Face it. With decades in the rearview mirror, we all have a deep well of material to draw stories from. First, decide which decade is the richest. Then, pick your favorite memory—the one in which you can still feel the breeze on your face as the emotions come flooding back. Your memory may help you choose the story before you even have a chance to protest.
It’s good to have a comfortable place to begin. It’s also nice to choose a time that seems right for you. Over the years, that time has changed for me. In the beginning, it was between 4 and 4:30 am. But as the years have passed, I’ve found that 3 pm is a hot spot. Change up the time and place until you find just the right fit.
Write that story as YOU remember it. Not as a brother, sister, mother, or father remembers it. Just you. As you experienced it.
Then, remember Who, What, When, Where, and Why. Start with one-word answers. Write them down. When all of those things are on the page, you’ve got the beginning of something. One of those answers may be the place your story starts.
Our senses are a wonderful source of questions, and questions help uncover the words. Think about sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste. Try to remember three things about each one. What could you hear beyond the conversation? What did the air smell like? Was something sweet or bitter lingering on your tongue? Give yourself time. Put those details together, and you can deliver the reader to that moment.
If you have photographs from that time, get them out and gaze upon them. They hold clues to unlock more memories. Look beyond the people. Notice the curtains, the car in the driveway, the dishes on the table. Something small may bring back a detail you haven’t thought about in years.
If you have favorite songs from that time, play them. Then, just enjoy the richness of the memories for a moment. You don’t have to catch every word immediately. Let yourself remember.
As I work on my second book, The Dark Side of the Curtain – Coming of Age in the USSR, a certain Joni Mitchell song unlocks memories of a day almost 50 years ago. Things I thought were lost all start coming back. Asking myself a few questions has opened the floodgates to sights and smells that have been waiting for their turn. And so come the words.
My sweet mother-in-law was wondering just how writers find their words. That’s a tough question, and it’s specific to each person. For me, I just know I need to write. Because to me, writing is life.
From the moment we are born, the file cabinets of our brains begin to fill.
Some files are easy to open. They bring laughter, joy, and the sweet surprise of remembering something we thought we had forgotten. Others stay locked. They are too scary, too tender, or too heartbreaking to pull out and read again.
Memories can be life-saving. They can also hold life-changing events. They remind us where we have been, what we have survived, who we have loved, and how far we have come.
For writers, those file cabinets can become very busy places. Papers fly everywhere as we sort, stack, shuffle, and search for the right story. One memory becomes a blog post. Another grows into a chapter. Another waits quietly until we are brave enough to open the drawer.
But today, the point is simple. Everybody has a story.
I used to smile at my third graders on the highway of “Writer’s block”.
“My life is so boring,” they would say. “It’s like dry gum. Nothing left.”
And yet, those same children were budding ballerinas, Little League stars, young poets, animal lovers, and dreamers. Some rode horses at spring roundups with Grandpa. Some baked the best birthday cupcakes with Grandma. Some knew how to fix a fence, gather eggs, memorize songs, care for younger siblings, or tell a joke that could make the whole room laugh.
They had beautiful stories.
They just didn’t know it yet.
Sometimes the very thing we take for granted is the thing someone else would find fascinating. The ordinary details of our lives may not feel special to us because we have lived inside them for so long. But to someone else, they may be a window into a different world.
A kitchen table. A dusty road. A school desk. A church pew. A garden row. A fishing trip. A holiday dinner. A first job. A hard goodbye. A moment when everything changed. It’s there the stories hide in plain sight.
Not a writer? Record your words.
Still not for you? Try thinking in story form. Notice the beginning, the middle, and the end of an ordinary day. Pay attention to the people, the weather, the sounds, the smells, and the little moments you might usually hurry past.
Maybe you’re an artist. Draw your story.
Do you take photographs? Let those pictures remind you what happened before and after the camera clicked.
Or, you simply tell a grandchild, a friend, or a neighbor, “I remember when…”
But tell it.
So many people keep their stories locked deep inside. They believe no one would care. They think their lives are too plain, too small, or too ordinary to matter.
I don’t believe that.
The world needs good stories right now. Honest stories. Funny stories. Tender stories. Stories of survival, courage, faith, foolishness, family, work, loss, healing, and hope.
Your story does not need to be polished before it is worth telling.
It only needs to begin.
Open one drawer. Pull out one memory. Give it a little light.
Then tell the story. Because, you have lots to tell.
Last week, we learned a few things while traveling.
#1. Never leave Oreos on the counter. #2. Be flexible. Weather happens. #3. No matter how early you think you are, there’ll always be a mile of cars ahead of you. #4. Touching down on the final runway is a sweet feeling.
Winterpast was just as we left it. The grass needs mowing. The roses need deadheading. The weather is still in the 90s, and we had a stack of mail to go through and discard. After a trip to Walmart and a little unpacking, it’s almost as if we never left.
Except we brought home something a little extra.
No mouse.
No baby burro.
Colds.
Both of us are battling colds as we get ready for our next adventure next week. Not exactly the souvenir we had in mind.
As cold and flu season arrives, here’s my little reminder: If you think it’s “just allergies,” give the people around you a little extra consideration until you’re sure. Sometimes those “allergies” have a funny way of spreading.
For now, we’re home. The suitcases are unpacked, the mail is sorted, the roses are waiting, and Winterpast is exactly where we left it.
There’s no place like home.
Have a wonderful weekend. I’ll be back Monday with the latest news.
South Dakota is such a gorgeous state. Complete with forests, lakes, green hills, and ancient history, there is something for everyone. From Columbian mammoths that died there, only to be revealed thousands of years later, to the most modern farm equipment, there is always something interesting around the next bend.
Custer State Park is home to about 1,300 buffalo—the same ones we’d watched being rounded up earlier in our trip. It’s also home to the Begging Burros. People travel there to feed them apples and carrots, and one lady told us a baby burro had actually crawled into her car and wouldn’t get out.
Sure it did.
There was everything except grizzly bears, which definitely made things a bit calmer. Still, these are wild animals, and wild animals don’t always behave according to plan. There had been a fatal encounter between a hiker and a buffalo in the park, a good reminder that no matter how peaceful these enormous animals may look, they deserve plenty of space.
Gambling is allowed in South Dakota, so dotted along our route we found little casinos in some unexpected places. But the Las Vegas-style casinos were in Deadwood. Yes, we went to Saloon No. 10, the modern-day namesake of the saloon where Wild Bill Hickok was murdered while playing poker in 1876. Deadwood is one of those places where the Old West doesn’t feel quite so far away.
We also discovered that a lot of places were hiring. During one breakfast, the restaurant cook was also the cashier and the busboy. With tables full of customers, she did a great job, although we waited an hour to eat.
It was worth it.
Delicious.
Another day, we pointed the car in the opposite direction and drove to Wall Drug. If you’ve never been there, go for the Western art. Their collection includes more than 300 original paintings, and each time I’ve visited, I’ve walked away with the memory of a new favorite. I could spend a long time just looking at the paintings.
HHH and I also discovered the fresh blueberry pie.
Some of the best ever.
Sadly, rain and clouds took away any chance we had of really seeing the Badlands. We were there, but Mother Nature apparently decided we didn’t need the view this time.
That’s okay.
There’s always next year.
Sometimes a trip doesn’t need a schedule packed from morning until night. Sometimes you just need a car, someone you enjoy traveling with, and a road you’ve never been down before.
Staying in Airbnbs, we’ve learned that one needs an extra bit of patience. What is great for the host might not be so great for the guests. I suppose the opposite is true as well. But what is not great for either is when an autumn mouse crashes the party, bringing friends. No. That’s never good.
Early one morning, I awoke to a tiny little crash coming from the kitchen. My mind went many places, but not to the mouse I found hanging out of the range hood, trying to pull HIS Oreo cookie inside before I came around the corner. The Oreo was almost as big as he was. That little crash I’d been hearing? It was the mouse dropping his cookie onto the range top and trying again. An infestation of the crafty kind.
We decided that was a great morning to eat breakfast at a cute little bakery in town. We’d deal with the mouse later. When we came back, we had four traps. We’d get this guy, and everything would be okay. Right?
The next morning, the cheese was gone from the two traps we’d set. And the fight was on. We set the traps again, this time a little more carefully. We also bought glue traps and strategically placed those around the kitchen.
The next morning, we discovered that two mice had paid the ultimate price. But the third? He took the glue trap with him. These South Dakota mice were true survivors.
Somehow, the thought of cooking—or even spending much time in that kitchen—lost out to eating at the Dairy Queen right around the corner. Our host was so kind and felt horrible that we were spending part of our vacation trapping mice.
But the fact of the matter is this: When you rent a house, sometimes it just might come with a mouse. Or three.
Some manmade wonders must be seen to be appreciated. Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Memorial are two such places.
After enjoying a morning at a real art show in Custer State Park, it was time for HHH and me to visit both of them in one day. Only about seventeen miles apart, they are so different, and yet both were created through vision, determination, and a whole lot of dynamite.
Mount Rushmore is something every American should stand before at least once. Every detail is magnificent. Four past presidents gaze outward from the mountain—visionaries looking into a future and a country they could not possibly have imagined.
The United States of America.
Forever free. Forever beautiful. Forever ours to love and care for.
There, HHH and I sat with many other retirees enjoying ice cream made from Thomas Jefferson’s historic recipe. Truly, it was some of the best ice cream I’ve eaten in my entire life—and we have Steve’s Ice Cream here in my hometown, so that’s saying something.
Watching people was almost as much fun as listening to voices from around the world. We sat, ate our ice cream, looked up at that mountain, and took it all in. All in all, a visit we won’t forget.
Crazy Horse was spectacular in an entirely different way.
The completed face of Crazy Horse alone is 87 feet, 6 inches high. Standing at the viewing area, the scale was almost impossible to comprehend. Construction workers on the mountain were so tiny that I couldn’t really see them until I put a quarter into one of the telescopes.
Best quarter I’ve spent in a long time.
Through that telescope, the mountain changed. Suddenly, people were up there working on something so enormous that, from where we stood, they practically disappeared into the stone.
Both of these magnificent sculptures rise from the mountains themselves, framed by that enormous South Dakota sky. One is finished. One is still becoming. Both began with someone looking at a mountain and seeing something that wasn’t there yet.
South Dakota. A place of wonder and beauty.
And speaking of something that was once only a dream, Widow: A Journey Toward Life is now only weeks away from release. As the excitement builds toward November 11, you can preorder your Kindle edition now.
Bucket lists are funny things. Each bucket of dreams is unique to the person, filled with their own wishes and desires. Mine usually includes a heavy dose of wild animals. Every time. And buffalo are in the top five. Majestic. Unpredictable. Wise. Patient. Until they aren’t.
So, if one wants to see buffalo, what better place than an honest-to-goodness buffalo roundup? September 25, 2026. HHH and I were there, sitting on the rolling hills of Custer State Park.
We woke at 4:00 a.m. and were on the road by 5:00. Let me start by saying HHH gets the Golden Steering Wheel Award for crisscrossing South Dakota in our rental car. He didn’t get the Corvette he would have loved to drive, but the Hyundai Elantra served its purpose. Nearing the end of its rental life, it wasn’t the cleanest or newest car on the lot. But it didn’t let us down.
Driving through unfamiliar countryside in the dark isn’t always comforting. Not knowing exactly where we were going, we started off anyway. Soon, we realized we didn’t need to know the way. Everyone else did. We also learned that 5:00 a.m. isn’t early for buffalo chasers. In fact, we found ourselves behind nearly two miles of people who had gotten up even earlier than we had.
Parking attendants directed us into our space amid the unmistakable scent of pungent buffalo patties. Everywhere. Once parked, we discovered more lines. Lines for the porta-potties. Lines for the cowboy breakfast of sourdough pancakes, sausage, and coffee.
Our viewing spot couldn’t have been better. On the South Side—opposite the North Side, naturally—we found the closest we could get.
Big sky.
Green grass.
Horses.
Cowboys. And more than 20,000 people waiting for buffalo.
Then, at about 10:45, they appeared over the ridge.
Buffalo.
They came down the hill and swept around until they were right there in front of our eyeballs. A herd of about 1,300.
Cowboys on horseback stayed with them, pushing the herd forward. ATVs and pickups joined the effort, keeping the animals moving toward the corrals. Bulls. Cows. Calves. Angry. Snorting. Irritated buffalo. With nowhere else to go, they were guided through the gate and into the corrals, where the work of sorting and caring for the herd would begin.
And just like that, another item came off my bucket list. Are buffalo more interesting to watch roaming quietly in the wild? I think so. But if you love buffalo, you should see a roundup once.
Mission accomplished.
We still had plenty of South Dakota adventures ahead of us, and I plan to share them throughout the week. Stay tuned.
There’s just one more thing before I go. Widow: A Journey Toward Life will be available on Amazon on November 11, 2026, in paperback, hardcover, and e-book. I’m also considering a large-print edition. Would that interest you? Please email me at grievinggardenerjoy@gmail.com and let me know. I’d love to hear from you.
Bull riding is my favorite sport. There is nothing feminine about it—snorting, slobbering bulls, fearless cowboys, and animals at the height of their power. There’s danger, suspense, twists and turns, and breathtaking moments where everything hangs in the balance. Dealing with two complicated real estate transactions closing hours apart felt just like that. I just wish the ride had lasted eight seconds.
VST and I decided in early January 2020 that it was time to sell our Virginia City home—3,300 square feet of something we had lovingly restored. When we bought it, it had been an abused repossession, purchased at a bargain price with a vision to bring it back to life. Over six years, we did exactly that. Every detail in the house had been perfected for us—really, for anyone. By the time we decided to sell, only two projects remained: a proper laundry room and a bedroom closet. In January, VST completed both in just two weeks. They were flawless, just like everything he touched. If you hadn’t been told, you would have believed they were original to the home. He was that good.
The house was barely listed before it sold. In fact, we had only just decided to sell while driving home from lunch after looking at a few properties with a realtor. We had found two homes we liked, and on the drive home, we talked through the pros and cons of leaving the mountain. By the time we reached home, we had made the decision—it was time. The realtor we had been with that morning would be our agent. Within five minutes, my phone rang. Another realtor we knew had buyers who loved our home. Could they come see it the next day? We listed. They came. They fell in love. They offered. We accepted. All within hours of deciding to leave. Just like that.
At the same time, life continued as it always had. VST was driving, worrying about taxes, fixing things, calling me Darlin, and kissing me goodnight. We hadn’t yet found a new home, and at the end of January, we even took the RV on a seven-hour trip to explore options. We spent an entire day walking through ten homes. He was himself, just tired and noticeably swollen by the end of the day. He still drove the rig there and back, enjoying Willie’s Roadhouse and the open road. He promised we would see the doctor about the swelling when we got home.
Eventually, we found the house. One hour from Virginia City, a single-story ranch on half an acre of beauty. The property was fully landscaped with paths winding through mature fruit and shade trees. There was a lush green lawn outside my kitchen window, birdhouses scattered throughout, and birds already raising families. There was an RV barn with finished interior walls, a four-car garage, and a home that promised simpler maintenance and more freedom to travel. Three bedrooms, two baths, 1,907 square feet—it felt like peace. We both knew immediately. We made an offer. It was accepted.
That’s when everything began to spin.
We now had two realtors, a buyer, a seller, ourselves, and more paperwork than seemed possible. Our Virginia City home had never been placed into our family trust, which needed to be domesticated in Nevada. That added an attorney and another stack of documents to the growing pile. And so, the ride began. Two weeks in, cancer entered the arena. We held on with both hands as life began to buck beneath us.
There were inspections, repairs, re-inspections, and endless requests from title companies, realtors, buyers, sellers, and escrow officers. There were attorney appointments, document signings that seemed to multiply endlessly, cleaning, walk-throughs, moving plans, canceling old services, and starting new ones. We hired movers and chose a closing date.
All while VST grew sicker.
And sicker.
And sicker.
Until, in nine short weeks, he was gone—from a word I could barely pronounce when it first entered our lives: cholangiocarcinoma. Cancer of the bile ducts.
We entered those transactions as husband and wife—joint tenancy, partners in everything. I completed them as a single woman. That reality carried its own weight.
My realtors, both experienced and steady, had never encountered anything like it. A healthy man overtaken so quickly. A client lost in the middle of a closing. We all walked through those two months together, holding each other—and our breath. There were constant twists, changes in direction, and moments where everything felt like it might collapse. COVID added uncertainty to an already impossible situation.
They carried more than contracts. They helped when my computer refused to cooperate. They handled details I am sure I am better off not knowing. They made the impossible happen. They talked me down on days when I was ready to walk away from everything. They listened, advised, and somehow gave me both space and support at exactly the right moments. In the early days of COVID, they risked their own health to show our home to buyers and to help me into my new one. They stayed on that ride with me and made sure both transactions closed within 24 hours of each other.
When VST died, I was alone. I had just checked on him—he was still there, quiet and comfortable. I stepped out of the room for five minutes. When I came back, he was gone.
The phone rang. I answered in a way I can only describe as broken—words tumbling, Grief pouring out, nothing making sense. On the other end was my sweet realtor, the first voice to reach me in that moment.
“Calm down,” she said gently. “I am so sorry. How can I help?”
There was no help.
We had lost our balance.
The bull had won.
Later, I began to notice something. In the smallest, most unexpected places, there were people—angels in ordinary clothing—who said those same words. At the post office. At the doctor’s office. A neighbor. Even the man making my sandwich at Subway. They had no idea what they were offering, but it mattered more than they could know.
I made a list of those moments and wrote thank-you notes. Not for grand gestures, but for simple kindness—for showing up, for steadying me, even for a moment. It became part of my healing.
Do the same.
Take time to acknowledge those who stand quietly in the background, cheering, holding their breath, helping you rise again. They are part of your story, too.
And when the ride feels too wild, too unpredictable—hold on.
Use both hands.
This is a tough bull to ride.
Dear readers, However you found your way here—from across the world or just down the road—thank you. This little life at Winterpast is richer because you’re part of it. I’ll be here, with more to share. —J
Looking back at my planner for the week of April 20, I still marvel at how many loose ends needed tying—selling, buying, packing, moving. Life didn’t pause for grief. And with COVID weighing heavily on everyone’s mind, there were no casseroles left quietly on the porch, no flowers behind a ringing doorbell. There was just me—a brand new widow, pulling on her boots every morning and doing what had to be done. And that’s exactly what I did.
VST and I had a standing joke—more mine than his. I always believed I would go first. During miles in the RV, we turned debating it into competitive banter. I had my reasons—those inconvenient vasovagal episodes that sent me to the emergency room at the worst times. VST, on the other hand, had quieter struggles, like the slow creep of arthritis. In my mind, he would be the widower.
So naturally, I counseled him—not about Grief, but about casseroles.
My first bit of advice was simple: watch the container. Some casseroles arrive in disposable pans—bless those people. Practical, thoughtful souls who know you won’t have the energy to wash and return anything. These are the friends who truly understand.
Then there are the others—the ones who arrive with their finest stoneware. Now that’s a different story. I told him to take note. How are they dressed? How are they speaking? Are they brushing lint off your three-day-old shirt? Is there… cleavage involved? Because that dish isn’t just a dish. It’s a placeholder. A reason to come back. And if there’s a phone number written on the bottom—with a heart—well… that should not go unnoticed.
We would laugh, always circling back to the same name. “Don’t answer the door, VST,” I’d say. “Please. Pretend you’ve come down with something highly contagious. Hide.” Because once that door opens… It’s like bedbugs. Hard to undo.
Twelve days after VST passed, his urn—chosen so carefully, the perfect shade of blue with pewter accents—sat quietly in the bookcase. My days were packed with appointments, my mind spinning, when the phone rang.
On the other end were friends of the very best kind—gentle, thoughtful, and extraordinary cooks. “What’s your favorite meal?” they asked. “What can we bring you?”
I had been running up and down the mountain, every errand costing an hour round trip. COVID had shuttered restaurants and emptied shelves. I had food—but not that kind of food. Not the kind made with love.
“Spaghetti and meatballs,” I said.
Not even my favorite meal. But that morning, it was the one thing I wanted most.
Oliver had a noon vet appointment, so down the hill we went. Two hours later, I returned to find something waiting at my door. Next to a vase of pink tulips sat a worn, brown metal container—scuffed, vintage, and familiar, like something from childhood camping trips. My friends had come.
Inside was everything. Homemade sauce and meatballs. Spaghetti cooked just right. A crisp green salad. A soft ciabatta roll. Garlic butter, carefully wrapped. Fresh Parmesan.
It was more than a meal.
It was love, packed carefully and delivered quietly.
I stood in my kitchen and cried—one of those deep, unguarded cries—because I knew exactly what I was holding. This wasn’t just food. This was care. This was friendship. This was love in its most tangible form, given by people whose hearts were breaking right alongside mine.
With every bite, memories came flooding back—Italian dinners with kids and without, candlelight meals and paper plates, a busy ranch kitchen with five hungry children asking for seconds. I could almost hear him singing O Sole Mio in his booming bass voice.
To anyone watching, I was just a woman eating spaghetti through her tears.
But to me, it was a feast of memory.
Today, take inventory of those casserole dishes waiting to be returned. Think about the love that filled them when you needed it most—when even remembering to breathe felt like enough for one day. Look at the names written on the bottom. Call them.
The best ones will come, collect their dish, and sit with you awhile—long enough to remind you that you are not alone.
To my spaghetti-toting friends—you know who you are. Your kindness that day helped me stay afloat. Your friendship today is golden.
I love you both.
First published in 2020
Six years later, I still remember that meal. Not because it was the finest spaghetti and meatballs ever made—although it was pretty darn good—but because of what arrived with it. Friendship. Care. A reminder that even when the world couldn’t come through my door, love could still be left on my porch.
Those first bewildering months became the beginning of Widow: A Journey Toward Life, coming November 11, 2026. I didn’t know I was writing a book then. I was simply trying to survive one day, one decision, one memory—and sometimes one casserole—at a time.
And for the record, I still stand by my advice: watch the container.
I took this photograph during the last days of VST’s life. He was asleep, his hand resting over mine, and I quietly captured a moment he probably would never have allowed me to photograph had he been awake. At the time, I couldn’t have known how precious this simple image would become. Now I look at those two hands and see thirty-two years of marriage—work, arguments, laughter, illness, tenderness, and thousands upon thousands of ordinary touches that I once believed would always be there…..
Hands connect us to one another in a unique and precious way. In VST’s last days, he chose to spend time on “the death couch,” as he called it. He first recoiled at the thought of opening the hide-a-bed in the living room, but later he often chose to rest next to me in the busy part of the house. He slept while I snapped this, or he would have protested that any part of our nightmare called cancer was documented in this way. Images have a way of returning us to captured moments. We were captured by the hell that is cancer.
My own hands are large, functional Germanic woman-hands. The kind that get things done. Size ten ring finger. Not a dainty, girly-girl digit in the bunch. They tried to help me play the piano when I was little, but they constantly steered me in directions not conducive to a beautiful melody. My mom was crushed. They also attempted to help me with guitar. They easily wrapped around the neck, depressing strings to make keys that hummed in a 1970’s kind of Glen Campbell way for a time.
Through the years, they held young lovers, wrote term papers, dialed phone numbers, and twirled the cord late into the night. They pointed and shook at the boys who needed to leave me alone, and beckoned to those I wished didn’t. They raised Guide Dogs for the Blind, delivered brand new puppies into the world, trained dogs, and held their paws as they took their last breath. They irrigated grapes and helped shake them after they turned into raisins. They washed a squirmy grandson and splashed with him until we were showered with delightful fun in the bathroom. These days, they hold Oliver in the silent mornings when I wish VST was still here to share our morning coffee. They wipe my own tears and help me move on through this blog.
In the beginning of VST/Me, our hands were busy with life. Every aspect. Work, personal, spiritual, family, and educational growth. Through the years, VST used his massive mitts in the gentlest of ways. Holding a daughter’s precious hand at the country fair, leaving an imprint on her heart that warms her still today. His hands wielded wrenches and twins, a boy and a girl, when he was 21. They held steering wheels, traveling millions of miles in his lifetime. They built houses, waterfalls, great walls, and our life together. They wrote his dissertation and earned him the loving title Doctor H. Later in life, they caused him intense and extreme pain with arthritis and paralysis.
When we were together, our hands were often intertwined. After decades of marriage, often on a trip to Lowe’s, I would be in my own writer’s head. And there he would be, on a cold parking-lot morning at Lowe’s, grabbing mine. People would smile at us in that way. How adorable, these two sage lovers. And that is what we were, even if we had just argued the whole way there over an insignificant topic that had put us at odds. I would feel his hand reach for mine, and I was home, wherever we found ourselves.
Hands held each other when he had no more strength to reach for me in the night. My hands helped him take morphine and other hideous drugs, less horrible than the cancer that robbed him from me. They wiped his brow when he was feverish. They helped him into the passenger side of the Jeep to travel to the doctor, when it was me who took the wheel while he slept. They put soft blankets around him when he suddenly found himself bone-chillingly cold. And more than a few times, they shook at the heavens, questioning WHY.
Finally, in one last touch, it was my hand stroking his cheek that said Goodbye to him as he was making his final exit on that beautiful Virginia City morning. My hands cradled his urn and wondered how this all transpired in nine weeks.
Hands need to find each other and hold on. Touch is a precious sense that can speak louder than words at times. Caresses feed starved skin and comfort a bruised soul. Use your hands to produce acts of kindness. Wave. Open a door. Greet someone you haven’t seen for awhile in spite of Covid, or because of it. Clap for others. Journal your life. Connect with each other. Hold hands as you cross the street, and be so grateful that you have another’s hand, if only for a time.
Widow: A Journey Toward Life grew from moments like this—the goodbye, the unbearable days that followed, and the long journey toward discovering that letting someone go is not the same thing as leaving their love behind. The book will be released November 11, 2026.
