Grieving Gardener

There was a time—not so very long ago—when our street looked like it had been gently lifted from the pages of a home magazine. Soft tones, warm neutrals, and the occasional brave front door in red or navy gave everything a sense of quiet harmony. Nothing was shocking. Nothing made you stop mid-sip of your morning coffee and question your grip on reality. It was simply… peaceful.

And then, the marine across the street came out to play. You know the one—the man with thousands of Christmas lights every December. That one.

At first, it was just scaffolding. Innocent enough. A sign of improvement and renewal. We all nodded approvingly as we drove by, assuming another neighbor had finally decided to freshen things up. It felt like progress.

But then came the first coat. Black. Not a soft charcoal or a gentle slate, but a deep, committed, absorbs-all-light kind of black, the kind that doesn’t reflect sunshine so much as swallow it whole. We paused, collectively, quietly, each of us thinking the same thing. Surely… this was the base coat.

Then came the turquoise. Not a whisper of coastal charm or a subtle accent, but a bold, unapologetic turquoise that announced itself like a tropical bird that had taken a wrong turn and landed squarely in the high desert. And just like that, the neighborhood changed color.

Across the street now stands a home valued well north of $600,000, transformed into something that could only be described, with the utmost respect, as a very well-appointed dungeon.

Now, before we go any further, let me say this: the homeowner must be colorblind. And that matters, because what we see is not what he sees. Still, it has created something of a community experience.

Miss Ninja Neighbor, who has an uncanny ability to know everything before it officially happens, was the first to quietly observe the situation from behind her perfectly angled blinds. One might imagine her reporting back in hushed tones, “It’s not primer.”

From there, the news spread in the way only neighborhood news can, without ever quite being spoken out loud. Conversations happened in driveways. Eyebrows lifted over mailboxes. Long pauses followed by, “Well… that’s… different.” One neighbor was heard to say, “Maybe it’s not finished yet.” Another, more optimistic soul added, “Perhaps there’s a third color coming.”

And then came the quiet acceptance—the understanding that sometimes, in life, things don’t turn out the way we would have chosen, but turn out all the same.

Because here’s the truth tucked beneath the humor: it takes courage to choose something bold, even if the rest of us don’t quite understand it and would have gently nudged the color wheel in another direction.

Every time I look out my window now, I’m reminded that life isn’t meant to be perfectly coordinated to my color schemes. It’s meant to be lived, sometimes brightly, sometimes strangely, and sometimes in black and turquoise.

In its own unexpected way, the neighborhood has grown a little closer. Not in agreement, but in shared experience. A quiet, collective “Well then…” that we all carry with us.

As the days pass, I find the color palette growing on me. It isn’t every older marine who gets things perfectly right, and somehow, this bold little masterpiece fits him, completely and unapologetically. We can only hope there isn’t another one on the block ready to take it a step further.

Thank you for sharing a little time this morning. Please come back tomorrow for more stories about Grief, healing, and life on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

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Spring has always been a busy season at Winterpast. The earth wakes up all at once out here on the high desert, as if it suddenly remembers what it was meant to do. Weeds push upward, trees stretch toward the sun, and the wind carries that familiar promise of change. There are beds to tend, seedlings to watch, and a quiet urgency that settles in with the longer days.

But this year, spring has brought more than just the usual rhythm of growth. It has brought election season.

And not just any election season, but one that’s woven into our own family circle. HHH’s brother, known to many simply as The Mayor, is running for a second term. Over the past years, we’ve watched what can happen when leadership is steady, thoughtful, and rooted in something good. Good changes have been lasting. Growth has come, not just in buildings or projects, but in spirit, direction, and in the quiet confidence of a town finding its footing.

So, alongside planting, watering, and watching the skies, another kind of tending is happening now.

Campaign season has its own rituals. Street signage appears almost overnight, dotting corners and lining roads like bright declarations of hope. In a town where roots run deep, knowing where to place those signs is almost an art form. Having lived here since the late 1950s, HHH and his brothers know every curve and corner where a sign will be seen and remembered.

A late frost came, quiet and unforgiving.

After the late frost, it’s official now. There will be no cherries, plums, or apricots from Winterpast this year. What once promised abundance has been taken in a single cold breath. The Japanese Maple, confused by the sudden shift, has turned to fall colors as if skipping ahead in time, and will now have to begin again to push out new leaves where the old ones froze.

And as if nature hadn’t made its point clearly enough… the squirrel has returned. Through the same small breach in the fence, bold as ever, it found its way back to the garden and claimed our second Early Girl tomato. Eaten to the roots as if Winterpast hasn’t suffered enough this season.

One thing is for sure. Spring isn’t always gentle. It’s a season of beginnings, but also of setbacks, surprises, and the kind of resilience that asks us to start again, even when we had hoped we wouldn’t have to.

So, this week, we’re planting signs along roads that have known this family for generations.
Replanting hope where frost has taken its share. Patching fences—again. And watching for what will come next. Because if Winterpast has taught us anything, it is this: Growth rarely comes in a straight line. But it comes.

Just a note–It amazes me that this little space at Winterpast is now being read in 34 countries. Wherever you are, thank you for being here. Please come back tomorrow.

As the weekend passed, it didn’t rush by or slip away unnoticed. It unfolded slowly, like something meant to be taken in one moment at a time.

Friday began around a breakfast table, gathered with church friends, where conversation is never quite ordinary. As always, Pastor Mike presented something unexpected about thoughts on the decline of church membership, paired with ideas on how to draw people back in. Both important topics to think about.

The next morning came early, and with it, something altogether different.

At 9 am, we gathered again, this time not for breakfast, but for a funeral. A life well lived was honored, yet right beside sorrow sat something softer. Stories were shared. Memories surfaced. Things mattered most hadn’t been lost, but remembered. Time spent together. Moments that lingered. A life measured not in years, but in presence.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, while I was helping, something quiet and unexpected was happening at home.

HHH, in his wonderfully secret way, created something just for me, a plant stand and a fountain. Both gifts. Both surprises. The two have transformed our back patio into a place we’ll enjoy while watching nesting birds and desert thunderstorms. When I saw them, it took a second for it to settle in. Cherished in the middle of an ordinary day. It doesn’t get better than that. Thank you, HHH, for making my days so special.

Of course, no new plant stand can remain empty for long.

So off we went to Lowe’s for plants and Walmart for pots, gathering small pieces of life to fill the space. Choosing plants while imagining where they’ll sit is hopeful in a very tangible way.

By Sunday morning, we were back at church again, this time in worship. Voices lifted. Hearts settled. A reminder of where all good things begin. It was, in every sense, a full weekend. Not because of big events or grand plans, but because of the simple things that filled the spaces in between. Conversations with a new widow. Surprise over a beautiful gift. Faith. Small acts of love.

As the weekend passed, it left behind a sense that grace doesn’t arrive in one place or one moment. It’s scattered across breakfast tables, inside chapels, growing along side new tomatoes, and rooted in the changing of the seasons. Pay attention, you find it everywhere.

If this felt like a weekend you’ve known in your own way, come sit with me again tomorrow at Winterpast. There’s always something new to be noticed.

Some things make it right to the top of our To-Do list. Things like wrapping the peonies and zinnias yesterday and unhooking all hoses for the big freeze this morning. Right now, the outdoor temperature is 22 degrees at 5 am. The cozy wraps we gave them might not be enough.

But there are things we all carry that never quite make it onto the calendar. Not because they aren’t important, circling back to them time and time again. We tell ourselves, “Tomorrow will be better,” or “I’ll do it when I have more time, more energy, more clarity.” And so, they wait.

Some of these things are small. A phone call we’ve been meaning to return, a drawer that needs organizing, a letter we once intended to write. Little tasks that quietly stack up, asking for just a few minutes of our attention.

Others are heavier.

A conversation we’ve been avoiding, a boundary we know we need to set, or a step forward that feels uncertain, maybe even a little frightening. These are the ones that linger in the background, gently tugging at us when the world gets quiet.

While not completely ignored, we carry them with us. They show up in the early morning, before the day begins, and whisper in the evening, when everything slows down. Somewhere inside, we know—they’re not going away.

Life has a way of moving forward whether we are ready or not. Seasons change, opportunities come and go, and the things we keep putting off don’t always wait patiently forever. One thing is for sure. There’s no perfect moment but only this one. Not ideal or guaranteed to be easy, but real.

All it takes is one small step. Dialing the number, opening the drawer, speaking the words, even if our voice shakes a little. On the other side of that step, something will shift. The weight will lighten, and what once felt overwhelming begins to feel possible.

Three days ago, the garden had begun to take root in my studio. Bags of soil, peat pots, and seed packets were everywhere. Projects that I might or might not finish were stacked on the floor. In the middle of it all sat the sewing machine. After a day’s work and a few sore muscles, the studio is waiting for new projects. One “To-Do-Someday” off my list.

We often think we need to find the right time to begin, but more often, the right time meets us in the act of beginning. So today, choose just one thing. Not everything—just one. The thing that’s been waiting the longest. Then, take the first step toward it. You’ll be amazed at the results.

Have a wonderful weekend. I’ll be back on Monday to fill you in on the earthquake and other adventures here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

For nearly ten years, my sewing machine has been sitting quietly in its cabinet, waiting without complaint. With fabric matching the thread, small creations came to life stitch by stitch. But over the years, life shifted. The studio that once held spools and patterns slowly gave itself over to another kind of work. Potting soil found its way onto the surfaces, and seed packets took the place of notions.

There was nothing wrong with that. In fact, it was good. The room had a purpose, and it served well as storage and dust bunny hutch until a very practical moment arrived. Wanting more space, the cabinet sat on prime real estate. It seemed only reasonable to move it to another room. My ever-practical HHH (Hubba-Hubba-Hubby) looked at the situation and asked the question that made perfect sense: “Why do you even need a sewing machine?”

It was a fair question. After all, it’s been nearly ten years. No hems, no projects, no quiet afternoons spent guiding fabric under the needle. Just a machine sitting there, taking up valuable space. And yet, the answer wasn’t simple. Because some things we keep are not about what we’re doing right now. They are about who we’ve been, and what hobbies we may choose again. So instead of letting it go, we rearranged.

Soil , peat pots, and the gardening tools disappeared back to their place in the greenhouse. Slowly, almost reverently, the studio opened up. What had once felt crowded and overtaken began to breathe again, becoming lighter, calmer, and more intentional with each small effort.

The sewing machine didn’t disappear but simply moved. It now sits quietly in the guest room, no longer hidden and no longer in the way, but still very much a part of the home.

And the studio found its space again. There is room now to walk, think, and create. The kind of space that feels open and possible, where movement comes easily, and ideas don’t feel crowded out by clutter. It has become, once again, a place of intention—a she-shed inside the house where the work of the hands and the rest of the soul can live side by side.

The walls hold many memories now. Gentle reminders of a life well lived and still unfolding, each one placed with care. There’s something about that kind of order that feels like spring, not just clean, but renewed.

The sewing machine still hasn’t been used, and HHH will continue to wonder why it’s there. But, for now, it will remain in its new place. Not everything we keep needs to be explained. Some things are kept because they are part of us, and sometimes all they need is a new place to rest.

For years, my friend’s heart has been stretched over miles.

With a life on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, she’s been far from the familiar roads that once held her childhood, memories, and family. Life’s adventures had taken her elsewhere, as they so often do. While building something meaningful in this new place, a quiet ache has clouded her present.

Homesickness is a strange thing. It doesn’t always shout, but sometimes sits softly in the background, intensifying with a memory, smell, or story. For her, this homesickness had grown heavier with the years.

There have been family gatherings she could not attend. Holidays marked by phone calls instead of hugs. And hardest of all, the loss of her father as her goodbyes were spoken from afar. Not the same as standing hand in hand, that kind of distance takes a toll.

But God has a way of writing stories we could never arrange ourselves.

Just a week ago, our little church rallied in support of her with a mission of the heart. As her mother 94th birthday was almost here, the time had come. Not someday. Not eventually. Last Wednesday at 1:42 pm, we put her on the plane for a return home.

Boarding the plane with more than a suitcase, she carried years of longing and love, waiting to be shared in person rather than over the phone. On her way, she was covered by prayers that travel farther and faster than any airplane ever could.

As time passes, it may seem doors are closed and that a faraway home can never be visited again. But sometimes… God makes a way. He opens a path where there didn’t seem to be one. He nudges, provides, arranges, and gently says, “Now is the time. Pack your bag. You’re going home.”

This hasn’t been just a visit, but the BEST VISIT EVER. Not built on convenience or timing, it was built on love, longing, and the quiet faith that God still restores what feels impossible.

This morning, in a place that once felt like a memory, she is sitting close to her mom and siblings. Maybe holding Mom’s hand while laughing over old stories with her brother and sisters. Just being together is the birthday gift her mom will treasure the most because, after all those years… coming home means everything.

Every town has their own dress code. Spring on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada demands layer upon layer. I remember the days when true class involved matching everything from the hat to the shoes. Outfits, we called them. Today, the only outfits I see around town keeping a person safe from the frigid morning temperatures in colorful layers.

Along with layering, the quality of the clothing is pretty important. When gardening, clothing takes a beating. The desert sunshine is pretty intense, and a good quality t-shirt might last a season before it fades to a new color. White t-shirts reflect the desert sun, look sharp and were once easy to find.

The REAL men around our town need thick dependable t-shirts that hold their shape and don’t require a second thought before stepping out the door.

Somewhere along the way, many things in life have changed. We’d already visited Costco, only to be stunned at the tiny, thin t-shirts in a package labeled Men’s L. Citified t-shirts arrived on the shelves. Racks and racks of tissue thin men’s t-shirts. Moisture-wicking. Fade-resistant. All the buzz words describing t-shirts until now.

Oy. Vey.

We’ve already endured the renovation of our local Walmart and what seemed like a whole new philosophy on where everything belongs. Last weekend, we found ourselves wandering through the clothing section in search of men’s t-shirts. After a brief search, there they were. Row after row of shirts that looked promising in the packaging. But, soon the truth was revealed. So thin you could practically read a newspaper through it, these shirts were even worse than those at Costco.

The major companies have all joined the same club, now producing the “barely there” collection. Lightweight has become see-through. Comfortable had become questionable. And durability? Well, let’s just say these shirts didn’t look like they planned on sticking around for the long haul.

There in the aisle, holding what used to be a staple of every man’s wardrobe, we had to laugh. Because really… what’s a man to do? Layer up like it’s winter in July? Hope no one notices? Or simply accept that even the humble t-shirt has decided to reinvent itself without asking permission?

It struck me then, in that oddly lit aisle between socks and briefs, that this is the new normal. Nothing stays the same. Not stores. Not seasons. Not even t-shirts. The things we once relied on have shifted beneath our feet. Sometimes for the better. Sometimes… not. Changes in the little things are noticed the most. A shirt that used to feel sturdy now feels flimsy. A store that once made sense now feels like a maze. Familiar comforts slowly trade places with new realities, and we’re left standing there, holding something that looks the same—but isn’t.

Suck it up, buttercup. Smile, nod, and adjust while trying to find the humor. Avoid grumbling and move on. While learning to navigate a new world, accept things as they are even if HANES has changed its corporate mind.

Arriving tomorrow, we’ve ordered heavy weight t-shirts. Although the price for two is the same as the price we used to pay for six, we’re hopeful they’re the ones. They may now hang next to HHH’s formal dress shirts. We certainly won’t take them for granted anymore.

And so, that’s life here on the high desert plains in a town that has only one source for clothing. We’ll continue to enjoy the bright blue desert sky shining down on the gardens of Winterpast. Thank goodness life isn’t all about shopping. Long live Amazon and the beefy cotton Tee.

The church potluck yesterday felt like more than just a meal. Maybe it was the way the tables were lined up in rows, stretching across the fellowship hall like an open invitation. Or maybe it was the quiet understanding that no matter what kind of week we had all walked through, we would meet there, together again. The line for tasty treats went on forever, as guests ate quickly to make room for more.

A moist and delicious spiral-cut ham, glistening under the lights sat the beginning as the anchor of luncheon. The pastor’s wife had wrapped green utensils with orange napkins to resemble little carrots as we celebrated a late Easter meal. Everyone brought what we could. Not just food, but little pieces of our lives.

HHH created his fabulous scalloped potatoes, rich and creamy, the kind that always seem to disappear faster than expected. I made two lbs. of glazed carrots, warm and sweet, their brightness offering a small bit of color on a long table of comfort foods. Others came with rolls, salads, casseroles, and desserts, each dish telling its own quiet story of effort and care.

We filled our plates and found our seats. Simple conversations began, even if sometimes a little awkward at first. Soon enough, the room was buzzing with conversation and laughter followed right behind as it usually does.

I had the pleasure of sharing a meal with someone a bit down on her luck. We met two weeks ago when I learned she’d traveled all the way from Wisconsin. When asked how her week had been, she said she’d met some struggles. God, please bless her as she makes her way through each day. Her path in life isn’t an easy one. The path of the homeless never is.

Some people there carried heavy things, seen it if you looked closely enough. Others seemed light as air, quick to smile and serve. At this potluck, it didn’t matter which one you were. The food didn’t ask questions. The chairs didn’t require explanations. The invitation was the same.

Come. Sit. Eat.

And for a little while, everything else softened.

Watching plates being passed and hands reaching for seconds, I realized that this is what it means to be part of something bigger than ourselves. Not perfection. Not performance. Just presence.

A red-headed, pint-sized and full of himself, had collected a plate full of sugar and dye’s. This was one child that didn’t need more energy. There are some children that bring the winds of terror with them when they enter the room. It’s sad that red-headed boys often live up to their reputation of naughtiness.

As he placed teeny, tiny bunny cookies on his cupcake, I mentioned how cute they were. He smiled and gave me one. He also shared one with HHH. For dessert, I ate this tiny cookie with one bite. It was then a Dr. Mom (an amazing physician and mother not related to this little) came to sit down by him. He offered her one.

“I’ll take the cookie, but I’m not eating it. Remember what your hands touched before dinner?”

My heart sank. I could only wonder what the heck this little had touched. The possibilities were endless.

She continued, “Boogers? Next time, wash your hands and I’ll be happy to share a cookie with you.”

After all those years of teaching, you would think I’d remember one important rule. Never take food from anyone under five feet tall without first watching them wash their hands. With a sinking heart, it was time for HHH and I to leave.

At Sunday potluck, we didn’t fix each other’s problems or solve the war. We shared a meal while making space for one red-headed little and a homeless woman. We remembered, if only for a moment, we’re not alone. Just as the beautiful astronauts reminded us, we’re all part of Crew Earth.

And at Sunday potluck… that is more than enough.

More tomorrow.

Out here on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada, the weather has been wild, unpredictable, and just a little bit unruly. March came in like a confused guest, skipping past spring altogether and knocking boldly on summer’s door. One afternoon, the thermometer climbed to 90 degrees, and just like that, the air conditioner hummed to life. It felt as if summer had arrived without permission, a hot slap across the face when we were still expecting gentle spring breezes.

And then, just as quickly, winter returned.

On April 3rd and 4th, the temperatures plunged into a hard freeze. The kind that doesn’t whisper, but takes. Tiny plums, cherries, apricots, still new and full of promise, fell silently to the ground. Just like that, the harvest for the year was gone. No second chances. No undoing it. Just loss.

For a few brief days after, things settled into something that felt almost normal. Soft 70s and 80s. Gentle breezes brushing across Winterpast. The kind of weather that invites hope back into your hands. So I planted nearly thirty little zinnias, each one tucked carefully in its place, a quiet act of faith in the season.

And now… here we are again.

The forecast says the temperatures are dropping. A storm is coming. Sunday morning will bring another freeze.

Really?

The tomatoes are already stretching tall and the new squash is thriving. The lawn is ready for its first mowing. Everything in the garden is reaching toward life and warmth yet winter wants one more turn.

The calendula, the borage, the asters will need to do their best to survive outside. The rest of the little ones remain inside, gathered safely on the dining room table. Outgrowing their tiny pots, they’re reaching for more than I can give them. But, the great outdoors needs to wait because with this craziness, waiting is the wisest thing to do.

This situation isn’t just about weather. This is about life and the slow and steady development of virtues the Scripture speaks of.

Patience, when the seasons refuse to cooperate.

Faith, when you plant seeds without any guarantee they will survive.

Hope, when the blossoms fall and you choose to believe there will be beauty again.

Perseverance, when you keep tending the soil, even after loss.

Gentleness, in the way we handle fragile things—whether seedlings or hearts.

Trust, in a God who governs even the wind and frost, though we may not understand His timing.

And love… love that keeps showing up in the garden anyway.

Just like the garden, we’re all exiting somewhere between storms and sunshine. erhaps in that very unpredictability, our roots grow deepest.

Today, I’ll wait while watching the sky while the weather will remain in God’s hands, where it belongs.

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A Garden Prayer

Lord of every season,
You who send both sunshine and frost,
teach me to trust You during these changes.

When the winds are harsh and the nights are cold,
help me to remember that You are still tending the garden
outside my door and the one within my heart.

Give strength to what is planted,
shelter to what is fragile,
and patience to the one who waits.

And when the seasons feel uncertain,
remind me that nothing is ever truly lost in Your care.

Amen.

Have a great weekend. I’ll be back Monday.

Have you ever got up in the middle of the night, wandered into your kitchen, and discovered that a band of helpful idiots had broken into your home to reorganize your entire life? Happily, that’s not a common event, unless you’re talking about our local Walmart. It’s the ONLY store in town for all our needs and the one that’s much to small for our growing town.

Walmart found their answer. I’m quite sure they have a staff of Menehune, (meh-neh-HOO-nay). These little creatures are mystical and shy forest-dwellers brought in from the Hawaiian islands. Six inches to two feet tall, these industrious master craftsmen have completed great feats of engineering and construction in only hours. That must be how the mayhem is occurring. It’s all the Menehune.

These little creatures scurry through the store under cover of darkness, moving entire departments with great purpose and absolutely no warning. By sunrise, their work is complete. By mid-morning, the townspeople arrive… bewildered.

It must be true, because during the day, I haven’t met many industrious human employees.

At our Walmart, mayhem and confusion pepper every shopping experience. Transformation comes at a cost. Not just a little inconvenience, but full-blown chaos. The kind where the salt and baking soda are now tucked neatly in the pharmacy, because both can be used for teeth and gum care. Flat bed sheets? Naturally, they’ve been relocated to the garden section, just in case you need frost protection for your tomatoes. And your canned goods? Why, those are now stacked proudly next to the exercise equipment, ready to double as free weights.

Nothing is missing. Everything is simply… somewhere else. Welcome to the most confusing and disorganized Walmart in all of Northwestern Nevada..

Pet supplies? Moved across the store to where the baby supplies used to be. Baby supplies? Somewhere in the center of the store, like a surprise you didn’t ask for. Diagonal shifts appear to be especially popular. Whole departments move overnight like tectonic plates in a retail earthquake while every shopping trip has become a treasure hunt, minus the treasure.

You’ll see it on people’s faces. Carts moving slowly. Heads tilting. That quiet look that says, “The peanut butter was right here yesterday…”

And yet, here’s the sad truth of this situation. The locals depend on this place for just about everything from amoxicillin to motor oil. In a town growing at the speed of light, Walmart isn’t just any store, it’s the only one. Groceries, socks, garden hoses, birthday cards, dog food, and that one random thing you didn’t know you needed until you saw it.

Most days, a parking space is hard to find and baskets are few and far between. Inside, it’s a shared experience with neighbors circling aisles, helping each other find items that may or may not still exist in their former locations.

Just when we think everything is finally arranged in a way they believe makes perfect sense, it’s moved again.

Oy vey.

There’s a lesson tucked in between the relocated canned goods and wandering shoppers. Patience is a virtue. And if nothing else, Walmart is giving us all a daily opportunity to practice it while helping others along the way.

I’ll try to remember that… as soon as I find the coffee.

Have a great day. More tomorrow.