Author: Joy Hurt

The first signs of change have come quietly. The kids have returned to school, our mornings marked by the rustle of backpacks and the hum of yellow school buses. The tempo of life has shifted, not with fanfare, but with the return of routine. Out here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada, a five-minute cross-town trip to Walmart can now take 15 minutes, intensifying traffic as parents drop off their children while releasing a collective sigh of relief.

Even in our small town, the reality of life in 2025 is harsh. On the first day of high school, a false report of a school shooting came before the first bell. Thankfully, it was a nasty prank played out on social media. Since then, everything has been smooth, except for the additional yellow buses on our roadways.

Another monsoonal system brushed across the desert, sprinkling the sage and sand with just enough rain to release that familiar, earthy fragrance. It’s a gift that comes sparingly in our area, after which the desert seems to pause and breathe deeply. The mountainsides around here are a nice shade of green.

The wild mustangs have drifted down from the high country, their coats sleek against the late summer sunshine. They move with a knowing grace, as though answering an ancient call carried on the wind. Their presence near the valley floor is a reminder that the season is changing, that even in wide, open spaces, life follows its own rhythms of retreat and return.

In the garden, the peonies have laid themselves to rest with blooms spent, their beauty folded back into the earth. They’ve “turned up their toes” for another year, making way for the subtler colors of autumn. Overhead, hummingbirds sip at feeders one last time, their wings a blur of urgency. Soon, they’ll migrate south, chasing warmth and blossoms yet to come.

Even among people, migration begins. The snowbirds are leaving on their own journeys, packing up campers and steering toward milder climates. Slowly, driveways empty, and RV’s are on the move. Don’t think for one moment that the week after Labor Day is a great time to visit the National Parks. Parks are clogged with retired Seniors this week, who waited until the kids are back in school. Been there, done that. It’s a different kind of unpleasant.

Here, fall arrives not in a rush of color, but in whispers with cooler mornings, longer shadows, and the hush of wings in flight. It’s a season that asks us to notice the small shifts, settle into the comfort of change, and to honor the steady turning of time. On the high desert plains, where the sky feels endless and the land holds its secrets well, fall is less an arrival than a gentle unfolding.

During this unfolding, I feel gratitude for the mustangs that remind me of resilience, for the fleeting blooms that teach me about rest, for the birds that carry on with certainty, and for the desert itself, which, even in its sparseness, offers abundance in rhythm and grace. I’m grateful to be a part of such beauty.

Something as innocent as painting the trim on the house can lead to a cascade of home beautification projects. As promised, here are some pics of the projects! Enjoy.

If you give your wife some painted trim,
She might notice that the front yard looks a little bare.

If she notices the front looks a little bare,
She’ll probably want some plants.

The new flower beds across the drive are beautiful!

Once you install six yards of new bark for her,
She may notice you need ten ton of river rock for the border.

Once the new rock is installed,
She’ll picture redwood garden boxes, perfectly placed.

Once the garden boxes are moved from garden to front yard,
She’ll definitely want them freshly stained.

Once they’re painted,
She’ll need them filled with fresh dirt.

And, what are handcrafted redwood garden boxes without custom drip irrigation?

Once the new dirt is installed,
It’ll be back to the landscaping store to buy five more yards of bark.

And to finish the job, she’ll mention that you have some left over rock for a 12″ border next to the front walk..

After six long weeks, once the front yard is in order,
You’ll step outside together with morning coffee to enjoy the back yard.

Looking at each other, you begin the new list together……

If only the back yard had new bark and neat rock borders around the beds……..

Deep sighs can be heard throughout Winterpast.

And so it goes………

Have a great Wednesday!!

If there’s one thing desert life teaches you, it’s to expect the unexpected. A lizard in your shoe? Sure. Your car taken over a flash flood? Why not. But the most recent addition to the growing list of “What Fresh Nonsense Is This?” arrived during last week’s second biblical-level monsoonal downpour. Our archenemy, the dastardly squirrel, came begging for cover like a wet, twitchy refugee.

Yes, that squirrel. The one who’s been treating our porch like a warzone for the past year. The one who chews through bird feeders, mockingly stares me down while I drink coffee, and once ate 150 brand new seedlings I’d just grown from seed. He’s not just a nuisance. He’s a fuzzy little menace with boundary issues. And then? He squatted on our porch like we’re old college buddies huddling out a storm together.

But let’s rewind.

The desert, in its infinite irony, decided to turn into a swamp last week. Not once, but twice. Rain came in sheets, sideways, upways, probably down from space. Burners were camped out all over town, their RVs shimmering under the weight of soaked hopes and soggy costumes. The roads turned to pudding. People with “low” houses found out just how literal “flood zone” really is. The sage plants didn’t know what to do. The dogs were confused. It was chaos.

In the middle of this monsoon madness, up scampered Sir Drenched Nibbles, aka the squirrel, eyes wide, tail limp, soaked to the bone like a rejected extra from a wildlife disaster film. He looked up at HHH, rain dripping from his whiskers, and I swear he mouthed, “Truce?”

For a split second, HHH didn’t know what to do. Do you close the door in the face of your enemy? Or do you let him huddle under the eaves while nature gives him the same cosmic wedgie it gave the rest of us?

HHH did the right thing. He chased that little bugger back out into the storm while I sat inside, sipping a Diet Coke. As he ran away, glaring at the rain I’m pretty sure he was planning where he’ll bury peanuts in revenge.

We haven’t seen him since.

Meanwhile, out here in the desert, the sun has returned with enough humidity to make our Oreos go limp. The puddles are slowly retreating. But we’ll never forget the day our furry nemesis came looking for mercy during the strange desert monsoon that left Burners questioning their life choices. As for us? The chance of storms continues this week. Bring it on!!! We’re ready.

Have a Terrific Tuesday!

As Burning Man winds down and our streets fill with muddy vehicles, art cars on trailers, and people wearing everything from fur coats to… not much at all, our town will take a breath.

Yes, it’s that week. Traffic gets weird, coffee shops get crowded, and someone might ask you where to buy glitter or goat milk soap at 7 am, and it’s easy to get annoyed. But this year, we’ll try something different by leading with kindness. We’ll let them go ahead in line this time. Waving to them into traffic, we’ll smile, even if they’re blocking the gas pump while tying a mattress to the roof.

Remember that this is temporary. Actually, we probably seem just as odd to them. I’m sure they question how anyone could live here year-round without Wi-Fi made from solar-powered crystal pyramids. To them, it’s a puzzlement.

We’ll do our best to find humor in the inconvenience. After all, how often do you get to see a man in a tutu politely buying brake fluid?

It’s not every week that one survives 50 mph winds blowing clouds of dust, a torrential downpour, choking smoke from a raging wildfire, an electrocution with life flight involved, and a cold, dead body in a pool of blood. That’s a lot to experience in seven days.

These folks are tired, dusty, and probably still processing whatever happened out there on the playa. We’ll send them off with love until next year, while our little town will be the calm in their reentry storm. Maybe we could all throw in a collective prayer that they find a real shower soon.

Kindness and patience cost nothing, while sending ripples of goodness far beyond this moment in time.

So let’s show them how good it feels to come back to the “default world.” Be the peace, the grace, and the kindly neighbor they’ll never forget.

With that, here’s a small prayer as they pass through:

May we slow our pace as the world rushes by.
Soften our hearts, even when dust clouds our view.
As we embrace the strange,
Let us temper our impatience with understanding.
Grant us tolerance for others,
And let kindness be the gift we offer freely this very day. Amen

It’s hard to believe that it’s been three years since life took a wild and crazy turn. How could anyone prepare for something that ends up being even better than their wildest dreams? Meeting HHH (Hubba-Hubba-Hubby) changed everything for one healing widow living on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. And, it pretty much rocked the world of one healing widower, as well.

Year one was a beautiful surprise. It was full of late-night conversations, long walks, dating, and simple happiness in getting to know one another. Discovering a man who just “got” me was a game-changer. We found ourselves laughing at the silliest things. HHH listened wholeheartedly with patience, curiosity, and kindness. As our love story unfolded, it was like watching a favorite Rom Com in real time. Every day felt like a new chapter, and that first year was magical.

After one full year of dating, HHH proposed. The details will remain sealed forever, but most of the day, I thought he was going to tell me things weren’t working out. Silly, because the previous 365 days couldn’t have been better. He was one ball of nerves, not knowing what my reply would be. Looking back, it makes the memories all the sweeter.

Over the past three years, I’ve known two girlfriends who had no intention of re-marrying. NEVER, NOT EVER. Widowed, they couldn’t imagine moving forward with someone else. However, both found the RIGHT Mr. Someone. As I help Miss Love Bird prepare her wedding, it takes me back to the excitement of our own wedding in October, 2023.

Oh, the beauty of our wedding! Planning it together wasn’t just about the event itself, but about all the little decisions that reflected who we are and what we love. The church (our favorite place) was the starting point, and from there, everything blossomed. There was laughter, mini-disasters that somehow became inside jokes, and details debated over breakfast. It was joyful chaos, but above all, it was ours. The Ring of Fire Solar Eclipse started the day off right and was something that’ll stay in my memory forever.

Family and friends arrived, dropping in to enjoy pictures before the big event. With hair curled and a bouquet that looked like it was picked from an English garden, we headed for the church. After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, I walked down the aisle to my forever. Exchanging vows in that sacred space, surrounded by love, it felt like the world stopped spinning just for a moment.

Over time, we’ve become closer as our lives have intertwined. New friendships have entered our lives like unexpected flowers in our ever-growing garden. Literally and figuratively, our gardens have grown. Patches of earth have become our shared canvas as each plant has become a metaphor of our life together. Marriage in our golden years has been nurturing, patient, sometimes messy, and overflowing with hope.

There’s something quietly magical about waking up every day with someone who turns even the most ordinary moments into an adventure. Whether it’s a spontaneous trip to Lowe’s, Sunday morning with pancakes, or just deadheading in the garden, everything we’ve experienced is a gift. We have a life of joy stitched together with the little things that, in the end, turn out to be BIG. These past three years have been, without a doubt, the best years I could’ve ever asked for.

So now, with hearts full and hands held tight, we’re going to celebrate! Not just anniversaries or milestones, but us and this wild, beautiful, ever-evolving journey we’re on together.

To HHH: Thank you for being my person, my partner, my home, my love. Here’s to everything we’ve shared and everything that’s still to come. ❤️Now, get in the car! We’ve got some celebrating to do!

As for the rest of you, have a wonderful weekend. I’ll be back Monday.

Loss is a language everyone speaks, yet no one wants to learn. Slowly or suddenly, softly or with a thunderclap, it leaves its mark in ways both seen and unseen. Whether it’s the loss of a spouse, a dear friend, a beloved pet, a parent, a job, a home, or even a dream, each of us knows what it means to ache for what once was.

Grief wears many faces. For some, it’s quiet tears behind closed doors. For others, it’s loud and angry, raw and desperate. Sometimes, it shows up not in sadness, but in numbness, fatigue, or confusion. There’s no “right” way to grieve, just as there’s no single path through it. But wherever you are in that journey, hope is something greater that can help you along your way.

Hope, in the Christian sense, is not wishful thinking. It isn’t a vague longing for things to get better. It’s deeper, stronger, and more certain than that. Hope is the confident expectation that God is who He says He is, with promises that won’t ever fail.

It’s hard to believe that tonight, HHH and I host our last 13-week Grief Share class. It’s been an amazing time to revisit our own grief journeys while helping others work through theirs. HHH is preparing his fabulous Chicken Cordon Bleu for our group dinner, and that never disappoints. Then, it will be time to consider what’s next. As a Christian, the next thing involves hope.

The Bible calls hope “an anchor for the soul, firm and secure” (Hebrews 6:19). When everything around us is shifting and we feel like we’re adrift in sorrow and uncertainty, hope is what keeps us grounded. It doesn’t remove the pain of loss, but it promises that pain is not the end of the story.

Hope tells us that brokenness isn’t forever.

• God is near to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18).
• Joy comes in the morning, even if the night feels endless (Psalm 30:5).

That’s not just poetry, but a trustworthy promise.

To move on after loss doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean rushing past grief or pretending everything is okay. It means allowing God to gently walk with us through the valley and trusting Him to bring beauty out of ashes in His time.

Laughing again may feel quite strange at first. Do it anyway. Reaching out to someone when you’re drowning in silence may seem like a weakness. It’s the opposite, as you allow others to care for you. In no time at all, you’ll be able to return the favor.

Loss shapes us, but it doesn’t define us. What defines us is the love that remains, the precious memories we carry, and the hope that sustains us.

If you’re reading this and feeling the weight of grief pressing down on you, know that you’re not alone. God sees you and hears every unsaid word, tear, and sleepless night. He doesn’t expect you to “have it all together.” He only asks you to lean on Him when your strength is gone.

Grief may change with time, but it won’t disappear. And that’s okay. Because in Christ, we don’t move on alone, but forward with Him, holding tightly to the anchor of hope. And that kind of hope doesn’t disappoint.

Wherever you are, whatever you may do, consider finding a Grief Share group in your area if you’re in need. There can never be enough tools in the tool belt when trouble comes knocking.

More tomorrow.

It’s not every day your best friend turns 70. And it’s certainly not every day you get to say, “I’ve known this woman for 68 of those years.” That’s right, sixty-eight years. We’ve been best friends longer than some countries have existed. Honestly, I’m not saying we’re old… but if we were a bottle of wine, we’d be very expensive and require a special corkscrew.

Let me tell you about this woman I’ve had the honor of calling my dear friend. My sidekick, co-conspirator, and Maid of Honor (more than once, but let’s not get into the details ) she’s been there through it all. At times, she’s been the only person who knew what I was thinking before I even said it. I have four biological sisters, but it’s this sister of two brothers that I chose as my heart friend.

We met in the dawn of time when poodle skirts were fashionable and nobody had heard of gluten-free anything. Somehow, through childhood chaos, teenage angst, marriages, moves, careers, families, heartbreak, and more laughter than I can measure, we stayed hand in hand.

One of my favorite chapters of our lives together was set among the vineyards of our youth. There we were, two teenage girls, riding our bikes down dusty country roads, hair in the wind, pedal-powered freedom in our hearts, sharing secrets like they were currency. If someone had stopped us and asked what we were talking about so intently, we probably would’ve said something deep and poetic like, “Do you think Glen Campbell would marry either of us if we could play guitar really well?”

Playing the guitar really well (or any other instrument) is her God-given talent. Never depending on sheet music, she can pick up any instrument and play it. For decades, she sang. She danced. Eventually, she had a following on Friday and Saturday night as she crooned Anne Murray songs with her backup band. The band members were all adults and had added her as their singer. It was SHE everyone in town came to see at Fresno’s own Hacienda Inn.

Which brings me to another treasured memory — the guitar lessons. Not in a classroom. No sheet music. Just two girls, a lot of determination, sore fingertips, and a well-worn LP of Glen Campbell songs. She taught me how to strum, to laugh at wrong notes, and to believe that music could stitch up the parts of your heart that life occasionally scuffs up.

We’ve been through it all, from weddings (did I mention she’s really good at delivering Maid of Honor speeches?), to labor, delivery, and child-rearing, ridiculous fashion phases like hot pants (there are photos, and yes, they’re safe for now), and now this wild, wonderful phase of life they call “golden.” Which, let’s be honest, is a lovely euphemism for we can say whatever we want, and people find it charming.

At 70, she’s still the same fierce, funny, big-hearted, slightly stubborn, always-wiser-than-me woman I’ve known forever. And even though we stopped riding bikes decades ago, the conversations are still deep, silly, and full of love.

To my girlfriend of nearly seven decades, thank you for being my REAL sister. Thank you for the memories, the music, the laughter, the honesty, and the endless support. Here’s to the next chapter. May it include more Glen Campbell sing-alongs, soft sunsets, spontaneous giggle fits, and maybe a few bike rides… even if they’re three-wheelers now.

Happy 70th, my beautiful friend. You’re aging like the finest grapes we passed on our bikes, only with better stories and much better taste. When rocks foil your plans, you’ll figure out a way to get free, just as in the children’s book you wrote. Have the best day ever!!!!

Love always,
Your lifelong partner-in-crime,

Joy

There’s something peaceful about being up at 5 am while the world is still groggy and full of early morning optimism about how the day will go. Until he realized the fridge was bare. HHH’s one goal was to grab a few breakfast items while easing into the morning like a responsible adult. On the way, he stumbled headfirst into Burning-Man-Mania, the pre-playa pandemonium turning every store, street, and gas station into a glittered, post-apocalyptic staging area.

The first hint that something was off was the traffic. Not normal “late-for-work” traffic, but a slow-moving, psychedelic parade of RVs, converted school buses, and dusty sedans dragging trailers that still had dealer tags. License plates from every state. Roof racks stacked with bikes. All windows covered with painter’s tape. All this at 5 AM on a Sunday.

With patience and effort, he finally arrived at the parking lot of the grocery store. Every spot was full, most with people sleeping in U-Haul vans (yes, rentable U-Haul vans), doors cracked open, solar panels on the roof, folks visiting in the lot like as if it was a KOA campground.

Inside the store? Polite chaos. Blue painter’s tape flew off the shelves, as Burner’s grabbed it by the armful to seal up their RV windows from the inevitable onslaught of alkali dust. Shopping carts stacked high with ramen, Cliff bars, gallons of water, and boxed wine rolled out the door. It was Mad Max meets Trader Joe’s.

And yet, amid the mania, kindness reigned. Two elderly locals stood behind a group of Burners with a cart that looked like it could support a small army. The old couple held nothing but two avocados and a jug of water. The Burners glanced back, smiled, and waved them ahead. “You guys go first.” Kindness never looked so sweet.

Our town has a population of about 25,000 souls on a busy day. This week? We’re the portal to the play for an influx of 85,000 people armed with radical self-reliance, disco balls, and apparently zero hotel reservations. No vacancies at our motels. Every fast food line is longer than the wait at the DMV.

The gas station looked like a techno refugee camp. Every pump was occupied, RVs and electric trucks trying to top off before hitting the void. People lounged under shade tents in the parking lot. At Reds’, people waited hours for EV chargers. There are NO charging stations where they are headed. Zero.

You see every kind of person during this week. Every color of hair. Neon dreads, metallic green buzz cuts, one man with a cherry-red mohawk tall enough to get Wi-Fi. One gentleman was wearing a vintage prom dress and moon boots while carrying a feathered purse, all in pink. And somehow, it all worked.

HHH did come back with the groceries (no thanks to whoever hoarded all the milk) and crawled home through a gridlocked mass of creativity on wheels. Of course, I was so disappointed that I didn’t get to go, we made a second trip through the mayhem. By then, the migration was gone, headed north toward the playa.

Sadly, 50 mph winds and rain have rearranged tents and belongings. The gates have been closed for a time, with forecasts for monsoonal rain all week. Not good anywhere, but especially on the playa. Stay tuned. Things could get messy.

Next year? I’m doing all my shopping in July. I’ll tape my windows shut just for solidarity. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll grab a tutu so I can blend in at Walmart. We’ll see.

More tomorrow.

Well, friends, it’s that time of year again when the smell of charcoal, sunscreen, and slightly overripe watermelon fills the air. Yes, it’s the Annual Church BBQ, and let me tell you, the anticipation in the congregation is palpable. Even Mr. and Mrs. Lovebird are a-twitter about something other than their upcoming nuptials. After weeks of meticulous planning and countless group texts, the event has finally arrived. And oh, it is a sight to behold!

The church BBQ grill has been lovingly scrubbed with more elbow grease than a green ’69 GTO at a car show. It’s squeaky clean and ready to go. I mean, you could perform minor surgery on that grill if needed.

An invitation slipped out on Facebook, so there may be a need to return to Walmart for more food. HHH will be making his famous shrimp macaroni salad, and I’m making sugar-free ice cream from scratch.

Speaking of the kids, our littlest saints will be there in full, sugar-fueled force. The slip and slide will be deployed on the HHHHHH Lawn (HHHHHH = Hands of Humble Horticulturist, Hubba-Hubba-Hubby), which was sprouted, and maintained with tender care since March. He still twitches when people walk across the new spots.

Of course, there will be watermelon and macaroni salad. But the real star of the show will be the homemade ice cream. Hand-churned by a church brother who insists on using “the old-fashioned way”, we’ll be roping unsuspecting teens to turn the crank. But let’s be honest, it’ll be worth it. That Cookie and Cream recipe? Divine intervention in dessert form.

The burgers and hot dogs will flip faster than Bible pages during a particularly fiery sermon. Smoke will waft across the lawn like incense on Christmas Eve, except instead of frankincense, it will be mesquite with a dash of hickory.

But perhaps the most unexpected (and highly entertaining) twist this year? Watching the Burning Man pilgrims drive up Main Street towards the Walmart.

We live in that magical town located squarely between “middle of nowhere” and “gateway to the Playa.” Once a year, our little slice of wholesome Americana becomes a pit stop for 80,000 tie-dye tanks, LED hula hoops, and RVs held together with duct tape, glitter, and sheer will. As it’s always been, the townspeople welcome them with open arms.

Not sure if any will drop by our BBQ, but if they do, they’ll have a great time with the rest of us. It turns out the Kingdom of Heaven is big enough for everyone, whether you’re in church clothes or a feather boa. Besides, Jesus did say, “Feed the hungry” and who are we to argue with divine BBQ logic?

As the sun dips below the horizon and the last scoop of ice cream is scooped, we’ll all sit back, full and a little sunburned, watching kids play in the water while adults swap stories. For a split second, we’ll forget how fast the summer is slipping away.

We’ll come together as believers, burners, barefoot toddlers, and one burger-flipping pastor, to celebrate community, faith, and the sacred art of not overcooking a hot dog.

Until next year, Church BBQ, you’ll bless us once again.

Have a wonderful weekend. Amen — and pass the mustard.

For years, we’ve tolerated their nonsense. The midnight zoomies. The 2 a.m. bed invasions. The mysterious puddles that magically appeared right in our pathway first thing in the morning. We reminded each other, “They’re just dogs!” and “They’ll settle down with age!“ But Oliver and the Wookie, at 7 and 3, have other plans.

Oliver is a 30-pound con-artist with the recall of a gnat and the subtlety of a wrecking ball. The Wookie is a shaggy gremlin whose hobbies include the occasional snack of undies and puddles.

Together, they formed a chaotic duo that made every night feel like a sleepover in a haunted house. Between the cold noses nudging us awake, the wrestling matches on our legs, and the occasional mystery moisture event , we hadn’t slept through the night in weeks. We just didn’t know how bad it was.

This all became very tiresome, and finally, something had to change. And fast. These dogs needed a place of their own. A Doggie Crib. A Canine Cabana. And we just happened to have the perfect place.

Okay, it’s the laundry room. But it has four walls, a door, and a sink. That’s better than some college dorms. We’ve added a rug and their own comfy bed. Honestly, it’s nicer than my college apartment.

You know that feeling when you check into a hotel and everything smells like lavender with nobody breathing on your neck while you sleep? That’s our life now! We are sleeping through the night, soundly, without disturbances. The mystery puddles have disappeared, so perhaps the puddler wasn’t any happier with the sleeping arrangement than we were!

Meanwhile, how are Oliver and the Wookie? THRIVING.

They have their own bedtime routine now. There’s a little pre-bedtime sniff around the dryer, some dramatic sighing, and then they curl up in their luxurious orthopedic bed like the spoiled fluffballs they are. They don’t even look longingly at the master bedroom door anymore. I’m pretty sure The Wookie locked their door last night so we wouldn’t disturb them.

Sometimes, love means boundaries like giving your dogs their own one-bedroom apartment so everyone can sleep, stay dry, and not wake up with a tail in their mouth.

Would I recommend this to other dog owners? Only if they like sleep, sanity, and dry socks.

So here we are. The dogs have their space. We have ours. And peace reigns across Winterpast.

Now if I could just get them to stop changing the dryer settings…