Grieving Gardener

There are days at Winterpast that ask very little of me.

No wind demanding attention. No irrigation line bursting open. No squirrel declaring war on the garden. Just stillness. The kind that settles gently over everything and invites you to stay awhile.

Saturday was one of those days.

HHH had gone to play golf with his brothers—an outing filled with laughter, stories retold, and the easy rhythm of time spent together. I could picture it without being there. Men walking fairways, talking about everything and nothing, enjoying a day that didn’t need to be anything more than what it was.

And here, at home, I had something just as important to do.

I sat down to write.

The house was quiet in that particular way that only happens when you are alone but not lonely. Oliver and Tanner found their spots nearby, close enough to keep watch, far enough to stay out of trouble—for the moment.

Outside, the desert held its breath.

Inside, words began to move.

Not all at once. Not in a rush. Just slowly, like water finding its way across stone. A sentence here. A thought there. A memory stepping forward, asking to be noticed.

This is the kind of writing I love most.

Not forced. Not chased.

Just… found.

There is something sacred about a quiet day like this. No deadlines pressing. No expectations to meet. Just time. Time to listen. Time to remember. Time to shape something that didn’t exist when the day began.

By afternoon, the light shifted across the room, stretching long and golden. I realized I had been sitting there for hours, completely unaware of the clock.

That’s how you know it’s a good day.

Not because something grand happened.

But because something real did.

The words came.

And for me—

that’s always enough.

There are systems at Winterpast that no one ever fully explained to me as a new homeowner. After six years, we are still learning about them. They simply sit there, waiting quietly through the winter months, until the day they’re turned on and everything begins to speak at once.

Monday was that day.

We began our mission knowing just enough to be dangerous but not nearly enough to feel confident. The first box—what we’ve come to call the garage box—holds eight stations. Eight. Which sounds manageable until you realize each one carries its own mystery.

Stations one and two water the back lawn. Those we understand.

Three and four belong to the old front lawn—the one that no longer exists. Those remain off, quiet reminders of something that used to be.

Five… well, five introduced itself rather dramatically. A full gusher, with nothing attached. Water bubbling up as if it’d been waiting all winter for its moment. That one required immediate attention—and a bit of colorful language. It will remain off for the foreseeable future.

Six waters the handcrafted redwood flower boxes. All but one, of course. There is always one that refuses to follow the rules.

Seven waters the bed beneath the dove. The Japanese maple above her stands stripped bare from the late frost, its branches thin and exposed, offering no shade, no cover—yet still she sits. One egg beneath her, with no complaint or movement. Just staying.

And eight… eight does a little bit of everything. The mound, two trees, the sunflowers, the side trees, and one mysterious box out front that we will no doubt come to understand better in time.

Or not.

The second system is smaller, but no less opinionated. Three parts. One tends the vegetable garden, the flowers, and the front trees and bushes. Another works inside the yard. The last circles the outer rim of Winterpast, holding the edges together in its own quiet way.

We turned the water on and waited.

It did not take long.

A leak here. A split line there. Then another gusher—this one less dramatic, but equally determined to make its presence known. We stepped over hoses, turned valves, shut things down, and turned them back on again. Adjusting. Watching. Listening.

It turns out water has a language, and at Winterpast, we are just beginning to understand it.

Today, without too much argument, most of the sprinklers on the garage box are working again. Not perfectly. Not completely. But enough to feel like progress had been made and to believe that, with time, this maze will make sense.

Everything will now be on a schedule.

Or at least, that’s the plan.

Above it all, the dove remains. Still. Steady. Watching our chaos without joining it. The dogs, in a rare moment of agreement, have decided to let her be. A small mercy in a world where not everything is gentle.

Not everything, of course.

We did suffer another squirrel attack.

Gone are the baby basil and thyme. Ripped clean from the ground, as if they had never been planted at all. The war continues, as it always does out here. Quiet battles fought at dawn and dusk, victories rarely ours.

My whimsical brain can’t help but wonder what the vermin cooked for his dinner last night.

And still… we go on.

Little by little, the water is following its paths.

And little by little, so are we.

Thank you for visiting me today. Please come back Monday for more fantastical stories from Winterpast.

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.

---

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.