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.

There are dreams that begin with excitement. And there are dreams that begin because there is simply no other choice.

Six years ago, I quietly started something that would become one of the hardest journeys of my life. It didn’t begin with a publishing contract or a marketing plan. It began with calendars spread across the table, journals filled with hurried notes, photographs, old emails, and memories that refused to fade.

For six years, I organized.

I dreamed.

I started.

I stopped.

I walked away.

Then I came back.

Again and again.

Some days I couldn’t bear to open the manuscript. Other days I wrote until the tears finally gave way to peace. There were paragraphs that cost me more than words can measure. There were also moments when I found myself laughing out loud at memories I hadn’t visited in years. Grief is strange that way. It never asks permission to make you cry. It also has a surprising habit of handing you joy when you least expect it.

Writing this book has required something I didn’t know I still possessed—the willingness to remember the smallest details of some really dark days.

Every chapter carried me back into another month of widowhood. I revisited the places, the conversations, the balloon releases, the small victories, and the heartbreaks that seemed impossible at the time. I met that frightened woman again, and with each page, I wanted to tell her what she could not yet know.

You are going to make it.

Just keep walking.

One foot in front of the other.

What did I see when the last word was written? A steady progression finding life again.

Today, I can finally say something I’ve been hoping to write for a very long time. The first draft is finished. Not perfect. Not polished beyond recognition. Just honest.

The manuscript is now ready for my wonderful beta readers, who will help me see what I can no longer see after living with these pages for so many years. After that, it will make its way to the publisher. And if all goes according to plan, on November 11, 2026, Widow: A Journey Toward Life will be available for purchase on Amazon (Hardback, Paperback, e-book). That sentence feels almost unbelievable to type.

This isn’t a book filled with easy answers or five simple steps to healing. It is raw. It is real. It tells the truth about losing my husband to cancer and discovering, one day at a time, that my own life was not over.

If you have ever buried someone you loved, I think you’ll recognize pieces of yourself in these pages.

If you are walking beside someone who is grieving, perhaps you’ll understand them a little better.

And if you’re simply wondering whether it’s too late to begin again, I hope this story reminds you that it isn’t.

Dreams don’t always arrive on our schedule.

Sometimes they need years.

Sometimes they need tears.

Sometimes they simply need us to keep showing up until one day we discover we’ve crossed the finish line we could barely imagine when we started.

Because it’s never too late to keep walking, even at 70.

Just put one foot in front of the other and off you go.

Thank you for walking this journey with me. Your encouragement, your prayers, your emails, your comments, and your friendship have carried me farther than you probably realize.

November 11, 2026, is on the horizon, and I can’t wait to place Widow: A Journey Toward Life into your hands.

Yesterday was one of those long days every pet owner dreads.

Tanner underwent minor surgery and is now safely home, resting comfortably. We’re hopeful for a complete recovery, and if you are the praying kind, we’d truly appreciate your prayers.

One thing a pet teaches us is just how dependent they are on us. They can’t tell us where it hurts. They can’t explain that something feels different. They rely on us to notice the subtle signs—a lump beneath the fur, a cough that wasn’t there before, an appetite that quietly disappears, or eyes that no longer sparkle quite as brightly. They trust us completely, and that trust carries a tremendous responsibility.

Pets are expensive. Food, veterinary care, medications, surgeries, and insurance often cost far more than people ever imagined when they brought home that tiny puppy or kitten. Yet good pet owners somehow make it work because these animals are no longer possessions. They are family.

While we waited at the veterinary clinic yesterday, I met two remarkable German Shepherds.

The first was magnificent with a name that fit. King was tall, handsome, and intelligent with a beautiful black-and-tan coat. He was there to be neutered but was already struggling with advanced hip problems despite his young age.

While we waited, his owner told his story.

She’d found him abandoned in a field near her home. It took several days to earn his trust before he would come close enough for her to help him. Someone had simply thrown him away as if his life no longer mattered.

Looking into those soft brown eyes, I couldn’t imagine who could have done such a thing. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t dangerous. He simply needed someone willing to keep the promise someone else had made and then forgotten. He found that person.

The next woman walked in carrying another German Shepherd—a puppy whose ears hadn’t quite decided whether they wanted to stand proudly or flop adorably to the side. The puppy bounced through the waiting room, full of curiosity and joy. German Shepherds are some of life’s very best dogs.

While cradling her new pup, her owner shared another heartbreaking story.

The puppy had been purchased at eight weeks old by a neighbor. By three months, the novelty had worn off. The owner wanted her gone immediately. Free. To anyone willing to take her. Already having three German Shepherds of her own, this kind woman simply said, “I’ll take her.” That little bouncing bundle of energy had stolen her heart.

Watching those two dogs yesterday, I couldn’t help wondering why it’s so difficult to remember the commitment we make when bringing a pet home. Unless something truly drastic changes in life, they’re ours. Not until they’re inconvenient. Not until they’re no longer puppies. Not until the vet bills arrive. For life.

It’s true that situations arise where rehoming a beloved pet is the most loving decision. Over the years, I’ve had to make that heartbreaking choice myself. It was never impulsive. It involved tears, careful planning, and making certain they would be safe, loved, and cherished. There’s a world of difference between responsibly rehoming an animal and abandoning one. No dog deserves to be driven into the desert and left to fend for itself.

Watching Tanner sleep peacefully beside us today, I’m reminded that love isn’t measured by convenience. It’s measured by commitment.

DOG is GOD spelled backward. Whether that’s coincidence or not, perhaps it’s worth thinking about. Dogs teach us loyalty, forgiveness, unconditional love, and joy. They greet us as though we’ve been gone forever, even if we only stepped outside for the mail.

If you’re able, consider donating to your local animal shelter. Spay and neuter your pets. Support the people who rescue the ones others have forgotten. Most of all, love the ones who already love you with their whole hearts. They deserve nothing less.

As I watched those two German Shepherds yesterday, another thought stayed with me.

The women holding their leashes had never met. They simply happened to arrive at the same veterinary clinic on the same afternoon. One had rescued a young dog abandoned in a field. The other had welcomed a three-month-old puppy that someone else had already decided was no longer worth keeping. Two strangers. Two beautiful dogs. Two women who, without ever knowing it, reminded me that there are still extraordinary people quietly walking among us. People who don’t look the other way. People who open their homes. People who make room in their hearts. For every person willing to throw a dog away, there is another willing to pick one up.

Thank God for people who choose love.

The weather here at Winterpast has been as close to perfect as weather can be.

Even though July arrives tomorrow, we have been gifted with days that feel more like a gentle invitation than the beginning of a high desert summer. The afternoons have been hovering in the eighties, warm enough for flowers to stretch their faces toward the sun, but not so hot that everything wilts by noon.

Last night, the desert remembered it could still be cold.

By bedtime, the night air chilled the house, and the electric blanket earned its place on the bed. There’s something wonderfully comforting about that. Summer by day. Almost-autumn by night. It’s a nice change when living on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada.

There is a rhythm settling over Winterpast now. The frantic pace of spring chores has eased a little. The trees are full. The flowers are finding their places. The birds keep arriving as if they own the yard, which of course, they do. Oliver and Tanner have also settled into their summer schedule, which mostly includes keeping a careful eye on me, barking when necessary, and napping as if they have worked a double shift.

HHH has found his golf clubs again.

They’d been waiting quietly for him, probably wondering if they had been forgotten. On Mondays, he dusts them off and heads out to golf with his brothers. There are old friends to see, stories to tell, and a ball to chase across green grass. I love that for him.

There is something good and healthy about watching someone you love return to something they enjoy. Golf gives him fresh air, brother time, laughter, and a few hours of being exactly where he wants to be.

It gives me something too.

Quiet.

Delicious, uninterrupted quiet.

While HHH is golfing, Winterpast becomes my writing nest. The house settles down around me. Oliver and Tanner give up on supervising and fall asleep nearby. The coffee cup sits within reach. The garden waits outside the window. My words begin to gather.

For a few hours, there is no hurry.

It is just me, my thoughts, my memories, and the page.

There was a time in my life when quiet felt empty. After loss, silence can be a room too large to stand in. It echoes. It reminds. It waits.

But life is tender in the way it changes things, and quiet does not feel quite the same anymore.

Now, on a good day, quiet feels like a gift. It gives me room to breathe. It gives me space to remember without being swallowed by remembering, allowing me time to listen for the next sentence.

Sometimes I write a blog. Sometimes I work on the book. Sometimes I simply sit and think about how far life has carried me from the days when breathing itself felt like work.

These days, I am learning the grace of simply being, without rushing, proving, or fixing.

Just being.

Being in a home I love.

Being married to a man who can spend Monday mornings golfing with his brothers and come home smiling.

Being watched over by two dogs who believe naps are holy work.

Being surrounded by a garden that keeps teaching me patience.

Being grateful for eighty-degree days and electric-blanket nights.

There is beauty in this kind of ordinary, and just maybe that’s what makes it feel so extraordinary.

After seasons of grief, change, work, worry, and rebuilding, a simple Monday can feel like a miracle. A husband golfing. Dogs sleeping. A woman writing. A garden growing. A house resting in summer light.

Nothing that would make the evening news.

Just life, quietly offering its hand again, while I reach back.

Golf is happiness.

Writing is Life.

Go enjoy this last day of June!!! It’s going to be a beauty.

Some of the best advice I ever received came wrapped in words I did not want to hear. Get over your grief, they said when I was seventeen and had no idea how the death of my first love was supposed to be survived. Instead, Spend the Summer in Switzerland, they said when I didn’t speak German and needed the comfort of family and friends.

Go to college, they said when all I really wanted was an MRS degree and a life that felt settled.

Years passed. Babies came. Advice sounded less like wisdom and more like warning. You’ll be sorry if you divorce, they said, when I knew deep down I was saving my life and the lives of my children.

Move into an apartment, they said, when my boys needed the breathing room of a small house.

Don’t marry again, they said, when I had already met the love of my life.

Don’t move away, they said, when we were not running from something, but moving toward the life waiting for us.

Advice comes from everywhere in life. Family, friends, neighbors, church people, strangers in grocery store lines, and occasionally people who knew almost nothing about the road I was walking. Most meant well. Some were speaking from love. Some were speaking from fear. Some were remembering their own wounds and handing me directions that belonged to their map, not mine.

Even Oliver has offered unwanted advice, usually with one eyebrow raised and a look that clearly says, Mom, this is a terrible idea. His advice is considered from time to time.

And later, after loss had done its awful work, the advice came again.

Some of it was loving. Some of it was fear wearing a sensible coat. But I’d lived long enough by then to know the difference between advice meant to protect me and advice meant to keep me small.

Not every word of advice was right. Not every warning was wrong. But every piece of it forced me to listen for the quieter voice underneath—the one God had been teaching me to recognize all along.

That voice encouraged me when it said, LIVE.

It cheered when it said GO!

The voice comforted me and said, BEGIN AGAIN.

These golden messages were quieter. Holier. Easier to miss. The Holy Spirit has never shoved, scolded, or demanded center stage. It has usually come as a whisper, a nudge, a strange peace, or a sudden knowing I could not explain. Too often, that still small voice was outshouted by the advice of mere mortals, including my own. But when I look back, the guidance that saved me most was rarely the loudest voice in the room. It was the one that stayed after all the other voices finally grew quiet.

These days, I listen carefully when people offer advice. There is wisdom to be found in those who love us, and I would be foolish to believe I have all the answers. But I have also learned not every opinion deserves equal weight.

The advice most treasured is the quiet counsel of the Holy Spirit. His voice has never shouted over the crowd. It has simply waited…patiently…until I was willing to listen.

Looking back, I don’t regret the times I ignored the loudest voices. I only regret the times I ignored His.

If there is one piece of advice I would gladly pass along, it is this:

When everyone else is telling you what to do, be still long enough to hear what God is saying. His whisper has never led me wrong.

When I look back on widowhood, survival didn’t come in large, dramatic moments, but in tiny little things.things.

A listening ear saved me. Not advice. Not explanations. Just someone willing to sit quietly while my words wandered, even if I told the same story more than once.

A healthy hug saved me. The kind that didn’t rush me past my sorrow, but simply helped me hold the weight for a few seconds.

Time over coffee saved me. Some mornings, the cup warmed my hands before anything else could reach my heart.

Time to think saved me.

Time to cry saved me.

Time to remember saved me.

A calendar saved me. After Terry died, time became strange. Days stretched too long while weeks disappeared. Little squares on paper proved I was still moving forward. A bill due. An appointment. A balloon release on the eighth. Another day survived.

My journal saved me. There were words I couldn’t say out loud, but I could write them down. Messy words. Angry words. Lonely words. Prayers that didn’t sound polished. The journal didn’t correct me or rush me. It simply held what my heart needed to spill.

A little dog with a big heart saved me. Oliver didn’t understand widowhood, but he understood me. He needed breakfast. He needed outside. He needed me to keep going. Sometimes love comes with fur, short legs, and a very important opinion about the day’s schedule.

Winterpast saved me. This home became the place where grief and life had to learn how to live together. The birds still came. The fountains still needed tending. The gardens still changed with the seasons.

Summer’s late sunshine saved me.

Autumn’s chill saved me.

Winter’s soft snow saved me.

Grocery delivery saved me. So did Subway. So did a freezer full of Marie Callender pot pies. Not every rescue looks poetic. Sometimes survival looks like food appearing at the front door because walking through a grocery store is too much.

God’s love saved me.

The Bible saved me.

Faith did not erase my grief. It walked through grief with me.

Nevada skies saved me. When my world felt very small, the sky reminded me there was still something vast above it.

Hope saved me.

Faith saved me.

Belief saved me.

Love saved me.

Not all at once. Healing came like little drops of water on dry ground. One conversation. One cup of coffee. One hug. One journal page. One sunrise. One small dog waiting by my chair. One pot pie. One prayer. One more day.

We often look for the big miracle, but sometimes God sends a thousand tiny ones.

During widowhood, I was not saved by one thing.

It was all those tiny little things.

And every one of them mattered.

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

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.