Grieving Gardener

There are days at Winterpast when everything asks for your attention at once. Tuesday was one of those days.

Up in the Japanese maple, tucked into a cradle of thin, patient branches, a dove has been sitting. Two eggs beneath her. No fuss, no sound—just the quiet, stubborn work of staying. Every time we passed beneath her tree, she watched. Not curious. Not calm. Measuring. And yesterday, we gave her reason to.

HHH and I set out to wake the irrigation system. Half an acre of plastic tubing stretched across the land like a puzzle no one quite remembers solving, lines running here and doubling back there. We turned on the water and waited, and almost immediately the yard answered back.

A leak here, a split line there, and then, without warning, a full gusher—water shooting up where it had no business being. “Oy vey” became the language of the afternoon as we stepped over hoses, crouched, adjusted, shut things off, turned them on again, and tried to bring order to something that seemed determined to resist it.

Above us, she held. Longer than I expected, honestly. But even quiet strength has its limit. At some point with no signal or warning, she broke. Wings sudden against the still air, a rush of motion where there had only been stillness.

And right on cue, the resident idiots sprang into action.

Tanner and Oliver, united at last in a shared and noble cause: chaos. Charging with full conviction and no understanding of what they were doing, they barked, scattering what little peace remained in the yard. The dove veered hard, gaining sky, leaving behind the small, fragile center of her world.

And then… nothing. The nest sat empty.

It’s a strange thing, how quickly two tiny eggs can begin to matter. We didn’t say much, HHH and I, but we both kept looking up. Not constantly. Just enough to know we were both thinking the same thing. Maybe that was it. Maybe she wouldn’t come back.

Time stretched out longer than it probably was. The yard grew quieter. Even the water seemed to settle into a kind of waiting.

And then—she returned.

Not in a rush or panic. She came back the way she had left, on her own terms. One careful movement, then another, folding herself down over those two small promises as if nothing had happened… and everything had. No announcement. No correction. Just presence. Below her, life carried on in its usual, imperfect way.

Later that evening, Oliver lost his supper. Not outside, where such things belong, but directly on the rug by the back door. A consequence from something he ate earlier in the day. Whether it was his karma or ours remains open for discussion.

Up in the tree, she stays.

This morning, that feels like the only thing that matters.

If you’d like to follow along, come back tomorrow. The sprinklers aren’t finished with us yet… and I suspect neither is she.

There is something about Wednesday mornings that feels softer than the rest.

Maybe it’s the rhythm of the week settling in, or the way the light comes through the window just a little differently. At Winterpast, our mornings always begin the same way with a warm cup in hand, the quiet hum of the house waking up, and a conversation that doesn’t need to rush.

Coffee tastes different when it’s shared. Not because of what’s in the cup, but because of who is sharing it with you. Even if HHH is enjoying his morning fix of funny internet reels while I blog and handle bookkeeping, little conversations along the way keep us connected.

Checking in on the quality of last night’s sleep. Comments on the ever-present news in the background. Chuckles about the commuters that are stuck in traffic near TRIC (Tahoe Reno Industrial Complex). Connections over coffee are the best.

Late-life love carries a sweetness that is hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. It isn’t the breathless kind of love that fills a room with Cupid’s arrows. It’s quieter than that. Deeper. It arrives with history in its pockets and wisdom in its step. It understands loss, lessons, and what truly matters.

There is no need to impress.

No need to pretend.

No need to rush toward anything.

Instead, there is space.

Space to speak honestly and listen without fixing. Space to sit in silence and know that nothing more is required.

The conversations themselves are different, too. They wander, sometimes doubling back, drifting from memories to laughter to small observations about the world just outside the window. One minute it’s a story from long ago, the next it’s a shared smile over something as simple as the way the dogs are snoozing after their 5 am breakfast.

Those are the conversations that matter most. Not the big, planned discussions about life’s direction. Not the difficult decisions. But the small, unguarded exchanges that say, “I see you. I’m here, and we’re still walking this road together.”

There is a tenderness in late-life marriages that feels earned. It comes from knowing that time is not endless, and that every ordinary moment carries a little more weight, a little more meaning. It shows up in the way a cup is refilled without being asked, or in how one reaches for the other’s hand without thinking. It lives in laughter that comes easily, and in the quiet understanding that settles just as naturally.

At this stage of life, love is less about building something new and more about appreciating what is right in front of you. It’s about choosing each other again and again, not out of need, but out of knowing what life can take and what it can give back.

Each morning, we choose to sit down together anyway, with a warm cup between us, and talk about all of it… or nothing at all. In the end, it isn’t the coffee that lingers. It’s love’s conversation and the quiet, steady presence of someone who has found their way to your table, just when you needed them most.

Yesterday, the wind came early to Winterpast.

Not in a hurry, not in a fury—just enough to move things along, carrying what needed carrying. Out here, the wind doesn’t just pass through. It gathers, lifts, and remembers. When the weather settles into that just-right place between night and morning, Winterpast becomes a quiet stage for sound. Not loud or demanding. Just present, if you’re willing to listen.

From somewhere beyond the sage and the fence line, the steady rush of Interstate 80 hums to life. It never truly sleeps, that road. Even in the early hours, it speaks its own language in long, low tones—the hum of tires, whispered in the distance. Every so often, the sharper sigh of truck brakes reminds us that someone, somewhere, is slowing down while the rest of the world keeps moving.

Above it all, jets stitch their way across the sky. Invisible at times, but never silent. Carrying lives from here to there, from one story to another. There’s something about that sound that always feels bigger than the moment. With Top Gun less than 75 miles away, the occasional military helicopter or jet joins them.

Then comes the siren.

Faint. Distant and just a thread of sound, really. Reaching all the same, it’s a reminder that while most of us are still wrapped in blankets and dreams, there are those brave warriors already running toward danger or someone in need. It’s a lonely sound, that siren. But also a brave one.

Closer now, the softer things begin to speak.

The coo of doves, gentle and steady, like a morning prayer offered without words. The unique sound of the quail, rustling around on the lawn. The faint scratch at the door from Oliver and Tanner, patiently hopeful that breakfast is a very real and immediate priority. Life, in its simplest form, asks to be tended.

And then the wind again.

Moving through leaves in different voices. A whisper here. A rustle there. Each tree saying something slightly different, depending on how it’s rooted, how it bends, how it remembers the seasons before this one.

But perhaps the most remarkable sound this morning isn’t a sound at all.

Inside, on the dining room table, nearly 150 seedlings are pushing their way through the soil. You really can’t hear them. But if you sit still enough while letting the rest of the world quiet down just a bit, you can feel the silent insistence. That gentle, determined reaching.

Life, beginning again.

The wind carries so much out here. The noise of the world, but also its meaning, rhythm, and reminders that movement never stops. People are always going somewhere. Help is always on its way. Small lives are quietly becoming something more.

Even on the quietest morning, nothing is ever truly silent.

The winds of Winterpast don’t just pass through, but tell the story of everything that’s alive.

Please come back tomorrow for another story from the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

And so it begins.

The visitors to Winterpast.

Beneath the quiet sign that reads Certified Wildlife Habitat, friends arrive, never quite expecting what waits just beyond the gate. From the outside, it’s only a solid white fence, simple and unassuming, with no hint of what lives within.

They always pause, with just a slight hesitation at the entrance, as if something unseen asks them to slow down before stepping in. And then, the moment the gate opens, their eyes widen… adjusting as they take in the layers of color, movement, and life.

It can’t be seen all at once. Winterpast demands a walk.

Step by step, the beauty reveals itself in flowers stretching toward the sun, the soft rustle of leaves in the desert breeze, and the hum of wings just out of sight. Somewhere in the background, the gentle tinkling of wind chimes carries through the air like a welcome. Water trickles down the fountains. It’s the whole package on 1/2 an acre.

Of course, you can’t become a Certified Wildlife Habitat without a quiet nod of approval from the wildlife themselves.

Recently, a pair of doves decided that our little piece of heaven is the perfect place to begin their family. Tucked gently inside the branches of the Japanese Maple, which still holds on to its fall colors, with just a whisper of spring returning, she sits.

Most of the day, she simply rests there, devoted and still. A few times, we’ve peeked in, only to be met with those intensely beady eyes, offering the most unmistakable look of disapproval. Her mate waits faithfully in a nearby tree, standing watch. When boredom and hunger become too much, a soft cooing begins, and the two quietly trade places. A small, sacred rhythm that’s truly beautiful.

Shhhh. Help keep their secret safe.

By the time the path has been walked, something has shifted in our guests. Not rushing to leave, instead, they linger. They find a chair in a quiet corner and sit for a moment. Conversations soften. Shoulders drop. Time loosens its grip.

And always, in the end, the same words are spoken—sometimes aloud, sometimes only felt:

“I could stay here forever.”

Believe me when I tell you, HHH and I feel the same way.

Winterpast.

Simply magical.

Writing is life… and sometimes, life is a place called Winterpast.

Thank you for spending time here. Please come back tomorrow for more stories of life on the high plains of Northwestern Nevada.

At Winterpast, life has taken on a quieter, richer rhythm, only recognized after you’ve lived through both the noise and the silence. The wind still moves across the high desert the same way it always has, and the light still stretches long across the yard in the evenings. But love has changed everything.

HHH has a way of stepping into a day and making it feel fuller without trying. Not louder or busier. Just lovelier. In the last two and a half years, what could’ve been ordinary days have turned into something I can only describe as magical. Not in grand gestures, but in the steady presence of this man who listens, sees, and understands.

His friendship is a gift I don’t take lightly. I’ve come to cherish the way he offers advice, not as instruction, but as gentle guidance. The kind that makes you think and smile, realizing he was right all along. A certain kind of wisdom in him settles things, quiets the unnecessary, and brings clarity to what matters.

Drama has no place at Winterpast. Just calm, cool, fun days. With sleepy dogs to join us on the couch, evenings are a time of reflection and plans for the next day. Enjoying our golden years of retirement, we keep creating one beautiful memory after another.

And then there is the laughter. The kind that catches you off guard and lingers longer than it should, filling spaces that once felt empty. It’s become one of the sweetest sounds at Winterpast, even better than windchimes or bird tweets.

Life, at this stage, is more honest. We understand what’s essential, what’s fleeting, and what’s worth holding onto with both hands. With certainty, I know these days and moments are more precious because he is in them.

If there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:

Loss can happen on a schedule, and love doesn’t always appear on the world’s timeline. Sometimes, it lives just six miles away and arrives when you need it most. Dor that, I am deeply grateful. I love you, HHH. Let’s follow the rainbow where the four winds blow. I heard there’s a beautiful meadow just around the bend. J

Dear readers,
However you found your way here—from across the world or just down the road—thank you.
This little life at Winterpast is richer because you’re part of it.
I’ll be here next week, with more to share.
—Joy

There’s something quietly hopeful happening at Winterpast. The seedlings are still inside, lined up in their trays like patient little promises. 144 more seeds will join the group, and if all goes well, stirring to life by the weekend. Outside, the cold lingers a little longer than we’d like, pressing pause on the season, as if spring itself is taking a breath before fully arriving.

But even in the waiting… something good is growing.

Not just the usual trays of flowers and vegetables, but something a little more intentional this year. Thirty-six varieties of medicinal plants now rest in their beginnings, each one holding the possibility of usefulness, of healing, and perhaps even a touch of old-fashioned wisdom.

And for the most part, they’re doing beautifully.

Tiny green starts are reaching upward, ready to make their way in this stubborn desert soil we so generously call dirt. With six plants of each variety, I’m beginning to see the possibilities unfold. There’ll be enough to experiment, learn, and perhaps even to create some salves for tired hands, tinctures for whatever ails, and teas steeped not just in herbs, but in intention.

It feels a bit like stepping back in time.

Before shelves held bottles and labels, people turned to what they could grow. Paying attention, they learned what soothed, strengthened, or made a person feel a little better at the end of a long day. There’s something deeply comforting in returning to that kind of knowledge, even in a small way.

Of course, not everything cooperates.

The Angelica, for reasons known only to itself, has decided not to join us this season. Not a single one came up. I’ve checked, rechecked, and even offered a few encouraging words, but nothing. It’s a quiet reminder that no matter how carefully we plan, the garden still has the final say.

And maybe that’s part of the lesson, too.

A medicinal garden isn’t just about what you harvest. It’s about what you learn while you wait, patiently observing the natural rhythm of things. Not every seed becomes a plant, but every effort becomes experience.

There is something especially satisfying about surrounding yourself with plants that do more than look pretty. These are plants with purpose that can calm, soothe, restore, and support. A garden like this doesn’t just feed the body; it tends to the spirit as well.

Even tending them feels different.

So while Angelica may be sitting this one out, the rest of the garden is stepping forward, growing strong, and offering what it can.

And here at Winterpast, that feels like more than enough.

At Winterpast, a slow spring gives way to something deeper in a medicinal garden filled with purpose, patience, and the quiet lessons that grow while we wait.

There was a time—not so very long ago—when our street looked like it had been gently lifted from the pages of a home magazine. Soft tones, warm neutrals, and the occasional brave front door in red or navy gave everything a sense of quiet harmony. Nothing was shocking. Nothing made you stop mid-sip of your morning coffee and question your grip on reality. It was simply… peaceful.

And then, the marine across the street came out to play. You know the one—the man with thousands of Christmas lights every December. That one.

At first, it was just scaffolding. Innocent enough. A sign of improvement and renewal. We all nodded approvingly as we drove by, assuming another neighbor had finally decided to freshen things up. It felt like progress.

But then came the first coat. Black. Not a soft charcoal or a gentle slate, but a deep, committed, absorbs-all-light kind of black, the kind that doesn’t reflect sunshine so much as swallow it whole. We paused, collectively, quietly, each of us thinking the same thing. Surely… this was the base coat.

Then came the turquoise. Not a whisper of coastal charm or a subtle accent, but a bold, unapologetic turquoise that announced itself like a tropical bird that had taken a wrong turn and landed squarely in the high desert. And just like that, the neighborhood changed color.

Across the street now stands a home valued well north of $600,000, transformed into something that could only be described, with the utmost respect, as a very well-appointed dungeon.

Now, before we go any further, let me say this: the homeowner must be colorblind. And that matters, because what we see is not what he sees. Still, it has created something of a community experience.

Miss Ninja Neighbor, who has an uncanny ability to know everything before it officially happens, was the first to quietly observe the situation from behind her perfectly angled blinds. One might imagine her reporting back in hushed tones, “It’s not primer.”

From there, the news spread in the way only neighborhood news can, without ever quite being spoken out loud. Conversations happened in driveways. Eyebrows lifted over mailboxes. Long pauses followed by, “Well… that’s… different.” One neighbor was heard to say, “Maybe it’s not finished yet.” Another, more optimistic soul added, “Perhaps there’s a third color coming.”

And then came the quiet acceptance—the understanding that sometimes, in life, things don’t turn out the way we would have chosen, but turn out all the same.

Because here’s the truth tucked beneath the humor: it takes courage to choose something bold, even if the rest of us don’t quite understand it and would have gently nudged the color wheel in another direction.

Every time I look out my window now, I’m reminded that life isn’t meant to be perfectly coordinated to my color schemes. It’s meant to be lived, sometimes brightly, sometimes strangely, and sometimes in black and turquoise.

In its own unexpected way, the neighborhood has grown a little closer. Not in agreement, but in shared experience. A quiet, collective “Well then…” that we all carry with us.

As the days pass, I find the color palette growing on me. It isn’t every older marine who gets things perfectly right, and somehow, this bold little masterpiece fits him, completely and unapologetically. We can only hope there isn’t another one on the block ready to take it a step further.

Thank you for sharing a little time this morning. Please come back tomorrow for more stories about Grief, healing, and life on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

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Spring has always been a busy season at Winterpast. The earth wakes up all at once out here on the high desert, as if it suddenly remembers what it was meant to do. Weeds push upward, trees stretch toward the sun, and the wind carries that familiar promise of change. There are beds to tend, seedlings to watch, and a quiet urgency that settles in with the longer days.

But this year, spring has brought more than just the usual rhythm of growth. It has brought election season.

And not just any election season, but one that’s woven into our own family circle. HHH’s brother, known to many simply as The Mayor, is running for a second term. Over the past years, we’ve watched what can happen when leadership is steady, thoughtful, and rooted in something good. Good changes have been lasting. Growth has come, not just in buildings or projects, but in spirit, direction, and in the quiet confidence of a town finding its footing.

So, alongside planting, watering, and watching the skies, another kind of tending is happening now.

Campaign season has its own rituals. Street signage appears almost overnight, dotting corners and lining roads like bright declarations of hope. In a town where roots run deep, knowing where to place those signs is almost an art form. Having lived here since the late 1950s, HHH and his brothers know every curve and corner where a sign will be seen and remembered.

A late frost came, quiet and unforgiving.

After the late frost, it’s official now. There will be no cherries, plums, or apricots from Winterpast this year. What once promised abundance has been taken in a single cold breath. The Japanese Maple, confused by the sudden shift, has turned to fall colors as if skipping ahead in time, and will now have to begin again to push out new leaves where the old ones froze.

And as if nature hadn’t made its point clearly enough… the squirrel has returned. Through the same small breach in the fence, bold as ever, it found its way back to the garden and claimed our second Early Girl tomato. Eaten to the roots as if Winterpast hasn’t suffered enough this season.

One thing is for sure. Spring isn’t always gentle. It’s a season of beginnings, but also of setbacks, surprises, and the kind of resilience that asks us to start again, even when we had hoped we wouldn’t have to.

So, this week, we’re planting signs along roads that have known this family for generations.
Replanting hope where frost has taken its share. Patching fences—again. And watching for what will come next. Because if Winterpast has taught us anything, it is this: Growth rarely comes in a straight line. But it comes.

Just a note–It amazes me that this little space at Winterpast is now being read in 34 countries. Wherever you are, thank you for being here. Please come back tomorrow.

As the weekend passed, it didn’t rush by or slip away unnoticed. It unfolded slowly, like something meant to be taken in one moment at a time.

Friday began around a breakfast table, gathered with church friends, where conversation is never quite ordinary. As always, Pastor Mike presented something unexpected about thoughts on the decline of church membership, paired with ideas on how to draw people back in. Both important topics to think about.

The next morning came early, and with it, something altogether different.

At 9 am, we gathered again, this time not for breakfast, but for a funeral. A life well lived was honored, yet right beside sorrow sat something softer. Stories were shared. Memories surfaced. Things mattered most hadn’t been lost, but remembered. Time spent together. Moments that lingered. A life measured not in years, but in presence.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, while I was helping, something quiet and unexpected was happening at home.

HHH, in his wonderfully secret way, created something just for me, a plant stand and a fountain. Both gifts. Both surprises. The two have transformed our back patio into a place we’ll enjoy while watching nesting birds and desert thunderstorms. When I saw them, it took a second for it to settle in. Cherished in the middle of an ordinary day. It doesn’t get better than that. Thank you, HHH, for making my days so special.

Of course, no new plant stand can remain empty for long.

So off we went to Lowe’s for plants and Walmart for pots, gathering small pieces of life to fill the space. Choosing plants while imagining where they’ll sit is hopeful in a very tangible way.

By Sunday morning, we were back at church again, this time in worship. Voices lifted. Hearts settled. A reminder of where all good things begin. It was, in every sense, a full weekend. Not because of big events or grand plans, but because of the simple things that filled the spaces in between. Conversations with a new widow. Surprise over a beautiful gift. Faith. Small acts of love.

As the weekend passed, it left behind a sense that grace doesn’t arrive in one place or one moment. It’s scattered across breakfast tables, inside chapels, growing along side new tomatoes, and rooted in the changing of the seasons. Pay attention, you find it everywhere.

If this felt like a weekend you’ve known in your own way, come sit with me again tomorrow at Winterpast. There’s always something new to be noticed.

Some things make it right to the top of our To-Do list. Things like wrapping the peonies and zinnias yesterday and unhooking all hoses for the big freeze this morning. Right now, the outdoor temperature is 22 degrees at 5 am. The cozy wraps we gave them might not be enough.

But there are things we all carry that never quite make it onto the calendar. Not because they aren’t important, circling back to them time and time again. We tell ourselves, “Tomorrow will be better,” or “I’ll do it when I have more time, more energy, more clarity.” And so, they wait.

Some of these things are small. A phone call we’ve been meaning to return, a drawer that needs organizing, a letter we once intended to write. Little tasks that quietly stack up, asking for just a few minutes of our attention.

Others are heavier.

A conversation we’ve been avoiding, a boundary we know we need to set, or a step forward that feels uncertain, maybe even a little frightening. These are the ones that linger in the background, gently tugging at us when the world gets quiet.

While not completely ignored, we carry them with us. They show up in the early morning, before the day begins, and whisper in the evening, when everything slows down. Somewhere inside, we know—they’re not going away.

Life has a way of moving forward whether we are ready or not. Seasons change, opportunities come and go, and the things we keep putting off don’t always wait patiently forever. One thing is for sure. There’s no perfect moment but only this one. Not ideal or guaranteed to be easy, but real.

All it takes is one small step. Dialing the number, opening the drawer, speaking the words, even if our voice shakes a little. On the other side of that step, something will shift. The weight will lighten, and what once felt overwhelming begins to feel possible.

Three days ago, the garden had begun to take root in my studio. Bags of soil, peat pots, and seed packets were everywhere. Projects that I might or might not finish were stacked on the floor. In the middle of it all sat the sewing machine. After a day’s work and a few sore muscles, the studio is waiting for new projects. One “To-Do-Someday” off my list.

We often think we need to find the right time to begin, but more often, the right time meets us in the act of beginning. So today, choose just one thing. Not everything—just one. The thing that’s been waiting the longest. Then, take the first step toward it. You’ll be amazed at the results.

Have a wonderful weekend. I’ll be back on Monday to fill you in on the earthquake and other adventures here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.