Grieving Gardener

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.

Click on this banner to preorder an E-book copy of Widow: A Journey Toward Life on Amazon. Hardback and Paperback will be available for order on November 11, 2026.

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.

Click on this banner to preorder an E-book copy Widow: A Journey Toward Life on Amazon. Hardback and Paperback will be available for order on November 11, 2026.

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.

For the gardeners here at Winterpast, autumn brings a little sadness. It’s time to begin putting the garden away.

As we gather the yard art, some things have finally reached the end of their outdoor life. Desert temperatures are extreme. Between the summer heat, winter cold, and wind, anything that lives outside has to be rather tough. Some of our decorations have weathered it all quite nicely. Others have earned their retirement.

We’re emptying the fountains and moving them into the greenhouse, where they will wait until spring. For the next few months, the garden will have to get along without the sound of running water.

The garden boxes need emptying. We need to sort old tools, discard the worn-out ones, and make a few notes about possible Christmas gifts. A true gardener never has enough tools. We have plenty of dull, rusty, broken ones. Perhaps even enough that make our hands hurt. But enough good tools? Never.

Christmas is coming.

Turning off the garden water at Winterpast isn’t for the timid. It looks like the system has been leaking for quite some time. Next spring, we’ll investigate and make the necessary repairs. The first To-Do on next year’s list.

For now, the garden water is off. We’ve disconnected the hoses from the house. Another familiar part of our gardening routine is finished for the season. Soon, a hard frost will send the last leaves twirling to the ground. Orange, yellow, red, and gold will flutter down, leaving the branches bare.

And then there is the cleanup.

Thankfully, our winds occasionally help. Some of those leaves will blow away, never to be seen again. After all the grumbling HHH does about the wind, I suppose we should give credit where credit is due.

As we work our way through these last chores, there is so much to be thankful for. The blossoms we waited for. The shade we enjoyed. The birds that made themselves at home. The roses and mums that stayed to give us one more show.

Even the messy crabapple has contributed her share of beauty. We have tended this place through another growing season. Now Winterpast is getting ready to rest.

Winter has a quiet beauty all its own. Bare branches after a snowfall. The shapes of trees we hardly notice when they are covered in leaves. A garden that asks a little less of us for a while. There will be plenty to do when spring returns.

For now, we’ll finish the chores, put away the tools, and be grateful for the year we’ve enjoyed.

Goodnight, Sweet Winterpast. Be ready to wake up next spring.

A Chinese Crabapple Tree sits right outside my kitchen window. Over the last six years, I have said some rather rude things about her. The thing is, she usually stays quite cheerful while turning me into the crab. Not a very large tree, she still makes her presence known throughout the year.

In winter, we get along quite nicely. She sleeps peacefully, and her bare limbs look lovely after a snow. For a little while, there’s little to complain about.

Then spring arrives.

By Mother’s Day, she is covered in soft pink blossoms. Too many to count. Delicate and lovely, they turn the view from my kitchen window into something worth stopping to admire.

For a little while.

Then the petals begin to fall.

Everywhere.

Those lovely pink petals become tiny brown bits covering everything beneath her. Add a nice spring rain, and cleaning them up becomes quite a project.

Let the grumbling begin.

She pays no attention.

Throughout the summer, she provides a gathering place for the local birds and a little shade for us. Both are points in her favor.

Then come the crabapples.

Hundreds of them. Tiny, round, and about as welcome underfoot as a collection of marbles. I don’t find them particularly flavorful or colorful. Mostly, I find them annoying.

More grumbling.

She continues her cheerful mission of messiness, happily ignoring every rude comment I send her way. Sometimes I suspect she enjoys them, while I have considered having her removed. Usually while I’m cleaning up something she’s dropped.

But this fall?

Oh, my.

Her leaves have turned the most unbelievable, vibrant orange. From my kitchen window, I can hardly look at anything else.

Spectacular.

Of course, those leaves are now covering the ground.

Everywhere.

Apparently, she believes a beautiful performance deserves a generous confetti shower.

After the apricot, she is my favorite tree. Although this autumn, she seems determined to make me reconsider the rankings.

Our tree doctor stopped by for his fall visit. He said he had never seen anything quite like her—or the apricot. Diamonds in the desert, both.

For all my complaints, I would miss her outside that window. The birds would, too. And I would certainly miss the pink blossoms in May and this glorious orange show in October.

Twice a year, she reminds me why she gets to stay. The rest of the time, I remind her that someone has to clean up after her. It seems to be an arrangement we can both live with.

She will keep making her messes. I will keep grumbling. And every so often, she will make me stop at the kitchen window and forget every rude thing I ever said.

Her place is safe for another season.

The crabapple and the apricot. Just two more mysteries in this magical place we call Winterpast.

For the last six years, I’ve been on my own journey through life.

On April 8, 2020, my world changed in the darkest way I had ever known. I lost my best friend and husband of 32 years. At the same time, I was in the middle of selling our home and buying another—one that would be mine alone. Uncharted waters for a 64-year-old widow.

No single rule book exists for that journey. Each of us carries our own memories, faces our own fears, and finds our footing in our own time.

On April 9, 2020, I couldn’t have imagined how rich my life could become. I was trying to get through the day in front of me. Food, Shelter. Clothing. Survival.

Tears and loneliness were constant companions. With work, I kept putting one foot in front of the other. Somewhere along the way, I began to grow. Slowly, room opened up for something besides sorrow.

And through it all, I wrote.

Saturday morning, after six years of working on Widow: A Journey Toward Life, it was time to publish my first book.

The editing was complete. The front and back covers were approved. The details were finalized. Only one thing was left to do. I pushed the button.

Publish Now.

Two little words after six years of work.

Today, I’m ordering my first box of books without those familiar words printed across the cover: “Not for Resale.” Finished books. Copies I can autograph and place in a reader’s hands. My book, published under my own Winterpast Publishing.

On November 11, 2026, Widow: A Journey Toward Life will officially be released. I will have my first book title under my belt.

And I am terrified.

Will anyone be interested? Will anyone order a copy? Will this story I have carried for so long mean something to someone else?

Well, I plan to buy one.

HHH will, too.

That’s two copies.

Every new author must start somewhere.

After years of work on this project, you would think I could set the doubts aside. Instead, those doubting devils chase me through my dreams. I have to shoo them away and keep believing in the work I have done.

Believe that there are readers who will recognize something of their own lives in these pages. Widows who understand the silence of a changed home. Friends who want to understand what someone they love is experiencing.

I hope my story offers them a little company.

Widow follows my first year after losing my husband. The ordinary days. The loneliness. The decisions that suddenly belonged to me alone. The small steps I could sometimes manage.

Looking back from where I stand today, I can see how much those steps mattered.

Writing this book has been another climb up the mountainside. Some days, the work came easily. Other days, I wondered whether I would ever reach the place where I could call it finished. But I kept climbing.

And now, I’m planting my flag. Writing about the most personal details I could share, I stayed with it, worked on it, and brought it to completion. I am so proud of that accomplishment. The nervous author in me may need a little time to catch up.

On November 11, Widow: A Journey Toward Life begins its journey into readers’ hands.

I would be honored if you were among them.

Life on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada never runs out of surprises. Every day brings something worth noticing. HHH and I are blessed to have the time and health to get out and enjoy this beautiful place we call home.

Saturday, we had an errand to run in the town to the east. Overhead, the skies were grey and gloomy. Nothing particularly remarkable about that.

But the horizon?

That was another story.

Beneath that blanket of grey, the horizon glowed orange, red, and yellow. The colors looked almost otherworldly. An unexpected show unfolding along a familiar road. Its sheer beauty silenced us both. For a little while, we rode quietly, lost in thought as we took it all in.

Sometimes, words would only get in the way.

It reminded me of the green flash that can appear just as the sun dips below the ocean’s horizon. Something fleeting. Something you feel lucky to witness.

Only this felt even better.

We were home.

I grew up beneath very different skies. California’s Central Valley had some of the greyest days I can remember. There was little wind, and those big, puffy clouds I love weren’t a regular part of the scenery.

The heat could arrive by the end of May, bringing hundred-degree days that seemed determined to last until mid-fall. Then came the fog. Nothing magical like pogonip. Just a blanket of dense fog. Sometimes it felt as though the grey settled in until May, when the whole cycle began again.

Here at Winterpast, each season gets its turn. Four wonderful times of year, each with its own weather, colors, chores, and little surprises.

Right now, the fall mums are finishing their show while the roses were frozen by the first frost of the year. They weren’t ready to surrender the garden to winter. I understand.

Soon enough, Winterpast will settle into her much deserved winter rest. But for now, there are still flowers to admire and mornings that deserve a second look.

Saturday reminded me how easily an ordinary errand can become something worth remembering. We had somewhere to go and something to do. Along the way, the sky became the most memorable part of the trip.

I appreciate those moments more and more. Having HHH beside me to share them. Having the time to notice. Being healthy enough to get out and see what the day might hold.

Another chore is always waiting at home. Something to clean, something to fix, something that needs my attention.

But an October sunrise won’t wait until the list is finished. The cleaning will.

As this new week begins, I hope you find a little time to notice what is happening outside your own window. A tree changing color. One stubborn flower still blooming. A beautiful sky above a familiar road.

Here at Winterpast, autumn still has a few things to show us.

I intend to notice every one.

Do. It. Yourself.

Those three little words can feel a bit scary at first. They can also feel like an invitation.

So many times in recent days, HHH and I have relied on doing things ourselves. Sometimes because we wanted to. Sometimes because we had no choice. And sometimes because calling someone else would have taken longer than simply rolling up our sleeves and figuring it out.

The other night, our dishwasher, which is on its last life on this earth, started making a horribly distracting noise.

A thumpy, crashy, snapping kind of noise.

Over and over and over.

What could it be?

We started slowly removing one item after another. Plates came out. Silverware came out. Bowls came out. Finally, the dishwasher was completely empty.

And yet, the noise continued.

After some investigation, we found the spinning sprayer inside had come apart. Metal had separated from plastic. That created a problem because not many adhesives bond metal and plastic very well.

After thinking it through, we decided to try a zip tie around the two pieces. That seemed like a good DIY solution.

But then, after doing a little more investigating, we realized something even better.

The metal probably should not have been there in the first place.

Remove the metal.

Problem solved.

At least for now.

So many things in life are like this. We look at a problem and think it is too big. Too complicated. Too far beyond us. We assume someone else must know more than we do. And maybe they do. But that does not mean we cannot begin.

Writing a book is definitely on that list.

If you really want to write the book you have been holding inside for five decades, like me, just do it. Start somewhere. Start messy. Start scared. But start.

Begin with YouTube. Listen to webinars on Kindle Direct Publishing. Find people who have already published a book and listen to what they learned. Read articles. Take notes. Ask questions. Then take one small step after another.

That is how my first book, Widow: A Journey Toward Life, came to be. It did not arrive polished and perfect. It came through years of grief, memories, notes, drafts, questions, tears, and determination. There were many times I did not know what I was doing. There were many times I stumbled. But I kept getting up.

And now, that book is real.

I cannot imagine leaving my first book completely in the hands of some publishing company that could not possibly care about it the way I do. My story mattered too much to me. The people in it mattered too much. The grief mattered. The healing mattered. The final shape of the book mattered.

That is why Kindle Direct Publishing became such a gift. It gave me a way to learn, try, correct, and keep going. It gave me a way to bring my book into the world with my own hands still on the wheel.

If you have a story tucked away, maybe this is your nudge.

Begin your published library by taking your first steps toward independence. Don’t be afraid to stumble. You might fall along the way. Most of us do.

Just get up and keep going.

And when your book is finally out there, let me know.

I want to read it.

Have a great weekend.

As soon as I knew words, I started writing.

Somewhere in my little collection of treasures, I still have sweet messages I wrote to my first hero, my dad. The letters were uneven. The spelling was creative. The grammar would probably make Grammarly take a deep breath. But the message was there, clear and straight from the heart.

That is where writing begins.

Not with perfect sentences.

Not with polished paragraphs.

Not with a publishing plan.

Writing begins with something inside a person that wants to come out.

Over the years, I have watched the tools of writing change in amazing ways. When I was young, a mistake on a page meant typing the whole thing over again. Paper after paper. Page after page. Heaven help you if you found one tiny mistake after everything was finished.

Now, writers have wonderful tools at their fingertips.

A good word processing program is one of the first. I use Word, and I am still learning all the things it can do. Formatting, spacing, headers, page numbers, styles, margins, and all the little details that once seemed impossible are slowly becoming less mysterious. I won’t say effortless, because that would be stretching the truth, but easier? Absolutely.

Then there is Grammarly. What a gift. It catches spelling mistakes, grammar problems, missing commas, and all those little things that sneak past tired eyes. No one is perfect at everything, and a good writer knows when to let a good tool help.

Then, of course, it helps to have an editor.

Mine happens to be named Lumina. She works for ChatGPT. Although I am quite aware she is made of cyber dust, I prefer to imagine her as a very smart woman living in an apartment in Las Vegas. For some reason, she has decided to help me. And let me tell you, she has been busy.

She has taught me about writing a book, organizing chapters, formatting files, polishing sentences, and learning the winding road of Kindle Direct Publishing. She has also become a wonderful artist, turning some of my plain photographs into watercolors and pen-and-ink drawings that are far prettier than anything I could have imagined.

Every writer needs tools.

But tools are not only programs and computers.

To write a book, you also need time. Real time. Quiet time. Uninterrupted time. As a retired person, I am blessed to have more of that now than I did during my teaching years or vineyard years. Still, time has to be protected. A book does not write itself while you are doing laundry, answering messages, or chasing every distraction that wanders through the day.

You also need patience.

Lumina would probably raise her hand here and testify that patience is not always my strongest gift. There have been moments when formatting made me want to throw the computer into the yard. There have been moments when uploading files, fixing covers, checking proofs, and learning yet another new thing felt like too much.

But then I remembered the most important tool of all.

Determination.

A writer must decide not to quit. Not when the first draft is messy. Not when the technology misbehaves. Not when the cover needs fixing. Not when the proof has mistakes. Not when the whole project feels bigger than you are.

Keep going.

That is how my book, Widow: A Journey Toward Life, became real. It began with grief, memories, prayers, tears, scraps of writing, and a heart trying to find its way forward. Little by little, with faith and persistence, it became a book I can hold in my hands.

That still amazes me.

If you have a story inside you, gather your tools. Find a notebook. Open a Word document. Ask for help. Learn something new. Make mistakes. Fix them. Pray over the work. Show up again tomorrow.

Your first words do not need to be perfect.

They only need to be written.

Beginning a book takes quite a bit of planning. Before the first chapter settles into place, a writer needs to build a skeleton. There needs to be some idea of how the story will be organized, what will stay, what will go, where the rhythm lives, and how the heart of the story will keep beating from beginning to end.

That sounds simple enough until the papers, memories, notes, photographs, letters, and half-formed ideas begin piling up.

When I wrote Widow: A Journey Toward Life, I learned that a book does not arrive neatly dressed and ready for company. It arrives in pieces. Some are beautiful. Some are painful. Some are confusing. Some seem important at first, but later turn out to belong somewhere else entirely.

So, I started the old-school way.

I used three baskets.

Beginning. Middle. End.

If I had a memory, I placed it in one of the baskets. If I had an idea, I wrote it on a 3×5 card. If something felt important but I did not know where it belonged, I gave it a temporary home. Slowly, the shape of the book began to appear.

Some pieces were removed after careful consideration. Some were moved from one basket to another. Sometimes I had to look at the same memory from a different angle before I knew where it belonged. That is part of the work.

After the baskets came chapters. After the chapters came lists of words and themes. I wanted to see how the ideas got along with each other. Grief. Hope. Loneliness. Courage. Faith. Waiting. Beginning again.

From there, the story began to tell itself.

Organizing a book is a little like uncluttering a closet. You start slowly. You take one thing at a time. You decide what still fits and what no longer belongs. And remember, you would not bring a car tire to live in your coat closet. Some things simply do not belong in the story you are telling.

That does not mean they are worthless. They may have a story of their own. Just not this one.

Through it all, ask yourself one question: Does this add to the story, or is it a rabbit hole that will lose my readers?

There is no one perfect way to organize a book. Use baskets. Use index cards. Use notebooks. Use folders. Use sticky notes. Use whatever helps you see the pieces clearly. The important thing is to begin.

Start with a skeleton.

After all, Halloween is just around the corner.

Have some fun with the bones of your story. Move them around. See what stands. See what dances. See what finally begins to live on the page.

Writing is life.