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

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

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

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

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

It is also important to shop at nurseries you trust.

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

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

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

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

The garden always has the final word.

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

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

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

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

The simple answer?

Never.

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

Then again … maybe she is.

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

Walk by the pantry? She looks hopeful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The surgery had been a complete success.

The drive home was appropriately royal.

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

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

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

He’s perfectly content with this arrangement.

Neither dog worries about who received more attention.

Neither keeps score.

They simply love us with their whole hearts.

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

Yes, we’ve become servants.

We open doors.

We hand out treats.

We fluff blankets.

We schedule vet appointments.

We happily share our furniture.

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

People sometimes joke that pets become spoiled.

Maybe they do.

But here’s what I’ve learned.

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

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

Can you love a dog too much?

I still think the answer is…

Never.

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

Yesterday morning, our wonderful Ninja Neighbor called.

“Your alarm is going off.”

“What alarm?

Oh, wait.

You mean THAT alarm?”

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

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

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

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

The instructions are simple.

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

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

I’d just gone out to check the mailbox.

Oy vey.

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

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

“Just a downside to this job, Ma’am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s still home.

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

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

But our garden has another gift.

Its music.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t look.

Listen.

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

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

But why?

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

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

The first tomato picked from the garden.

The first mile walked after an illness.

The first prayer that feels genuine again.

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

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

It’s done.

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

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

So now comes the important part.

The celebration.

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

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

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

It’s your victory.

Celebrate it.

Buy yourself lunch.

Take the afternoon off.

Pick up fresh flowers.

Eat dessert first.

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

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

Some of life’s greatest blessings are hiding right under our noses.

HHH and I are still plugging away on the meditation garden at church. It’s really a lovely place to sit, pray, and breathe. The only problem is that we’ve somehow managed to schedule ourselves to work there around 11:00 in the morning.

On July 8th.

In Nevada.

With temperatures determined to make their way into the triple digits.

I have to admit, it’s a little difficult to get excited about hauling shovels, pulling weeds, and moving rocks when the sun is doing its best impression of a blast furnace. Perhaps the lesson isn’t to avoid the work but simply to start a little earlier.

The truth is, I need the exercise. I need the sunshine. I need the fresh air. Sometimes I just need to adjust my timing.

As always, church has a way of rewarding us.

We ran into the usual Wednesday crew. Mr. and Mrs. Lovebird, happily making their way toward their first wedding anniversary. Mr. Fix It. Our Pastor. They’d spent part of the morning cleaning up after our Fourth of July celebration, which was grand indeed.

Someone suggested lunch. Destination — TeePee Bar and Grill, just a few feet away.

Unfortunately, when we arrived, we discovered the TeePee had been closed by a government agency that will remain both unnamed and unexplained. So, with hungry stomachs and in need of a Plan B, we made a quick decision and headed a few blocks away to Knight’s Pizza.

Sometimes Plan B turns out even better than Plan A.

Honestly, the pizza was some of the best we’ve had in years. We shared a lunch special that included a fresh salad bar, and the whole meal worked out to about five dollars a person. You just can’t complain about that.

But if I’m being truthful, the pizza wasn’t the highlight of the afternoon. It was the laughter, stories, and easy conversation around the table.

There is something wonderfully different about church family. It isn’t perfect people gathering together. It’s ordinary people who choose to care about one another. They celebrate together, work together, pray together, laugh together, and when life gets hard, they carry one another through.

At our church, there really aren’t strangers. There are simply new friends we haven’t met yet.

It struck me on the drive home that the greatest treasures rarely announce themselves with flashing lights. They don’t usually cost much money either. More often, they’re hiding in ordinary Wednesdays, unexpected invitations, shared pizza, familiar smiles, and people who simply enjoy spending time together.

Those blessings have been sitting right under our noses all along.

If you ever find yourself passing through our little town on a Wednesday, stop by and say hello. There’s always room for one more friend at the table.

Mrs. Erika Kirk made an unwanted cameo on television yesterday. Flanked by men who were hired to protect her, but not in the way her “Charlie” always did, she marched into court.

Watching the trial unfold, I wondered how any crime victim finds the strength to sit in that courtroom, day after day, facing unimaginable heartbreak. What would I do in her place? I don’t know if I could’ve chosen God over rage.

When she chose forgiveness, it wasn’t through weakness. It wasn’t saying what happened was acceptable. It wasn’t forgetting. It wasn’t excusing. It was choosing not to let another human being continue to occupy space inside her heart. That takes extraordinary courage.

As I watched, I realized I am not there yet. There are still people from my own journey whom I have not completely forgiven. Their actions still find their way into my thoughts from time to time. Watching Mrs. Kirk reminded me that forgiveness isn’t something we give because another person deserves it. We give it because we deserve peace.

Forgiveness unlocks a prison whose door has been standing open all along. The person we release is often ourselves. Healing begins to multiply, while peace settles where anger once lived. Our hearts become lighter, while the future grows larger than the past.

I don’t know Mrs. Kirk personally, but today she became one of my teachers. Throughout the coverage, nearly everyone referred to her as “Erika.” Perhaps that is perfectly acceptable to her. I certainly don’t presume to know.

Mrs. Kirk is a profoundly beautiful name. It speaks of a marriage. A partnership. A lifetime built together. It honors the man she loved and the life they created. Widowhood doesn’t erase that story, but makes it even more precious.

Mrs. Kirk will always be Mrs. Kirk. Respecting a widow means remembering that her love story did not end because her husband died. It simply changed chapters.

Perhaps one day I will reach the place where forgiveness comes as naturally as it seemed to come for Mrs. Kirk. Until then, I will keep walking toward it, one step at a time.

Because freedom waits there.

And so does healing.

It finally feels as though summer has arrived at Winterpast.

The cherry tomatoes are beginning to blush with color, promising fresh salads and handfuls of sweet little treasures straight from the vine. The medicinal herbs are nearly ready to harvest, filling the garden with wonderful fragrances every time I brush past them. And the zucchini… well… they’re doing exactly what zucchini do. Blink once, and they’ve doubled in size!

The roses have decided that all the waiting was worthwhile. From Tequila Sunrise to Happy Go Lucky (rose varieties, not drinks), each bloom seems to celebrate the arrival of warm weather. Their bright colors greet me every morning with a cheerful reminder that patience is often rewarded.

Of course, Mother Nature wasn’t quite finished teasing us. We enjoyed another little cold snap and even a bit of rain before finally settling into July. Hard to believe we’re already in the second week of the month. Before long, school supplies will be lining the shelves at Walmart. For all I know, Halloween candy may already be making an appearance. That’s just the way the seasons seem to roll these days.

Still, I refuse to rush past this beautiful time of year.

Summer gardens remind us to slow down. To notice. To savor.

If you have a garden of your own, take a few moments to enjoy it. Pick a tomato while it’s still warm from the sunshine. Snip a handful of fresh herbs for tonight’s dinner. Stop and admire a flower that has worked so hard to bloom. Visit the local farmer’s market. Perhaps a neighbor has a few extra zucchini they’d be happy to share. Gardeners are famous for having “just one more zucchini” than they know what to do with!

Whatever you do, try to eat something fresh this week. There is something wonderfully satisfying about food and flowers that’ve been lovingly grown. They remind us that every season has its gifts, and summer is especially generous.

May today be filled with sunshine, the fragrance of fresh herbs, colorful blooms, and perhaps even a zucchini or two.

Happy gardening!

Every once in a while, someone comes along who completely changes the way you think about growing older. Meet our friend, the Queen of the Roundup.

No one is entirely certain whether she’s 92, 93, or 94 years old. At this point, we’ve decided it doesn’t really matter. She’s earned the right to keep us guessing.

What everyone does know is that her smile sparkles, her laugh is contagious, and she travels more than anyone in town, including HHH and me, which says a lot.

Last week, her children needed a little help on their Montana ranch. Nothing too serious. They simply had to round up one hundred prize Black Angus cattle, gather them into the corrals for vaccinations and health checks, and then move them back out into fresh pasture.

Naturally, the Queen of the Roundup wasn’t about to sit on the porch and watch. Settled securely on the back of an ATV, off she went.

Now, the cattle didn’t necessarily agree with the plan. They had ideas of their own. But after plenty of patience, determination, and a little cowboy teamwork, every one of those beautiful black Angus received their checkups and headed back to greener grass. And right in the middle of it all was our favorite cowgirl.

Not long before that adventure, she attended her class reunion in Iowa. Only seven classmates were able to come. She arrived wearing her white cowgirl boots. (Not the silver ones this time.)

She danced in.

She danced out.

Oh, did I mention she loves to dance?

If you ask her what the secret is to living well after seventy, she doesn’t hesitate.

“Don’t stop moving.” A decade ago, she almost stopped moving and decided that wasn’t for her. So, she worked her hardest, every single day, and gained back her life. One foot in front of the other.

Don’t lose your rhythm. Not for a minute. Dance until you wear your boots out.

Keep your mind active.

Keep your body even more active.

Join in.

Don’t become a couch potato.

Keep smiling.

And always—always—be grateful for every single day God has given you.

Smile at someone.

Give a hug every day. Take one back for yourself.

Read your Bible.

Love the Lord.

I think she’s onto something.

Living your best life isn’t about counting birthdays. It’s about collecting moments. It’s about saying yes when someone needs help. It’s about dancing whenever the music starts. It’s about finding joy in ordinary days and giving thanks for extraordinary blessings.

The world needs more sweet cowgirls like our Queen of the Roundup.

They remind us that age doesn’t determine how fully we live.

Our hearts do.

After all, there may still be a hundred Black Angus waiting around the next bend.

And someone has to help round them up.

There is something wonderfully comforting about the Fourth of July in a small town.

Yesterday, Winterpast woke to quiet streets and blue skies. HHH and I made our usual trip to Walmart, where the shelves were stocked and ready for tomorrow’s celebrations. Coolers, paper plates, flags, watermelon, chips, hamburger buns, and hot dog buns waited patiently for the parties soon to come.

On our way home, we noticed another sure sign that Independence Day is almost here.

The men were already preparing the site for Saturday night’s fireworks show. On a huge, dusty patch of desert between the Old Folk’s Home and the tracks, people were scurrying. Fireworks sites are so ugly. Just a bunch of tubes and wires. Unless you knew what it was, you’d never know what beauty it would produce.

Tomorrow will begin long before the first firework lights the sky. The day starts with the pancake breakfast with the Masonic Lodge.

Then, at ten o’clock, the big parade will make its way right down Main Street. This year, there won’t be a high school band. Our local band only marches in this parade every other year. We’ll miss the drums and brass echoing between the buildings. How sad the kids won’t march in the 250th birthday of our nation.

The firehouse will fly its huge American flag, and HHH has already secured the best parking spot along the entire route, right near the towing company across from the firehouse. When your brother is the mayor, it only takes a call if you know the right people. Living in town since the late 1950’s, HHH and his family have been long-time friends of the owner.

After the parade, our church will be cooking hamburgers and hot dogs. There will be a bounce house and plenty of fun for the kids, because small-town celebrations are best when everyone has something to enjoy.

At Out-Of-Town-Park, not to be confused with In-Town Park, an old-fashioned carnival will unfold. And of course, the 4th wouldn’t be the 4th without the pig races. What do you win if you hold on to the pig? The pig or $100. Now, that’s something to chase.

Then, at dusk, the fireworks will begin.

Not pretend fireworks.

The real thing.

Big, bright, booming fireworks that shake your chest and light up the Nevada sky.

Danger of fire?

Well, that’s what the fire department is for, right?

I hope whatever you do, wherever you are, you have a wonderful time celebrating.

Happy 250th Birthday, America.

Shine bright tomorrow.

We love you.