The Plot Thickens While Winterpast Sinks

Some days are complicated just enough to make one want to return to bed. Yesterday was such a day. In our town, we have a Rant and Rave Facebook page. Today would be heavy on the rant side, as things have been sliding a little south here. South, in the heat of the desert, is just a little worse than north where happiness lives. After all, Death Valley is just a little south of here, and they have their share of troubles with this heat. I was hopeful yesterday as I jetted off to the the bigger town just West of me. Traffic was tricky, which was good. Keeping me on my toes, I hurried to meet my 10:00 appointment. I chose 10AM to avoid commuters. The interstate on which I travel can be a death trap, especially with people racing to get to work on time. It’s for that reason I made the appointment at 10 AM. Mr. Shiny-Toed-Short-Pants funeral director agreed to this. I find it interesting that in a bigger town than mine, there are no headstone fabricators. Not even one. It seems everyone turns to online shopping for funeral needs.   Funeral directors are just the  middle men these days.  I was told by Shiny Toes that he had plenty of samples from which to choose. His credibility was shot before I ever got to his postage stamp office in El Barrio.  First and foremost, he assured me we made the appointment for 9 AM. Funny. I would’ve NEVER agreed to that, due to above mentioned reasons. But, the male version of a Pony Tail wasn’t worth the arguing. In the office, smaller than my closet, sat three computer generated headstones.  Aversion to putting VST’s name and information on anything as permanent as a headstone probably colored my first impression.  Paying thousands, I could have the Grieving Angel monument to end all monuments.  But, this is reality.  VST is no more here if I create a simple stone or an elaborate display. It was obvious this funeral director in shorts deals with the internet for funeral needs, which he marks up x2 and sells to the public. After all was said and done, a flat headstone of the plainest granite would be $1,000.  A color photograph was 1/2 of the cost.   By the way, the price was a bargain because I’d be picking up the 106 pound headstone, carting it to VC, and throwing it on the spot I chose on Monday. Correct. No installation needed. Just toss it out there. All $1,000 worth. Well, as VST would say, “Homey don’t play that game, Shiny Toes.”  Who suggests a widow go set her own headstone?  Yes, Farm Girl can do it.  Surely I can.  But, where is there room for my own grief in this?  My own moment to take a breath and go to see a finished headstone remembering VST?  Non-existent in the High Desert of Northwestern Nevada in the year 2021. So, back to the beginning. A perfect plot with no headstone. Driving back in disbelief, I marveled that any moron would tell a widow to go set her own stone. The insanity of youth baffles my mind. At least this little Shiny Toed boy with his solutions for every problem. Upon arriving home, I went to open my blog site, and Horror of Horrors, I was being hacked. I could watch the little entries stacking up in comments. I would erase 5 and 10 more would show up. Erase those and they kept coming, rather like exploding popcorn. In a little panic, I Bluehost to ask if someone could check this out. Didn’t I know? A real pony tailed asked this time. I’d need to buy protection. I swear, I thought the Mob died out long ago. Yes. Protection that didn’t come with my site. Nice to know, since I’ve been blogging ten months now. What’s a girl to do? I bought protection. Very expensive protection. At that point I went on about my business, after being told the first examination would take upwards of three hours. But, in the end, they would get the bad guys. I would be safe. Typing on my book was a nice relief. 4,500 words later, I decided to check on my little hacker friends. It’s odd that when eyes are hemorrhaging as one sees more hackers, that one doesn’t see red. I’d just paid for “Protection” and the little visitors continued their work right in front of my eyes. More phone calls to the same pony tail. “Ohhhhhhh. You need to call the company you just contracted with this morning.” Dryly, I asked for the number. She would not receive the negative response sitting in my brain waiting to fall on my tongue like a gumball. Upon calling them, a youngster answered, not even saying the company name. When I asked her if this was the company that offered “Protection”, she perked up and gave me a professional, “Yeah.” Oy Vey. “Oh My, you have a breech in your file wall. I’ll make up a ticket. Repairs might take a while.” There are just no words. None at all. So, to cleanse my brain of negative thoughts, I went to gaze upon the Gardens Winterpast. It was then, I cringed. I wanted to cry, but didn’t.  I wanted to jump up and down and break something, but didn’t. For there, in the middle of my beautiful garden path, was a sink hole. Not a little sink hole, but a rather deep sink hole. 3 feet deep to be exact. With water running into it from the hose in the potato box that I’d forgotten to turn off.  In reality, a good thing, because the erosion located yet another major leak hidden underneath Winterpast. A leak too big for me to handle. A leak for a irrigation repair specialist. A leak that will cost plenty.  Just like everything else. Some days, it’s better to just stay in bed and watch a good movie. As long as the sink hole remains in the middle of the yard, a shovel and irrigation knowledge will get me started on this project. Somedays, it IS just better to stay in bed. Stay tuned.