Grieving Gardener

Before we decided to go on vacation, a beautiful robin family moved onto the rafter of our porch cover at Winterpast. They didn’t ask permission, fill out a rental agreement, or check with management before moving in. They simply chose the spot, gathered their supplies, and built a home.

For several days, we watched the two parents work. They were amazing. Back and forth they flew, carrying grass, twigs, and whatever else robins use to build the perfect nursery. Bit by bit, their nest took shape. Tucked high on the rafter, it looked safe enough. At least, it looked safe from where we stood.

Of course, Oliver and Tanner were the first to notice the new tenants.

From their point of view, the nest was the most interesting thing to happen on the porch in a long time. They watched the robins. Listening, they kept their hopeful little dog eyes aimed upward, just in case something important fell out of the sky.

Like a baby robin.

Once the eggs hatched, life around the porch became very busy. The parent robins hunted all over the yard, pulling worms from the soft garden soil and delivering them to little gaping mouths. The babies were never satisfied for long. As soon as one parent flew away, the next arrived with another meal. It was constant motion. Wings, worms, chirping, and those tiny mouths opening toward the world as if breakfast, lunch, and dinner should arrive every three minutes.

We held our breath through all of it.

Vacation was coming, and before we left, Oliver and Tanner would need to go to puppy camp. That meant danger from the dogs would be gone, but the robins had their own schedule. We counted the days, hoping the babies would grow fast enough and fly soon enough. Every time I looked at the nest, I gave the same silent instruction.

Wait for Puppy Camp. You’ll be safe then.

Then Monday morning came.

To our horror, a hawk began circling the gardens at Winterpast. It was not the peaceful kind of circling one sees in the distance, where a hawk rides the wind like poetry. This hawk was close. Too close. It knew exactly where it was and, worse yet, what it might find. Our little wildlife sanctuary.

The robin parents went wild.

They screamed, swooped, bluffed, and attacked. They did everything their tiny, brave bodies could do against a bird much larger than they were. There was squawking from the robins, circling from the hawk, and HHH outside waving his arms like a man who had suddenly been appointed security chief of the nursery.

For a little while, it looked as though we might win.

But then we had to leave. The dogs needed to be delivered to puppy camp, and life does not always stop for a crisis happening on the porch rafter. We left the robin parents fighting and the hawk circling. When we came back, it was all over.

The nest was empty.

The parents were gone.

Nothing remained. Not even a feather.

The porch was quiet in that terrible way a place becomes quiet after something has happened. No more frantic flights across the yard. No more little mouths reaching up from the nest. No more robin parents scolding us from the fence.

Just a vacancy on the rafter. My first response was not generous. I hated that hawk. For one hot minute, I hated everything about it. It had taken the babies we had been watching, worrying over, and cheering toward flight. It had turned a sweet little story into something sharp and awful.

But then I had to stop myself.

What if the hawk was not simply a horrible villain? What if she were hunting for her own family? What if, somewhere higher in the trees or farther across the desert, there were young hawks waiting for their mother to return? What if she were doing exactly what the robins had been doing all week?

Feeding babies.

Nature often gives us moments we want to organize into good and bad. Robin, good. Hawk, bad. Nest, sweet. Empty nest, tragic. But the truth is not always that tidy. The robin parents were brave and devoted. The hawk was fierce and hungry. The babies were innocent. The dogs were hopeful. The humans were horrified.

And nature went on being nature.

There is a lesson there, although I don’t especially like it.

The garden is beautiful, but it isn’t always gentle. Life grows at Winterpast, but not everything that grows survives. Some stories end before we are ready. Some nests go quiet. Some mornings remind us that the world is not as soft as our hearts want it to be.

Still, I will keep watching.

The nest remains empty for now. Maybe another robin family will try again. If they do, I hope they consider the front yard. It’s quieter there. Fewer dogs. Less traffic. Better shade. A much better neighborhood, in my humble opinion.

Of course, robins will do what robins do. Hawks will do what hawks do. Oliver and Tanner will continue believing anything that falls from the sky belongs to them.

And the gardener at Winterpast will keep learning.

Nature isn’t always kind or pretty.

Sometimes, it simply is.

Today, I’m bringing out the two crates.

They sit quietly for most of the year, tucked away with all the other things that only get to breathe for a season. Eleven months out of twelve, they wait. Inside are buntings, flags, little bits of red, white, and blue, and flower decorations that have somehow survived more than two decades of summers, moves, dust, heat, wind, and life.

Little flower arrangements were made by Auntie TJ and Eldon more than twenty years ago. I can still hear them giggling together as they planned their last Independence Day party. When she downsized, she gave them to me. Every time I lift them from the crate, I’m a little surprised all over again. They remain beautiful. Not “still pretty good for their age.” Not “almost ready to retire.” Red-white-and-blue beautiful.

Maybe that is because I only take them out once a year. And quite possibly, beautiful is bathed in memories.

There’s something to be said for things we don’t overuse. Things we don’t leave in the sun until they fade or are tattered in the wind. These little decorations have been given the gift of rest. They’re packed away carefully, protected, and then, for a few days each summer, they return to the light.

I suppose memories are a lot like that, too. Some aren’t meant to sit out every day. Some are too tender. Some are too precious. Some need to be wrapped in tissue and placed gently in a crate until the right season comes around again. Then, when the time is right, we remember.

Decorating for the Fourth of July has always felt different from other holidays. Christmas carries wonder. Thanksgiving carries gratitude. Easter carries resurrection and hope. But Independence Day carries something brave. It carries porch rails draped with bunting, flags snapping in the wind, children with sticky fingers, neighbors gathering outside, and the reminder that freedom has never been free.

Here on the high desert plains, summer doesn’t tiptoe in. It arrives with heat, dust, wind, and a garden hose in HHH’s hand. By the time the Fourth gets close, the flowers are proving they’re tough enough for Nevada. The flags don’t care. They wave anyway. The buntings don’t complain, but simply take their places.

That might be one of the reasons I love decorating for the Fourth. It doesn’t need perfection. It doesn’t ask the garden to be flawless or the porch to be freshly painted. It just asks for a little effort, a little color, and a little remembering.

When I open those crates, I don’t just see decorations. I see TJ’s hands making flowers years ago, never knowing they would still be loved so many summers later. I see family. I see old celebrations. I see houses we’ve lived in, porches we’ve stood on, and seasons of life that have come and gone. I see how something simple can become sacred if it carries enough love.

The Fourth of July comes with noise, fireworks, barbecue smoke, watermelon, paper plates, and all the usual summer chaos. And then, there is gratitude.

Gratitude for freedom and this beautiful country we call home.

Today, Winterpast will begin to look like the Fourth.

Red-White-and-Blue Perfection.

Because it is time.

Leaving the house in the hands of a very capable young man, we drove away not knowing what would live and what would die.

That is the thing about gardening on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada. You can make plans. You can plant seeds. You can water, fuss, mulch, pray, and whisper encouragement over tiny green things. Then you leave town for a few days and hope for the best.

When we came home, summer had finally made up her mind.

The weather is no longer flirting with warmth. She has thrown open the oven door and announced herself. With 100-degree days lined up for the foreseeable future, it is time to be on high alert with the hose. Around here, that means morning patrol, evening patrol, and the occasional emergency rescue mission when some poor plant looks like it has given up the will to live.

But some babies made it.

After weeks of wondering if the seedlings were ever going to do anything besides sit there looking fragile and offended, they have finally decided to take hold and grow. It is such a small miracle, but I’ll take it. Every little leaf feels like a victory.

Of course, we are still fighting mildew, because gardening would apparently be too easy without a little drama. But the babies are growing. That’s what matters.

And I am already waiting for next February, when I will put the seeds out way too early again.

I know better.

I will do it anyway.

The roses have gone through one full bloom, and oh, the roses we have. Every color. Every fragrance. Every form of beauty standing right outside our door like a living bouquet.

HHH didn’t want any grocery store flowers for his bride.

Nope.

He wanted the real deal. Flowers growing in the ground. Flowers that bloom and fade and bloom again. Flowers that need pruning, water, patience, and love.

Just like the rest of us.

The dogs will be home from puppy camp in a few hours. I must say, it has been rather quiet around here without them. Too quiet, maybe. But then again, we all need a break from time to time. Even dog people. Even garden people. Even retired people who somehow remain busier than they were before retirement.

Our reunion will be action-packed. There will be barking, wiggling, joyful chaos, and probably a few hurt feelings over being abandoned at camp, even though they were spoiled rotten the entire time.

Along with the plants that are supposed to be growing, the weeds are also in full production. They did not need encouragement. They did not need pampering. They did not need carefully timed watering or whispered prayers.

They simply took one look at summer and got busy.

And so, the summer begins.

The roses are blooming. The seedlings are growing. The weeds are winning for the moment. The dogs are coming home. The hose is ready.

Some babies made it.

And in this garden, that is always enough reason to rejoice.

Last week, we enjoyed giving and receiving the gift of time.  Without any real agenda, we drove over Donner Pass and through the Wild-Wild-West toward pockets of California love. HHH and I suspect there’s a true “Blue Zone”, although longevity may flourish when one embraces daily happiness and fills their heart with love for others.  Whatever the case, time stops when we visit these wonderful friends, and love multiplies in the best ways possible.

Without HHH, this wouldn’t be possible.  Without giving it a second thought (but maybe a few grumbles), he navigated and drove through an active shootout with police and news cameras.  Through an entire town that was shuttered due to a burst water main.  Through truck drivers looking down at their phones instead of the road (I counted eight, which should concern every driver).  Through erratic drivers who shouldn’t be on the road.  Ten hours of nerve-wracking near collisions, all avoided because of his expertise.  HHH, giving me time with family is the most precious gift of all.

Time to laugh with a true Goddess of the Central Coast.

Time to meet the Goddess of the Coastal Forest.

Time to hug my Godmother, who has gotten her assignment right for nine decades. Heaven knows, it’s not always been an easy assignment.

And then there is Miss Firecracker.

Miss Firecracker, didn’t merely sit beside her birthday cake. She became the sparkler on top of it. 40 years old, with 50 more in the rearview mirror, she’s still shining, laughing, and casting light into the room because each year has only made her brighter.

Between all of us, we’ve lived 494 years, which sounds almost biblical. Nearly five centuries of birthdays, babies, heartbreaks, recipes, funerals, gardens, road trips, prayers, mistakes, forgiveness, and laughter. Almost five hundred years of stories sitting together in one small bubble of time. 

Auntie TJ has witnessed all of my 70 years.  Always there.  Always smiling.  Choosing happiness every day, even when it was hard to find much to be happy about.

That is no small thing.

It made me realize once again that time is the most precious gift we are given. Not things. Not money. Not perfect schedules or polished plans. Just time.

Time to listen.
Time to talk.
Time to hold a hand and receive a hug.
Time to make a new friend.
Time to sit beside someone who has walked this earth for ninety years and understand that wisdom does not always arrive loudly. Sometimes it comes wearing lipstick, eating birthday cake, and sparkling all over the room.

Each day, HHH and I had 24 hours of vacation time to spend as we chose. Some of those hours were spent on the ordinary business of living. But those hours spent in the presence of these women made priceless memories. 

Last week, every story mattered.  Every giggle was golden.  Holding hands again, we were suspended in one big ball of happiness.  Time stopped in a blue zone.  I think that must happen a lot in their little spot of heaven on earth.

We stood by the steps of a brand-new house in 1998 that would be Auntie TJ’s home in 2026. We went dress shopping in San Francisco, and were invited to watch a young bride walk down the aisle in Rhode Island. We met family members in Pennsylvania. Stories were shared about this stubborn little blonde (me) who knew what she wanted out of life early on. All while sitting in a magical kitchen that brought out the best in everyone.

Last week, while driving down highways, sitting at tables, laughing over old memories, and making new ones, time didn’t need to be fancy to be sacred.  I wish it could’ve stopped for a bit longer, because, as we all know, there is never enough time to be with those you love.

Everyone has the gift of time waiting to be given.  Last week, we spent some of ours on true-to-life Goddesses and Firecrackers.

You just might have some of those in your life, too.

The question is, just how will you spend yours?

More tomorrow.

I need a vacation.

There. I said it.

Not a vacation from life. Not a vacation from Winterpast. Certainly not a vacation from Oliver and Tanner, who would immediately file a formal complaint unless they are going to puppy camp.

I simply need a vacation from my own brain.

For the past several months, I have been buried in words. Thousands upon thousands of words. I’ve been reliving widowhood one chapter at a time while turning six years of blogs, journals, memories, tears, laughter, and life lessons into a book.

It has been wonderful. Every single moment.

It has also been exhausting.

Writers live in two worlds at once. We inhabit the present while constantly visiting the past. Most days, I find myself sitting in my comfortable chair at Winterpast while simultaneously standing in 2020, trying to remember exactly what happened on a particular day, how something felt, or what lesson God was teaching me at the time.

After a while, even the most enthusiastic writer needs to come up for air.

Poor HHH has gardened about as much as a man can. He would like a wife who actually walks and talks, like he used to have.

So, we are taking a little break.

The flowers will continue to bloom without his supervision. The birds will continue to argue over real estate rights in the yard. Oliver will continue his campaign to destroy anything made of plastic. The weeds, unfortunately, will continue their relentless march toward world domination.

Life at Winterpast will carry on.

And that’s a good thing.

Sometimes we need to step away from our routines to appreciate them again. We need new scenery, new conversations, and perhaps a few new adventures to remind us that life is meant to be lived, not merely documented.

When I return, the words will still be waiting.

The book will still be waiting.

The garden will still be waiting.

And hopefully, so will you.

Until then, be kind to yourselves. Notice something beautiful. Take the scenic route. Eat dessert first once in a while. Laugh loudly. Call a friend.

And if you happen to find yourself needing a little break, too, take one.

The world will survive.

Away.

Oy vey.

Enjoy the last few days of spring. I’ll be back on June 22.

I’ve spent the last several weeks working on my book, sorting through old journals, blog posts, and memories from the first year after Terry died. It has been a little like opening a giant puzzle box and dumping thousands of pieces onto the table.

Some pieces are easy to place. They belong exactly where I remembered them. Others have surprised me.

There have been stories I was absolutely convinced belonged in one chapter. The tone matched, the timing seemed right, the memory fit the theme, and I was certain I knew exactly where it belonged. Yet every time I tried to place it there, something felt off. It wouldn’t quite fit.

Like any stubborn person, my first instinct was to make it fit. So, I rotated it. I looked at it from different angles. I tried again.

If I’m being completely honest, there were moments when I would have happily reached for a hammer.

But puzzles don’t work that way.

Neither does Life.

Sometimes we need more pieces before we can see where one belongs. A memory that makes no sense standing alone suddenly becomes clear when another piece is placed beside it. A difficult season reveals its purpose years later. A friendship, a move, a loss, or an unexpected blessing finds its proper place only after the surrounding picture begins to emerge.

On many days, writing reminds me how often I have done this in life. There were seasons when I thought I knew exactly how my story was supposed to unfold. I had plans. Expectations. Certainties. Then life quietly picked up the piece I was trying to force and placed it somewhere entirely different.

At the time, I didn’t understand.

Looking back, I can see that life was right.

Losing Terry felt like the piece that shattered the entire puzzle. Nothing made sense. The picture I thought I was building disappeared overnight. Yet over time, new pieces appeared. Winterpast. New friends. A church family. A blog. Writing. A deeper faith. Love and laughter where I never expected to find them again.

None of those pieces were visible when I was staring at the empty spaces before me.

The same thing happens in the garden. A bare patch of dirt looks hopeless until spring arrives. Then, suddenly, tiny shoots appear where there seemed to be nothing at all. What looked empty was simply waiting for the right season.

Perhaps that is true of life as well.

We spend so much time focusing on the missing pieces that we forget to step back and look at the picture as a whole, becoming frustrated by what isn’t finished. We worry about what doesn’t make sense and try to force things into places they were never meant to go.

Meanwhile, God sees the entire picture.

He sees the pieces we’ve already placed. He sees the ones still waiting in the box and knows how they fit together long before we do.

Faith isn’t about understanding every piece. It’s about trusting the One who holds the picture on the front of the box.

Today, I’m grateful for the pieces I understand. And I’m learning to trust the pieces I don’t.

After all, the puzzle isn’t finished yet.

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