happy days of now with HHH and his sister, Tanner.

Through all of it, this once-chaotic little creature has remained at my side.

Older now.
Wiser now.
Gentler now.

There is something profoundly tender about growing old alongside an animal who has unknowingly witnessed your life changing. Oliver knew me before grief carved deep holes into my heart. He knew me through tears, through healing, through writing, through all the strange rebuilding that followed loss.

He never understood the details, of course.

He simply stayed.

Sometimes quietly faithful love looks exactly like that.

Not grand gestures.
Not perfection.
Just presence.

These days, Oliver naps more often. Patrols the fence line a little slower. Prefers comfort over adventure. Occasionally stares at me with the exhausted expression of a dog who finally realizes he has spent eight years living with a slightly eccentric woman in the middle of the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

Fair enough.

But somewhere along the way, the dog I thought I wanted became something far better.

He became real.

Not the fantasy version of companionship.
Not the polished storybook puppy.
But a living creature who has aged beside me while teaching me that imperfect love can still become one of life’s greatest comforts.

At Winterpast, that’s more than enough.

June arrives differently in the high desert.

Not softly.
Not politely.

One day, the wind still carries spring on its shoulders, and the next, the sunlight sharpens against the white fence at Winterpast as if summer has suddenly remembered where we live. The sage begins to silver in the heat. Long evenings stretch themselves across the yard. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle drifts through open windows while the sprinklers begin their nightly conversation with the thirsty earth.

Hello, June.

A new month deserves to begin with hope, even when understanding how quickly life can change. Hope is even more important after those years. Grief changes the way a person looks at calendars with the realisation that a promise of endless summers is a myth. Ordinary mornings matter more. A cup of coffee on the deck becomes enough reason to pause. A bloom opening in the flower bed feels almost heroic after surviving late frosts and brutal winds.

This spring has been a little like life itself around here. Warm one moment. Frozen the next. Confusing. Beautiful. Exhausting. Full of surprises.

At least the roses are trying, and so are we.

Winterpast is waking into its summer self now. The lawn needs mowing faster than I can keep up with it. Tiny birds scold from the trees while Oliver patrols the fence line as if national security depends entirely upon him. The irrigation system continues to behave like a practical joke designed by exhausted engineers. Somewhere, mildew is undoubtedly plotting against HHH. And still, every morning, the desert sky rises impossibly blue above all of it.

There is comfort in familiar rhythms.

For years now, writing has become one of mine.

Some mornings, the words arrive easily. Other days, they come slowly, like reluctant visitors unsure whether they are welcome. But I keep showing up anyway. That is something grief taught me. Healing is rarely dramatic, but most often it looks like continuing. Watering flowers. Vacuuming dog hair. Paying bills. Laughing unexpectedly. Planning trips. Writing another sentence.

Living another day.

June feels like an invitation to do a little more of that.

Not perfectly.
Not fearlessly.
Not with life completely figured out.

Just faithfully.

There was a time when I thought healing would someday arrive like a lightning strike. A sudden moment where everything hurt less, and life returned to normal. Instead, healing arrived quietly. In gardens. In friendships. In road trips. With HHH. In writing. In dogs growing old beside us. In learning how to carry both joy and sorrow at the same time without dropping either one.

That may be the real gift of June.

Not a fresh start exactly.
But permission to keep growing anyway.

So here at Winterpast, beneath a Nevada-blue sky and the sound of sprinklers turning against dry earth, I’m welcoming another month with cautious optimism and grateful hands.

The flowers are blooming again.

And after everything, so are we.

The gardens of Winterpast are in a state of confusion this year.

First, it was ninety degrees in February. Trees and flowers awakened far too early beneath Nevada-blue skies, stretching toward a warmth that felt more like April than winter. Tender green shoots emerged with confidence, trusting the season. Then winter returned without apology, freezing new growth overnight.

Warmth followed again. Blossoms opened. Bees returned. Hope stirred.

And then another frost came.

While we were away, after days of eighty-degree sunshine, another cold spell swept across the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Gone are the baseball-sized peonies that had proudly announced themselves only days before. Their heavy heads now hang low, browned by cold and left to struggle toward whatever comes next.

But the crab apple tree must be in a very determined mood these days.

Against all reason, she was blooming again. One brief show of tiny pink blossoms to announce, I am here and I will not give up to the weather.

Not as boldly as before. Not covered in the extravagant blossoms she first offered to spring. This time, only scattered soft pink petals are opening quietly to the sun, visited by confused honey bees zigzagging through the chilly air. Still, she blooms.

Standing in the middle of our yard, she has become my newest symbol for people learning to live after grief, heartbreak, illness, aging, disappointment, or loss.

Life changes us. Frost touches every living thing eventually. Some seasons arrive too harshly. Some winters stay too long. We lose parts of ourselves we thought would always remain untouched. The garden never survives unchanged.

Neither do we.

Yet somehow, deep inside, there remains a quiet instinct to bloom again.

Not perfectly. Not all at once. Not without scars left by difficult seasons. But gently. Patiently. One small blossom at a time.

The roses at Winterpast are trying too. Their frost-bitten tips have finally begun to grow out, reaching cautiously toward another season. Tiny buds are appearing now, much smaller than usual, but present nonetheless. The lavender is uneven. The maple dropped leaves in protest weeks ago. Even the sturdy sagebrush looks uncertain beneath the endless Nevada wind.

Powderly mildow is attacking the tiny new leaves. Yesterday, the rains washed away the Neem Oil HHH sprayed just the day before. Everything feels slightly delayed this year. Slightly bruised.

And perhaps that is why the gardens feel so honest.

There is something deeply comforting about watching living things continue after hardship. Not untouched by it, but continuing anyway. The crab apple tree does not stand in the yard mourning the blossoms she lost. She simply gathers herself and begins again with what remains.

There is wisdom in that.

Grief once taught me that happiness would never return looking exactly as it had before. I waited a long time for life to become what it once was, until slowly realizing that healing rarely works that way. New joy grows differently. Softer perhaps. More fragile in appearance. But often deeper rooted than before.

The gardens of Winterpast remind me daily that survival is not failure. Blooming after the frost is its own kind of courage.

And that is enough for this season.

A little sunshine.
A little hope.
And the quiet decision to go ahead anyway, one step at a time.

We were simply trying to enjoy one final dinner before sailing north to Alaska. It was the first night and only night in a new country that we were already finding confusing and unattractive. Flights before embarkation meant we had to stay on land the first night of our vacation. The choice was made for us.

The setting should have been perfect. Poolside at an overpriced waterfront resort in Vancouver, mountains fading into evening light, soft conversation drifting through the air, water shimmering beneath strings of carefully arranged lights. The kind of atmosphere designed to convince travelers they were experiencing luxury.

The setting let us down.

After being checked into a second-floor ADA room with a wheel-in shower and plenty of handrails, the bloom was off that rose. A sliding door opened to a substantial guard rail. That’s right. A removable wall with protection in case someone wanted to step out on the balcony, which was missing.

The view, so attractive, overlooked the restaurant’s roof, where we would eat just hours later.

The meal itself was another matter entirely. First line of advice. If a place advertises barbecue, be sure that it smells of barbecue. This was frozen and microwaved, yet sold at down-home, fresh-cooked prices. Overpriced and undercooked. I doubt there are enough rain-free days for Canadians to develop the true art of grilled food.

Still, HHH and I sat quietly talking, trying to enjoy the evening for what it was. In less than 12 hours, we’d board our ship and sail away. That in itself was enough.

Marines and hunters never completely lose their skills, and HHH is both.

Something moved near one of the chase lounges beside the pool, instantly catching HHH’s eye. At first, he pointed casually, assuming it was a squirrel. That would have fit the postcard image better. Canada is supposed to have squirrels.

Then the creature stepped fully into the light.

Not a squirrel.

A rat.

And not some tiny little alley rat either. This thing was nearly the size of a cat, thick-bodied and bold, disappearing beneath the lounge chairs as though it owned the place.

A few moments later, the waiter returned to refill our waters. Naturally, we mentioned it.

“Oh, that,” he said casually. “I’ve seen bigger.”

That response may have disturbed me more than the rat itself.

No embarrassment. No surprise. No concern whatsoever.

Apparently, oversized poolside rats had become just another normal part of the atmosphere at this elegant waterfront resort. Not exactly a glowing tourism campaign.

The moment stayed with me because it seemed oddly symbolic of so much else I had begun noticing. Expensive appearances masking uncomfortable realities. Polished brochures covering cracks nobody wanted to discuss. More crowds. More restrictions. More concrete. More people packed into shrinking spaces while nature adapted in the ugliest ways possible.

The rats, apparently, are thriving beautifully.

Not a good look, Canada. Like so many things in life, the expensive facade could only hide reality for so long. Glad we sailed away the next morning.