Grieving Gardener

Winterpast is no stranger to love. She was built in love. Her first owners envisioned gardens of extraordinary beauty, then picked up their pickaxes and went to work. One by one, they planted thirty-five trees. They seeded lawns. They chose one small Chinese crab apple tree. And through all their digging, planting, and tending, they sprinkled everything with love.

They couldn’t have seen then exactly what their work would become. Trees need years to offer shade. Gardens take seasons to find their shape. But they began, trusting that the care they gave this little piece of desert would amount to something beautiful.

When their time here was done, the next family moved in, and the love and care continued. Things grew. Flowers bloomed. Family memories were made. Those memories are still carried by children who smile when they come back to visit. They see things I never witnessed. A moment in a room. A childhood afternoon beneath a tree. Parts of Winterpast’s story that belong forever to them.

Winterpast isn’t just some house on a short little street in the desert. She is a living portrait of what love can do. I see it in the trees someone planted long before I knew this place existed. In the garden beds someone tended. In that once-small crab apple tree that now puts on such a magnificent show.

Someone recently told me that money made all this possible. There is truth in that. Water in the desert costs plenty, and keeping a garden alive here requires a commitment. But more than money, it took attention. Hours of grooming. Someone noticing what needed water, what needed pruning, and what needed a little more time. It took people willing to return to the work, season after season. It took love.

Last night, Winterpast welcomed another memory into her keeping. Family and friends gathered here to celebrate the release of my first book. She glowed beneath the decorations I had hung the day before, and I felt her warm hug as the house filled with people I love. I think she enjoyed the party as much as I did.

The celebration is over now. Another part of her story has been written. She and I have shared so many things since I arrived here, carrying grief and belongings into a life I didn’t yet understand. Within these walls, I found places to rest, mornings to write, and room to begin again.

And here, I became an author.

That milestone belongs to Winterpast’s history now, alongside the planting of her trees and the memories of the families who came before me. Years from now, someone else may sit beneath those branches without knowing about last night. But I will know. I will remember the people, the celebration, and the house that held us all.

Thank you, Winterpast. For sheltering my quiet mornings and making room for a house full of love.

You already know how much I love you.

Today, I woke to a new reality. I am an author. No longer working on my first book. No longer wondering whether I will ever get it finished and out into the world. Today, Widow: A Journey Toward Life is published. My words are ready for readers I may never meet. What an extraordinary thought to begin one of the most exciting days of my life.

“This is the day the Lord has made.” Rejoice and be glad. Oh, yes. I intend to.

With so many things to do, my minutes are planned out. The brisket is on the barbecue. The food will be ready to pick up at Raley’s around noon. A custom cake with a picture of my book will take center stage. I can hardly wait to see it. There is something wonderfully hard to believe about ordering a cake decorated with the cover of a book you wrote.

Decorations flutter around the house. Books and books and more books. That’s the theme. After months of checking words on a screen, today I get to enjoy seeing them celebrated here at Winterpast. Soon, family and friends will arrive, bringing their voices and laughter into a home that has held so many quiet mornings of writing.

Through all the preparations, I want to remember to stop and take it in. Look around the room. Listen to the conversations. Enjoy the people who came to share this day. There will always be another plate to fill or something to straighten. This particular November 11 will happen only once.

I hope the book finds its way to someone who needs it. A widow sitting alone, wondering how she will get through another ordinary day without the person she loved. I remember that woman. I wrote with her in mind. Today, I can finally offer her these pages and hope she finds some companionship in them.

And there are more pages waiting to be written. On May 9, 2027, my second book will be released, with plans for two more after that. Those are just the titles planned for next year. Apparently, seven decades of living have left me with plenty to write about. Now that I have started, the stories keep asking for their turn.

Never again will I give up my keyboard for a crochet hook. Somewhere along the way, writing became part of how I live. It gives me a reason to pay attention, to remember, to laugh at myself, and to look forward to the next morning.

Writing has given me life. Writing has given me hope. Writing has helped me heal. And today, it has given me a milestone I once could only imagine.

There is brisket to check and a celebration to get ready for. But first, I am going to sit here for one more moment and let these words sink in.

Today, I am an author.

Writing is life.

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Over the past months, words saved on pages for six years became organized into paragraphs. Those paragraphs became chapters about my journey toward a new life. And now, those chapters have become a book. My book. Two little words that still make me stop and smile.

Writing took me back to a horrible time in my life, but it also allowed me to see it more clearly. Almost as if I were looking down from overhead, tracing the path of a woman who had no idea where she was going. From here, I can see the obstacles she faced and the small steps that carried her through. At the time, I was simply trying to get through another day.

It does no good to fret over the mistakes now. There were things I didn’t understand, decisions I might make differently today, and lessons I could only learn by living them. Writing allowed me to look at the journey for what it was. My very human experience as I became myself again.

Growing up on a farm, individuals weren’t celebrated. Events were. No one person was any more important than the next. Everyone was needed to make the farm work as it should. You did your part because there was work to be done. Stopping to draw attention to yourself wasn’t something that came naturally. Even now, it takes a little getting used to.

But tomorrow, I am going to celebrate. The “Joy” I am feeling deserves a little room. And perhaps the woman named Joy does, too.

I will be celebrating a major milestone. One I would never have reached in my old life. One I can hardly believe is happening in this one. Tomorrow, Widow: A Journey Toward Life will be released. After all the writing, correcting, second-guessing, and checking just one more thing, it is time to let those pages find their readers.

Here at Winterpast, HHH and I will celebrate with barbecued brisket and a custom cake. With a toast to more books. There will be laughter, love, and probably a few tears. After spending so many mornings alone with my words, I can’t wait to share this moment with the people who have encouraged me along the way.

This could never have been possible without the love and support of my Lord and Savior, Jesus. He was with me in the grief that began this story and through the years that followed. When I couldn’t see what came next, I could still turn to Him. Looking back over these pages, I see so many blessings I was too overwhelmed to recognize at the time.

And it would never have happened without HHH giving me the gifts of time and encouragement. Time to disappear into my writing. Encouragement when I doubted myself. Patience when one more little correction took longer than expected. Having someone beside me who believes in what I’m doing has meant more than I can put into words. Which is quite an admission from a woman about to publish a book.

There have been tears. And frustration. And perseverance. Some days, finishing seemed a very long way off. But I kept returning to the pages, and HHH kept cheering me on. Now, here we are, with the release just one day away.

Tomorrow, I am celebrating all of it. The work that brought me here. The faith that sustained me. The people who love me. And the unexpected blessing of reaching seventy with a new dream coming true.

With laughter. With love. With joy.

I can’t wait.

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November 9, 2026

A lifetime of dreams didn’t prepare me for this week. Seven decades of prewriting did. That’s a little excessive, even for me. All those years of living, learning, loving, losing, and finding my way have somehow distilled down to one date. 11/11/2026. My angel day. The day I will become a published author.

Let me make something quite clear. I didn’t study writing in some high-and-mighty university, learning to tuck every sentence into a proper little box. I’ve never been good at hiding what I mean behind the politically acceptable words of the day. I will always speak in my own unique voice. The one that makes me smile as I remember stories that need telling. Sometimes a little too honestly, depending on whom you ask.

So many times, the Goddess of the Central Coast would text me after reading a blog. “Should you have said that?” “Check your grammar.” “What would your grandmother say?” “Some things shouldn’t be shared.” For her, those cautionary words made perfect sense. She would have said some things differently and kept others to herself. But she kept reading. And I kept writing.

We each have our own way of telling a story. Mine has carried me through some very difficult mornings and into a life never imagined. I want my words to accurately represent the woman who lived it.

As a writer, I hope my new book (did I tell you it’s coming out Wednesday?) helps at least one widow. The former me that sat alone on an anniversary or birthday, wondering whether life would ever carry on. I was someone who couldn’t imagine making plans, meeting a new friend, or getting excited about anything again. I remember being her.

For me, life began opening up as I found ways to move forward. Small ways at first. Things I could manage with the strength I had that day. Sometimes I needed to rest before trying again. But I kept trying.

At the end of the day, I’m an ordinary seventy-year-old woman. Courageous? Yes. God-loving? Yes. A little wacky? Well, there’s that, too. But nothing superhuman.

In the months when my widow’s fog began to lift, I understood something about the life still ahead of me. I had more days to live, and I wanted those days to hold something beyond the walls of a house where I sat alone. My life would include gardens. So, I bought seeds. It would include fun. So, I made plans and carried them out.

It would include the love of new friends. That meant making room for friends, while letting them come to know me. And eventually, it would include a partner for my autumn years. Someone with whom to share the life I was learning to enjoy again. With God’s blessings, those things came true, one by one. One foot in front of the other.

Looking back from this Monday morning, I can see how much happened in all those little steps. At the time, I couldn’t see where they were taking me. I was simply living the next day, making the next decision, and finding another story to tell you. Now, some of those memories are gathered into Widow: A Journey Toward Life.

On Wednesday, November 11, they will be available in hardback, paperback, and e-book. My words will go places I may never visit and reach people I will never meet.

I hope they meet the widow there, recognizing a little of themselves on the pages, while feeling less alone. Perhaps they will begin to see good things waiting in their own life, even if they cannot yet see what it might be. That’s what I want this book to hold for others.

And now, here we are. A lifetime of dreams didn’t prepare me for this week. Nothing could have. I’m going to enjoy every single second. Don’t worry. I’ll be right here to tell you all about it.

November 6, 2026

As a gardener, I’ve learned that every plant has its own ways.

Some seem to have an off year, barely doing anything while everything around them flourishes. Then, just when I’ve lowered my expectations, they come back bigger and more beautiful than before. Others are strong year after year, dependable old friends in the garden. Still others, like our November Roses, bloom when the autumn frosts should have stopped them cold.

And then, there’s always the one that simply dies, leaving a space I wasn’t prepared to see empty.

I’ve learned to look carefully before giving up. A plant that seems beyond hope may still have life in it. A little water, some attention, and time can reveal something I couldn’t see.

During my own journey through grief, I’ve recognized a little of myself in that garden.

Some days I stood strong; other days I had almost nothing to give. Long stretches passed when getting through the day took every bit of energy I had. Whatever might be growing in me was too small to notice.

Six years have given me a different view.

I can look back now and see friendships taking root, faith growing deeper, and courage appearing in places where I once felt only fear. While I was busy trying to survive, life still lived in me.

Friendship has been one of the sweetest surprises.

It’s true that you can’t make old friends. Shared history takes time. There is something precious about a person who remembers an earlier version of you, someone who can begin a story with, “Do you remember when?” and take you right back there.

New friendships have their own treasures. A new friend meets the woman you are today. She learns your stories, shares a few of her own, and gradually becomes part of the life you’re building. Before long, familiar chairs sit at the table, and you look forward to the conversations.

I’ve learned that a great friendship can begin at any time in life. I’m grateful I didn’t miss the ones waiting for me.

Faith has changed my life, too.

My baptism on December 12, 2021 marked something deeply personal in my journey. Listening to the Bible and the eyewitness accounts of those who walked with Jesus has changed the way I see life. As my relationship with Him has grown, I realize He carried me through moments when I knew I couldn’t take another step alone.

Looking back, I recognize His presence throughout my life.

He was there long before I understood how to look for Him. It took me some time to recognize Him, and I am still learning. That relationship has become a source of strength I treasure every day.

What did my journey take?

In the first days, it took food, shelter, and clothing. Water. Sleep. The things I needed to get through another morning.

Then it took patience. Faith. Hope. Courage. Love. Resilience. Vision. Belief in myself.

I didn’t gather all those things at once. Some days, patience was the hardest thing to find. On others, courage meant making a decision I wished someone else could make for me. Learning to believe in myself took practice, especially when I was tired and afraid.

There were tears along the way. So many tears.

There was also adventure. There was fun. Some moments, laughter came easily again, and I was glad I had said yes. Those became part of my story, too.

And of course, one last great love, in growing a new life with my husband, HHH. God saved something very sweet for the autumn of our lives. We are truly blessed.

Through it all, I came home to myself.

The woman who had been there all along.

The me who still has things to learn, places to go, flowers to plant, and stories to tell. The me who will build friendships and cherish love. The me whose life still holds so many possibilities. And, so, so many more pages to write.

I never want to lose that me again.

Now, I’ve written a book.

Widow: A Journey Toward Life will be available on November 11, 2026, in hardback, paperback, and e-book. As publication day approaches, I keep coming back to what I wanted from this project.

To be helpful.

I hope someone finds a familiar feeling in those pages. Perhaps a little comfort, a reason to reach out to a friend, or enough encouragement to consider one small adventure of their own. Maybe a chance to say, “She didn’t” …. and then smile a bit when you find that indeed I did.

I wanted to share what happened to me honestly, including the difficult days and the unexpected good that followed. Both can belong to the same life.

So much has grown out of grief here at Winterpast. Friendship. Faith. Writing. Love.

Grief is awful.

Together, maybe we can make it a little less so.

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I’ll be the first to tell you I’m no expert in grief counseling. I can’t hand you a tidy set of instructions for surviving the loss of someone you love. I know what happened to me after losing my husband in 2020. Another person’s grief may ask something entirely different of them.

I was alone and drowning.

Decisions loomed everywhere, and I could barely think. The life we had built together still needed tending, even though one of its caretakers was gone. Bills arrived. Moving boxes waited. Morning kept coming, whether I had slept or not.

I seemed to do every single thing I had been told not to do. Some decisions had deadlines. Others were made through tears, with the information and strength I had at the time. Somehow, through all of it, I began to make my own way.

In those early days, instinct often carried me when clear thinking couldn’t.

I ate when I was hungry. When I was cold, I found a cozy blanket and pulled it around me. I slept when exhaustion finally caught up with me, and I kept the Kleenex box close when I needed to cry.

Those small acts felt manageable. I couldn’t solve widowhood. I could find a blanket. I couldn’t make sense of the rest of my life. I could get something to eat.

Little by little, I learned to pay attention to the person who was still here.

Me.

That was harder than it sounds. So much of my attention had been devoted to my husband, especially during his illness. After he died, there were still a thousand things to handle. Remembering that I needed some care took practice.

If I have any advice to offer from my own experience, it would be this: listen gently to yourself. Notice what hurts. Notice what offers a little relief. Give yourself permission to respond to those needs without turning them into another assignment you must complete perfectly.

If company comforts you, invite your besties. Let someone sit at the kitchen table. Tell the old stories. Say his name. Share a meal, even if all you can manage is something simple.

If quiet is what you need, let the house be still for a while. Close the drapes. Turn off the television. Rest without feeling obligated to explain the afternoon to everyone who calls.

Your needs may change. You may want solitude in the morning and a familiar voice by supper. You can pick up the phone again. You can tell a friend, “I thought I wanted to be alone, but could you come over?”

There will be plenty of times you may have no idea what you need.

I remember being that lost. When every choice feels too large, even answering “What can I do?” can be difficult. It is okay to say, “I don’t know. Will you sit with me while I figure it out?” A trusted friend, a grief group, or a counselor can help as you find your way.

For me, learning to live again happened in the ordinary moments. A meal. A nap. A conversation. Something growing in the garden that needed my attention. Over time, there were moments when I could enjoy what was in front of me, and eventually, days I looked forward to.

I couldn’t have imagined those days at the beginning.

From where I sit now, I wish I could offer someone whose loss is still new a little of that hope. You may be looking at a future too large and unfamiliar to consider. For now, bring your attention a little closer.

Are you hungry? Are you cold? Would a little company help?

Be still long enough to hear the answer, if you can. If you can’t, let someone who cares help you with the next small thing.

I found my way one need, one decision, and one day at a time. Some days, the next thing was simply pulling the blanket a little closer. That’s what cozy blankets are for.

Just know this for sure.

Everything will get better, one day at a time.

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November 4, 2026

One week from today, Widow: A Journey Toward Life will be released. As that day gets closer, I want to share a small piece of the story with you.

A page from my heart.

On April 8, 2020, my life with VST ended after thirty-two years of marriage. By evening, I was trying to understand how to get through the next day. There were houses to sell and buy, belongings to pack, and decisions waiting everywhere. Somewhere in the middle of all that, I needed to remember to eat. To drink water. To sleep.

That night, I wrote to a woman I had never met.

My future self.

I hoped she would be stronger. I hoped she would have figured out some of the things I couldn’t begin to understand. Mostly, I wished I could get to wherever she was and find out that I had survived.

This passage comes from Chapter Zero: April—Food, Shelter, and Clothing.

That night, before I went to bed, I wrote a letter to my future self. I already knew I needed to lean on the words Food, Shelter, and Clothing to get me through the next day and the day after that. A few months from then, perhaps a stronger version of me would read those words and use them as a measure of how far she’d come.

And so, I wrote…

April 8, 2020

This month, it will be all you can do to care for yourself. Food. Shelter. Clothing. Water. Sleep.

You are starting this journey alone. You are brave, strong, beautiful, and ready. You don’t believe you are any of those things, but wait and see.

You miss him as much as he misses you. It wasn’t ever his wish to leave you alone. When you need a hug from him, wear his sweater. He is all around you, covering you with his angel wings.

Look back and smile at how far you’ve come while reading this.

I wish I was already there.

Be Brave, J

That last line still stops me.“I wish I was already there.”

I remember how badly I wanted to get beyond those first impossible days. I couldn’t picture the woman who would read that letter later. I could barely picture the next morning.

Now, more than six years later, I wish I could sit beside her for a little while. I would let her cry. I would make sure she had something to eat. And when she was ready to listen, I would tell her a little about the life waiting ahead.

There would be flowers to plant at Winterpast. Friends she hadn’t met yet. Laughter she couldn’t imagine making room for. There would be love again, too.

And there would be writing. Morning after morning, she would find words for what had happened and what was happening next. Eventually, those words would become a book.

She would have a story to share with someone who needed it.

Perhaps that someone is you.

If today has narrowed your world to food, shelter, clothing, water, and sleep, I remember that place. You don’t have to imagine the next six years this morning. Getting through today may take everything you have.

I hope you will give your future self a few kind words, even if you aren’t quite ready to believe them.

I left my future self a letter.

This morning, I’m grateful and blessed. Looking back, my journey has been so beautiful. Today, I smile as I read those words.

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After someone you love dies, ordinary, everyday things become landmines hiding in plain sight. The belongings once used each day lie still, waiting for a decision about their fate. A toothbrush. A pen. Even a stapler with its owner’s initials written in Sharpie.

A world built for two becomes stuff for one to deal with. And those decisions can keep coming long after the person is gone.

I remember finding VST’s stapler in a box he had packed for our move to the new home he would never get to enjoy.

On one of his last “good” days, he had insisted on helping pack a box from his office. He promised he wouldn’t do too much. He would rest between items. Even seated in his office chair, wrapping a single item exhausted him.

The last thing he placed in his special box was an ordinary stapler. Just months earlier, it had been a small declaration of territory. As a teacher, he was accustomed to office supplies disappearing from his office. Finally, he had bought a new stapler and marked it with his initials in Sharpie.

That one was his.

Placed on top of the other items, it would be the last item he would ever pack. A perfect period at the end of our thirty-two-year story.

Weeks later, I lifted the lid in the new garage, and that unromantically ordinary thing undid me.

The smallest things can bring you back to a moment in time. A look. A sharp word. An apology. A hug. Something you thought you had tucked safely away comes rushing back before you have time to prepare.

It’s hard to plan for those landmines. They’re everywhere, even when you step carefully.

That box should have had a warning. Something to tell me I would need more than scissors to open it. That I should take a breath before lifting the lid. But it was an ordinary moving box. One of many waiting to be unpacked in a home chosen for two and now inhabited by one.

Inside that box was the memory of him trying. Trying to help. Trying to keep his promise to rest. Using what little strength he had to pack something he expected to need again.

That is the part that still gets me.

He was packing for our life.

I would be unpacking it alone.

If you are facing boxes, drawers, or a closet full of decisions, give yourself a little room. You may get through an entire afternoon without a tear and then find a pen that stops everything. You may give away something valuable, only to be undone by something nobody else would think to keep.

You knew the person who touched it. You remember where it sat. You understand the handwriting.

So much of a life is tucked into the things left behind.

VST had written his initials on that stapler so everyone would know it was his. Weeks later, in my new garage, in the saddest of moments, I wished he could’ ve been there to claim it.

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Before I became a widow, I took life for granted.

I wasted one unappreciated hour after another on mindless hobbies, never considering how precious those hours might someday seem. Hobbies. Chores. Cleaning. Helping. Something to finish. Things that could have waited while I looked up and noticed a little more about the life happening around me.

I didn’t grasp the full value of a smile or the touch of a warm hand on a cold day. I ate meals without appreciating the precious time we were sharing. Even with my husband beside me, there were times I became cocooned in my own space. A space just big enough for one.

I couldn’t have known what was to come.

Before I became a widow, I saw things from a couple’s point of view. There were two of us to figure things out. Two people to carry the load. And somewhere along the way, I got comfortable letting VST carry things I didn’t even notice.

I depended on him to see the oncoming traffic and the road signs. I saw the world from the passenger seat of an RV, watching the scenery roll past while he watched the road. I could enjoy the view because he was watching for roadblocks ahead.

I didn’t see all the bills or understand the full cost of being us. I left details to him, comfortable in the belief that he would take care of them. He had for so long.

I refused to see the warning signs surrounding us. I saw the view of life I chose to see, rather than the reality of the life we were living. Some things were easier to leave unexamined. Easier to put off until another day.

I didn’t notice time passing until it snatched him away.

Before I became a widow, I chose to hear the words that made me feel loved. I paid less attention to the silence of those who had moved away. My own world was full enough that I didn’t always stop to look for what was missing.

Road noise filled our lives as we traveled thousands of miles together. The steady sound became the background of our days. Willie’s Roadhouse became my playlist, although it had always been his. One familiar song after another. One mile after another. We moved down the highway, not knowing how few miles we had left.

Before I became a widow, I felt 1,000-thread-count sheets against my skin as I dreamed on down pillows. I knew the comfort of a tough, protective hand taking mine to lead the way. I felt protected without ever understanding the world I’d been protected from.

I felt a love that had aged for thirty-two years, mellowing into friendship and respect. A love so familiar I sometimes forgot to stop and fully appreciate it.

It was there when I woke up. There when I went to sleep. Woven through so much of daily life that I could no longer see where my life ended and his began.

Of course, there was the after.

Oh, the after …

My senses awakened to a world I scarcely recognized. Nothing looked, tasted, smelled, sounded, or felt the same. The familiar things were still around me, but I experienced them differently. His absence reached into every part of the day.

On Day One, I had an entire world full of demands. The bills. The decisions. The things he had handled together. The questions I wished I had asked while he was still there to answer them. I had to manage details I’d trusted him with, while wondering how I could possibly move forward without him.

Life was entirely different on April 9, 2020.

Looking back, I wish I had paid closer attention. I wish I had lingered over more meals, looked up more often, and understood that an ordinary day together was something worth appreciating while I was living it.

I loved VST deeply. For thirty-two years, we built a life together, lulling me into the belief that we’d have more time. Another conversation. Another trip. Another cold day when his hand would find mine.

Perhaps that is what I want to share this morning. If someone you love is sitting across the table, look up. If you’ve heard a story a hundred times, listen once more. If a warm hand reaches for yours, take a moment to feel it.

Those normal little things are the most precious part of life.

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I’ve been a Nevadan for over twelve years. Long enough to know that the last weekend in October deserves a little celebrating. When we prepared to make Nevada our home, it took us a year to move our belongings while we wrapped up two careers. During that year, Fridays became the best day of the week. With seniority and some flexibility in our jobs, we could usually begin the journey to Virginia City around noon.

Those drives were full of excitement and dreams. The Dunmovin House had been repossessed, making it a bargain with plenty of possibilities. We were ready to work all weekend, and we spent hours discussing what we would remodel, repair, or rebuild. There was always another idea. Somehow, that seven-hour drive flew by. Before we knew it, we were arriving at our own private mountaintop, perfect for two.

When our first Nevada Day rolled around, the whole idea seemed a little crazy to us. A state holiday on the last Friday in October, just to celebrate being Nevada? What a wonderful idea. And boy, do we celebrate. Parades, art shows, and festivities make it feel like a little Independence Day just for Nevadans. The celebration fills the weekend, with Halloween adding its own excitement. Around here, there is plenty of room for both.

Today, HHH and I are preparing for tomorrow. We are participating in our very first trunk-or-treat. My theme will be camping. Naturally, I have a bear costume. HHH is still figuring out his theme, but I have my part covered. Whatever else happens, my campsite will have a bear. We are both as excited as we can be.

Without good lighting or sidewalks, Winterpast doesn’t see many kiddos on Halloween. For the last six years, I’ve turned off the porch light and watched a movie. This year will be different. We are prepared to join the fun.

One thing I love about a small town is the chance to be part of the lives of the children growing up here. They are our future, and there are endless reasons to encourage them. Earlier in the week, the sweetest young man was selling popcorn to raise money for his Scout troop. Dressed in his full uniform, he explained what he was doing.

Twenty dollars a bag. That made me pause. But he explained that it was really a donation to support his troop. After all, everyone knows a bag of popcorn can only go so far to justify twenty dollars. He was adorable. And I do like popcorn. I might have to buy another bag.

What stayed with me was seeing that young man sitting with his dad. No cellphone in sight. Just a boy and his father, spending time together, and the boy seemed to enjoy his dad’s company very much. That alone was worth the twenty dollars.

As we get ready for our camping adventure among the trunks and treats, I’m thankful to be part of this little town. Thankful for neighbors who show up, parents who make time, and children who give us reasons to dress like bears and hand out candy. Twelve and a half years ago, Nevada was a place full of possibilities. Today, it is home.

So have fun today, whatever you do. If you are a Nevadan, celebrate! If you aren’t, celebrate anyway. After all, it’s almost Halloween. I’ll be back on Monday.