Author: Joy Hurt

Oliver is Three Years Old! As he sleeps quietly at my feet this morning, I’m so thankful there’s been a sensible little dog hiding in there all this time. He just needed to grow into his paws. I needed to grow into mine, as well.

In the winter of 2019, I was pining for a dog. Not just any dog. THE DOG. The one that would be my last. A dog like those I’d seen when RVing that did all the cool things dogs do. Listen. Understand. Comfort. Sleep quietly at their owner’s feet. Greet guests politely. Just be a great dog in every way.

VST wasn’t a dog person, wanting no part of the requirements of responsible dog ownership. He wanted no extra responsibilities, added drama, or unexpected costs. He wanted none of that. He saw owning a dog as a negative drain on his life. Period.

In my world, nightly dreams brought an angel dog to tag along. Just a little guy, he’d show up and off we’d go. Each morning, I’d wake wishing that a dog would come into my life. VST didn’t waver. No dog.

Until one day.

Out of the blue, VST decided we should have one more dog. THE DOG. The cool one. He started an active search for our last dog, with ideas in mind of those that would be suitable or not. For a time, Oliver could have been a Yorkie. Why a burly man’s man would choose a dog the size of a postage stage is beyond me. Yorkies are perfect for Yorkie owners. I wanted something a little more substantial.

In truth, I’m a Mastiff gal. The bigger the better. Mastiffs watched our ranch for many years. Thoughtfully gentle, they were appropriately imposing when strangers stopped in. Pony sized, their deep bass barks shook the night at the slightest hint of intruders. VST would patiently lift two 40 pound bags of very expensive dog food into our Costco cart every two weeks. Our security team paid in kibble, we were never robbed.

These days, I’m older and weaker. No longer can I help the backside of a 200 pound dog into a truck bed, or hoist 40 pound bags of dogfood. Mastiffs have a very short life span and a puppy is so much work. VST and I agreed we’d like a dog that would be around for a decade+ after the potty-training ended. We fixed our sites on a small Dachshunds. It seemed the rest of California had done the same and all litters were promised or sold. No puppies were to be found.

Until the week of Christmas. Disappointed by multiple contacts to breeders who had “just sold the last one”, one more time, I Googled “dachshund puppy”. And there he was.

One picture says it all. Oliver was left over. He’d aged out. At 16 weeks, he’d been discounted 50%. A bargain puppy. The breeder would deliver him to our area on Christmas morning in the parking lot of a huge casino. At this point, VST was onboard. The Christmas gift to end all, he’d never need to buy me another present. Oliver was birthdays, Christmas, and the 4th of July all wrapped up in those little green eyes. Oliver was THE DOG.

Over the 2.5 years we’ve been together, there have been days we didn’t see eye to eye. Days he was sneaky and more days that he got caught. Lost hours of sleep, and correction after correction. As many senior citizens have exclaimed, “I’m not a puppy anymore.” Countless hours have gone into training ME to meet his standards. I’m finally the “Mom-oh” he loves. He’s always been the dog I waited a lifetime to meet.

Yesterday, he knew it was his special day. Extra couch cuddles and even popcorn for a treat. All the while, he waited quietly on his leash so I wouldn’t spill my coffee. He didn’t bark at visitors throughout the day. No nipping at garden emitters, or digging in the paths. Outside, he sunned himself and quietly watched the birds. He sat like a gentleman, waiting for his after dinner snack without a jump or wiggle.

At the end our our day, when asked if his was a good one, I’m sure I saw him smile right before his sleepy yawn.

“Yeah, Mom-oh. Time for bed.”

Sir Oliver, Gentleman of Ashworth Hall. One standard, wire-haired, cream, piebald dachshund from Song Catcher Dachshunds in Nevada City. One of a kind. Happy Birthday, Oliver. You know all my secrets. You’ll always be THE ONE.

Living alone, I’m very careful about keeping things locked. Especially at night. VST was our armed sentry, always on watch. I never worried about safety, because he had that handled. Although, two years ago, there was an event that rocked Northern Nevada to its core while robbing me of a sense of innocent safety that I’ll never get back. The Gardnerville/Reno Murders of the winter of 2019.

Vacationing at the beach when the first murder was committed, I could hardly believe the headlines. Connie Koontz, 56, was shot dead in her kitchen. She was just the first, with three more victims to follow over the next nine days. Random, innocent senior citizens were shot and killed in their own unlocked homes. A few days between each murder, with miles and counties separating the crimes, citizens felt bone-chilling fear. Things like this didn’t happen in a place where many people didn’t even lock their doors.

Connie’s big crime was hiring a gardening service. One of the day laborers was an illegal immigrant who noticed more than the weeds. Nice home, with an open garage door. He would return to take her life, sneaking in and catching her unaware and off guard in her own kitchen, as her disabled mother slept quietly in the back room. Shot dead, she would still be alive if only she’d locked her doors. If only.

He stole a few things that Connie would have happily exchanged for her life. Electronic gadgets that the murderer’s mother enjoyed receiving. Her “good, sweet boy” was always bringing home unexpected treasures for her. So thoughtful. Such a good, good boy.

A few short days later and a mile south, Sophia Renkin, 74, was killed in her home. The killer entered through an unlocked door under the cover of darkness. Sophia, startled, put up a struggle. While being shot repeatedly, she tried to escape to safety in her bedroom. Sophia was shot with in the face with a .22 caliber bullet. When that didn’t do the job, the killer shot again and again, in the face and upper torso as she fought for survival, but lost. The cowardly killer didn’t even steal anything from her. Just her life, letting himself out the same way he he’d come in.

Sophia loved antique cars and her horse. She’d planned to see friends the next day. When she didn’t answer the phone after being late, the terrifying discovery was made. Now, two women lay dead, while the communities sheltered in place, fearful of who could be next. Not a ring video or witness had seen the murderer, just a random someone out there.

This monster wasn’t through yet. Fifty miles north, three days later, in the early morning hours he struck again. Sherri David, 81, was in the kitchen when the illegal alien opened fire, killing her. Her husband, Jerry David, 81, was killed next as he dressed for the day. Again, the killer entered through an unlocked door, ambushing them.

Sadly, this piece of human debris had worked with the same gardening service at all three properties. The vile rogue snuck into the David’s unlocked travel trailer and stole the guns that would be used to kill four people days before Connie’s murder. The David’s never even knew their guns were missing.

All elderly, these people were vital members of the community. Jerry and Sherri were active members of the Reno Rodeo Association and beloved community members. In their early 80’s, they still rode their horses as often as they could. Connie was cherished as a great mom, daughter, neighbor, and vital part of her WalMart team, while Sophia was a member of three antique car clubs and a civic minded individual. Sophia was taken from the horse she rode for pleasure. Four beautiful elders were stripped from families, friends, and the communities that loved them so much.

Two years later, the confessed murderer gets his three squares a day, while lawyers fight about his mental competency for a trial. No closure for the family. No justice for the small communities that were terrorized by a common thief stealing items to sell for his next fix. No consequences for the greedy mother that waited at home for her “good, sweet boy” to bring her more gifts. We all wait for justice that may never come.

I check my door locks every single night before I close my eyes. Gates remain locked. My neighborhood is very similar to those of all four victims. One afternoon, I insisted that VST drive by each home. Needing to understand these crimes, I assumed the victims must have lived in undesirable locations. Surely this couldn’t have happened in an upscale neighborhood. I was very wrong. Neat and beautiful, the four murder sites were manicured. But, of course they were. They all hired a gardener who employed illegal day workers.

A doorbell in the night conjures up all kinds of thoughts. I enjoy a neighborhood that’s quiet and remote. The only visitors are invited. After seven, it’s rare that I have company. Sad, but true. Last night, the bell rang. Dusk was turning to dark as I shouted out “Who’s there?”

No answer.

Wondering if a neighbor needed help, I slithered to the front window, peering out the blinds to see no one. Having an alcove by the front door, danger could be lurking there.

Calling out again, I received no answer.

Becoming more brave, I went to the sidelight next to the front door to gain a better view.

There, a small note and plant sat on the front porch. Murderers don’t usually come with flowers, do they? Relieved, I opened the door and retrieved the plant and card.

Ninja Neighbor! I love her so. No murderer ringing the bell. This time. Just a little surprise from my sweet firend next door.

Crisis averted. This time.

Remember to keep things locked No matter where you live, Mayberry doesn’t exist anymore. Bad guys can be Americans just like you and me, or a desperate illegal, working hard to get his next fix of heroin. Connie, Sophia, Jerry, and Sherry would tell you the same thing, if only they could.

My RV barn is a thing of beauty. I could hold church inside the four finished walls. With dimensions of 45’x20’x20′, more than one man has stopped in his tracked to hear angels sing when first seeing the barn. Conjuring up visions and possibilities in people, VST and I chose it to protect our new RV, The White Knight. VST got his RV barn. I got the gardens of Winterpast. Buying this home was an equal Win-Win for us both, although I moved here alone.

When VST died, the fate of The White Knight was certain. I’d never driven it, couldn’t drive it, and therefore, wouldn’t be driving it. At 30′ long, it had to be sold. Meanwhile, the barn kept mourners out of the sun at VST’s memorial service. It’s a place I store household overflow, including the deer head I just can’t discard quite yet.

Yard sales are not my thing. I’ve never held one, or even helped at one. The thought of strangers descending on my quiet little world to pick through-cast offs isn’t something I’d choose to do on the best of days. But, this yard sale is different. It’s for my Political Organization, ripe with friends for the picking.

Politics. Such a nasty and divisive topic. Differences of opinion can severe relationships forever unless you happen to stand on the same side of the great divide. Then, it can be a safe topic of conversation on which to bond. Miss Firecracker had introduced me to this group, urging me to join when I moved here. Being in a Widow’s fog a little longer than I realized, it took some time to connect. But, connections are firing now and this is a group of new friends that’ll anchor me even more securely to my little town.

The group has their biggest fund raiser the third weekend in August. A yard sale. My Ninja Neighbor, a new member to the group, is the chairwoman of THE YARD SALE committee. Such an initiation to the group. Yikes. Loving her as I do, I offered my barn to house the furniture items and she accepted immediately. Another unique use for my wonderful building.

Yesterday, my barn became Yard Sale Central. All the earthly belongings of a heaven bound angel found their way into two pickups and a horse trailer, to be delivered to my barn. With three other deliveries, the barn is stacked high with boxes and furniture. What. Have. I. Done????? You know the old saying, “Stupid is as stupid does.”?

During the afternoon, people arrived as strangers and left as friends. I’ve invited new comrades into Winterpast and my life. I’m one of the gals now, and what wonderful gals we are. So many different personalities, all offering words of encouragement and comfort. There are successful gals. Executives. Business owners. Widows. Wives. Mothers. Daughters. Friends to meet at water aerobics. Friends that like the beach and traveling. Friends with kind eyes. Friends that are funny husbands that adore their beautiful wives. A solid core of like-minded people. No longer can I whine that I’m friend-less-ly new to town . A barn and new gal-pals. It doesn’t get better than that.

The dancers in the group told me of two evenings of square dancing every week. One in my little town and one in the little town 30 minutes East. Two nights of more new friends. Music. A professional square dance caller who happens to be my neighbor.

Wizard of Oz-ish, the door of possibilities opens wider as my town little town turns technicolor. This isn’t California anymore. This is a horse of a different color. There’s no place like home, and this is mine. After all, Home Means Nevada.

My secret vision for the barn is a wonderful star-filled evening, complete with a barn dance. In my life, I’ve helped plan two. Both in a huge ranch barn, never did anyone have as much fun. Hay bales for seating, fiddlers and banjo players strummed while everyone danced the night away. Of course, I can’t host a barn dance. My neighbors would never forgive me.

But, wait just a fiddle plucking minute here.

Maybe they would come?!?!?!?

In the blazing heat, a new friend was admiring the finished barn walls.

“This is the perfect place for a BBQ and barn dance!” the dancer declared, sharing her vision. Meeting her just minutes before, she had no way of knowing mine. None. But. She did.

Another gal mentioned that we should have a “Just Because” party in my back yard. What a delightful idea! “Just Because” we’re alive, happy, healthy, intelligent and beautiful. “Just Because” everyone needs new friends. “Just Because” without friends and parties, what would life be? “Just Because” VST and I loved hosting neighborhood parties. Winterpast and I need a housewarming. Coming together in a storm of sadness, Winterpast watched over me while I cared for her as we both watched Winter Pass. Now, we need to celebrate as one, “Just Because”. I’ll be thinking on this.

Today, the unpacking begins. How fun to “shop” in the barn. I’ve already spied a cute garden stand I’m buying. Guess what? I get to set the price! Let’s see. $1? Sold!!!!!

It’s amazing just to be alive and breathe. If I’ve learned nothing else in the last 16 months, it’s that lesson. With such a full life of doing, VST and I seldom stopped to enjoy our accomplishments. There were always goals looming. Deadlines. Unfinished projects. The last brick.

VST enjoyed long walks every day. Along the way, he always met new and interesting people, reporting back to me on their stories. Mike was one such person.

Mike and his wife moved to C Street, Virginia City from the Bay Area of California. Their home wasn’t a mansion like DunMovin, but rather a conservative little house with good bones. Mike, being a retired brick layer, began his magic. Each day, VST would talk to him about his progress, brick laying being another skill VST knew a thing or two about. When going to town, we’d drive by Mike’s to see how far he’d progressed, as the scaffolding moved from this wall to that.

Mike built a brick garage, and his progress went on, month after month. Soon, he was working on the side not visible to the road. Each time they visited, VST was more impressed with this man that kept going, one brick at a time. Bricking an entire house perfectly showed who Mike was as a craftsman. VST was in awe of the brick layer’s mad skills.

Long ago, newlyweds still, VST shared his trademark secret with me. Living at the ranch, he’d remodeled a bathroom, laying tile flooring one piece at a time. With such perfection and attention to detail , it was finally complete, except for a small missing piece of tile behind the toilet. Proud of his work, he asked me for my seal of approval, and so, I pointed out the missing tile. A project isn’t done until it is. This wasn’t.

“No, Darlin’. Every project has one last piece left unfinished. Finish that? You’re done.” His reference to “Done” meant DONE. Finished. Time expired. “Put down the trowel and die” kind of done.

This superstition became tiring over the year. I finally broke him of this habit during our renovations in VC. Every project was 100% complete. No missing wood or tile. No unpainted surfaces. Not a crack uncaulked. Every improvement was up to his perfectionist standards, even when he was within three months of dying.

One bright and sunny morning, VST saw Mike for the last time. The scaffolding was empty of brick. The house stood as a tribute to the professional brick layer.

“Yup. Just laid the last brick yesterday. Think I might go fishing today.”

Mike died at week’s end. Dropped over of a heart attack. It was swift and final, leaving Mrs. Mike stunned and in disbelief. A man younger than VST, he didn’t know the secret. Always, leave the job one brick shy of complete. VST would have shared that if he could have seen what was coming. The entire community mourned Mike’s passing.

Reflecting on this, I struggle each day to write a chapter just so, or uncluttered a closet while the real beauty of life sits right outside my door. The garden. The birds. Friends. Mountains. The breezes. Oliver and his antics. Projects will never be completed. Mine are all far from the final brick.

Books are the same way. Each day, I move towards completion of “Widow”. Chapter 1-3 sit printed on my desk, as I trudge on. The last word? Ha. That’ll come with my last breath. There are hundreds of stories to live and then write. Great stories aren’t created while cleaning a closet.

Peace hugs Winterpast these days. While he heat broils on, mask mandates foul my mood. Nothing is as it used to be, but the important things remain the same. Stop to remember the important things. Health. Love. Life. Nature. Smiles. Happiness. A quiet soul. Contentment.

Have a peaceful day today. Fergettabout the last brick. There’s always tomorrow.

Miss Firecracker and I understand each other. Strange, because we aren’t chronological contemporaries. Our thoughts and beliefs intersect at key points bringing us laughter or tears. She’s a great sounding board for so many of life’s deep questions, knowing when to answer or just give a knowing glance. A friend in need is a friend, indeed. She’s my BESTIE.

After sharing the stars and the moon in Zero Gravity, we moved on to lunch. Like royalty, our own wait staff took orders and invited us to the terrace for Mimosa’s, while lunch was prepared. Sunning ourselves, we never ran out of topics for discussion.

The terrace was filled women of different ages. Groups congregated in the private pool, or sat on terrace lounges. Everyone was enjoying sunshine and the normalcy of a spa day. Nothing normal about this spa, it had been closed for almost a year. Special it was to enjoy something that hadn’t been available for so long. After purchasing a service, the facilities were available to us until 9PM. I didn’t realize we could have returned even if we left the spa. But, then, Miss Firecracker had a full day planned for us.

Lunch arrived, healthy and delicious. After a few hours of pampered bliss, we decided to find the rest of our group. Downstairs, her daughter, Miss Firecracker’s Mini Me, was tanning her beautifully skinny self by the main pool. She’d saved lounge chairs poolside. Making our way through the children was refreshing. Kids. They’ve paid the ultimate price through Covid and the ways of this crazy world. These kids were having fun. Not a few kids. Lots and lots of sweet children.

As a retired teacher, I noticed one very important point for second time in as many weeks. Covid and home schooling has helped parents become parents again. Although the pool could’ve been a watery sea of chaos and unruly children, it wasn’t. The sweetest kids played nicely with each other. Mindful that parents were watching, they behaved. And, yes, I noticed parents that WERE watching. My Movie in the Park experience last week was similar. Parents being parents, but allowing children to be children. Refreshing.

Mini Me is equally as delightful as Miss Firecracker. A bold, fierce, and smart executive, this woman is a witty, funny and beautiful life force. Miss Firecracker, you taught her well, my dear.

Sunning by the pool, the question on my mind was, “Why Have I Not Enjoyed This Resort On A Routine Basis?” Laying in the sun while listening to the guests, I realized a 5-Star experience exists less than an hour away from Winterpast. This will join the list of my monthly activities.

Visiting with Mini Me, time passed and the blazing sun finally got the best of us. Our strength would be needed for the last of Miss Firecracker’s plans. A dinner at the best restaurant in town, with reservations made months before.

Dinner was one I’ll never forget. Served by two waiters, not one, we were pampered and treated to epicurean delights. Of course, Miss Firecracker stole the show, especially when I clued in the waiters that she was, indeed, THE Miss Firecracker. Delicious food. Excellent service. Friendship extraordinaire. In a flash, we were enjoying Baily’s and Coffee topped with fresh whipped cream. A beautiful evening in an exquisite restaurant with my Bestie. It doesn’t get better than that.

VST was always curious about girl weekends, ask, “What did you do?” It’s hard to describe to a man the value of conversing with a girlfriend. Men sit together, often not exchanging a word. But, women. We’re different. We gab, gasp, groan, laugh, cry, commiserate, and gossip. That could all occur in the first fifteen minutes. We nourish our souls with words from a woman friend that just knows. Supports. Cares. Loves. There is nothing better than that in the world.

Our vacation ended too soon. There are the secret stories we’ll take to the grave. We did need to pay for some damages that occurred on our night out. And, there was the issue with security. Glad Miss Firecracker talks a good story. She saved us more than once that night. Memories will make us laugh for years to come. What happens at the resort, stays at the resort. Rest up, Girlfriend. Until the next time, Thanks for the wonderful weekend. You know. I love you.

There’s nothing like a few days away to improve an attitude, especially if time spent involves one Miss Firecracker!! Normally isolated, it was refreshing to enjoy a normal vacation, in which all vacationers behaved normally. Bustling and crowded, the resort made me feel I was back in pre-pandemic days, except for the masks. Nevadans must wear them inside, AGAIN.

Miss Firecracker, with her wit and wisdom, is a one-of-a-kind BESTIE of the BEST KIND. There are some people in life that you need, like oxygen. She is mine. Getting caught up on the OOHHH’s and AAHHH”s of life, there were plenty of smiles and lots of laughs. Rooming together, our antics went late into the night, well past my normal bedtime.

Together, we could almost conjure up our late husbands through shared memories. Members of the same service organization, we spent time getting to know each other well. We camped together, for goodness sakes. After a successful camping trip, people become family. Campfires do that, melting the group into one gooey S’more of stories. The four of us shared many camping trips. VST and Baily’s were surely observing from on high this weekend, laughing at our antics, while wishing they could be on the other side of the room, their deep voices booming like thunder.

Miss Firecracker and I are Alpha Females. We draw attention with our stunning beauty and strong attitudes. Controlling our own lives, we’re what you’d consider, A CATCH. Women of Means. Ladies. Seasoned Queens of our own destiny. Quite frankly, we’re lovely. We don’t settle for anything less than lives we’ve planned for ourselves. Independent and fierce, weak men are intimidated. Just as well, because, quite frankly, we’re used to lives with our Alpha Males. Each having been half of a power couple, anything less would bore us to tears.

Visiting with such a friend, I remembered the woman I was when I met her. A “+1”. Arm candy for the member of a prestigious Men’s Service Organization, I was somebody’s Lady. At the time, that was a nice person to be. Today, it’d never be enough. Traveling through widowhood for the last 16 months, I’m so much more than a pretty face. VST always knew and appreciated that. It was ME that lost touch with my strength and courage. Complacent, I became the “Little Woman”. I smile at the ME I was, and some days, cringe at the ME I’ve become. All part of assembling a new and improved self as I pick up the pieces and move on, finding what works and what doesn’t.

On Saturday, Miss Firecracker had planned a wonderful day for us. At 9 AM, we presented ourselves at the Spa for Swedish relaxation. If you haven’t been to a 5-STAR spa at least once in your lifetime, you must. There are spas in every town. At least technicians that give a satisfying massage. But, a 5-STAR spa has all the bells and whistles. Things you didn’t even know you needed, but will need after experiencing them.

Only the finest spas can afford the finest amenities such as a vibrating massage table, set to music. Truly heaven made. In a dimly lit room, like candlelight, the fifty minutes of bliss commenced. My massuer, Lawrence, (no, I could never consider him “Larry”, he was definitely Lawrence), was skillful and respectful, applying capable and masterful techniques. As the music played, the table would vibrate with notes at different frequencies. The vibrations were so subtle they could easily have been missed. Warm vibrating table. Warm lotions. Warm neck pillow. Warm knee support. Soothing fountain’s soothing splish-ity splashes. All wrapped up in 50 blissful minutes.

Lumps of warmed butter, both, we met back in the Salt-Therapy room. White leather chairs with large ottomans lined the dimly lit room. A large cascade of salt water cascaded down one glass wall. Attendants brought iced water for our parched lips. All that was missing were tall hunky guys to fan us. Our spa day was just beginning.

Invited to use the facilities for the rest of the day, we took the elevator to the 4th floor, a step closer to heaven. There, private pools, Jacuzzi’s, waitresses, and an outdoor lounging deck awaited us. Everything clean and beautiful. Private for those of us that had purchased a treatment. Like kids in a candy shop, we tried everything. We were inside. Then outside. Going back inside to explore more, we found a metal door resembling a utility closet. On the door were the words, “Quiet Room”.

Entering, we found peace. Extremely dark, the space was lined with white leather Zero Gravity lounge chairs. Each chair, with the push of a button (and a little effort and giggling), went into position. Yes. Zero Gravity is a real thing, placing feet much higher than head. Positioned this way, we then focused on the stunning video display of the heavens. Crystal clear, the enhanced video showcased the big Nevada night skies. Star lit and stunning. Everything in this room comforted the spirit, all behind an uninviting door marked, “Quiet Room”.

In peace, I leave you for now. Enjoy the soft tones of music. The perfect temperature. Your feet suspended higher than your head in Zero Gravity. Quietly, I slip out of the room. Enjoy your rest, because, tomorrow, I’ll share the rest of the story.

Good morning, DearReaders,

Miss Firecracker and I are having the time of our lives. So much music, only so much time to dance. And, well, there was the small issue of the broken table….It looked sturdy…..

We’re off to a day at the spa today to refresh and rejuvenate.

I’ll be back on Tuesday to discuss Swamp Creatures, The Used Car Lot of Life, and so much more.

Joy

Defined by these three powerful words, they swirl around my head each day. In so many ways, my identification has been bound by them for decades. Intertwined with Should-s, Shouldn’t-s, Why-Not’s, and Maybe’s, they govern my actions like judgmental sentries as I’m try to decide which one defines the real WOMAN in me. It’s for this reason, the Sisterhood books in my first trilogy will hold bare the titles WIFE, WOMAN, WIDOW, with Widow the first to be published .

Presently, WOMAN is the biggest challenge, giving me a run for my money. Discovering I’ve no idea how to WOMAN, I’d much prefer to Gal, Tom Boy, or trot along with my own version of life. To successfully WOMAN is a tough job, indeed. At 65.5, I’m confused about the requirements and societal expectations of the role for the YOLD (Young Old) female in 2021.

At my age, health is the key to success in any endeavor. Keenly aware of the functions and complaints of the body I’ve been given, I must say, it’s performing well for a high mileage chassis. Grateful for this, I’m aware that at any time, I could spring a leak or blow a tire. Heck, I could drop a headlight. I try to avoid roads that are too pitted or dangerous for an old goat like me. But, in this day and age, road signs are difficult to read or missing all together. I think some might be in Chinese. GPS directions can run a girl astray and stranded on a one way street towards disaster.

In some ways, I might be considered a barn find. Hidden away for decades, I’ve been kept out of the ravages of the elements. Protected and valued by the best husband and family, I know what it’s like to be cherished and truly loved. Truly blessed, I marveled at every dream come true as life unfolded. I value my rare qualities. They won’t be shared with someone that doesn’t fear God and truth, even when inconvenient. I find the Swamp Creatures of the Senior Citizen dating world avoid inconvenience at any cost. It’s their kryptonite. Swamp Creatures. We’ll touch on that subject in an upcoming post. For now, avoid them at all costs.

This is Vintage Vixen is goal driven, again attempting to update the exterior with one new outfit that screams 2021 rather than the late 1900’s. Sporting my zippy new hair cut, I’ve promised myself that I’ll spent at least one hour perusing store manikins, choosing to buy a complete look. There must be at least one headless example of trendiness that would look compliment my plump-ish frame.

Next, a new pair of flats is on the list, as my “Go-Toes” are adorable and comfy for a woman a bit older than myself. I can do better, not needing Red Bottoms to pull off a look. Just some cute flats in which to line dance, with best intentions to learn how and go often. Flats, because I’m finding that at 5’5″, I’m considered tall in the dating world.

A new piece of jewelry, as much as I hate it. Jewelry. I don’t understand sparkly baubles. I overheard two women at Bible study as they discussed diamonds and the women that say they don’t like them. (I’m one.)

“What kind of woman doesn’t love Diiiiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaammmmmmoooooonnnnnnddddsss? (Hello? Me?)

“THEY can’t AFFORD them.” (Not true, in my case.)

“They go with EVERYTHING.” (Not potting soil, or star gazing on a moonless desert night.)

Not intending to buy diamonds, I can at least buy something trendy to complete the look. It can’t involve earrings, though. I’ve no need to punch holes through perfectly good earlobes. Besides, earrings would distract from my eyes. No need. Sophisticated, flowing, and luxurious, my naturally highlighted grey hair hides my ears, anyway. A wasted effort in my case.

Today. One look. That’s the plan. One new sassy look that screams 2021. One head turning look that turns heads as I turn the corner on WOMAN’s WAY. That’s the mission for today.

Autumn is such a better season for me. The bat wings can be captured in long sleeves. The knee droopage concealed under flattering jeans. Turtlenecks do cover up my perfect and flawless décolletage, (the dermatologist raved about mine) but, in life there are trade offs. With the temps still hovering at triple digit level, the Great Cover UP will need to wait a little longer. Shop to Pop!!!!! Stay tuned.

Official Song Of The State Of Nevada

_{Lyrics and Music by Bertha Raffetto}

Way out in the land of the setting sun,

Where the wind blows wild and free,

There’s a lovely spot, just the only one

That means Home, Sweet Home to me.

If you follow the old Kit Carson trail,

Until desert meets the hills,

Oh you certainly will agree with me,

It’s the place of a thousand thrills.

Home means Nevada, Home means the hills,

Home means the sage and the pine.

Out by the Truckee, silvery rills,

Out where the sun always shines,

Here is the land which I love the best,

Fairer than all I can see.

Deep in the heart of the gold west

Home means Nevada to me.

Whenever the sun at the close of the day,

Colors all the western sky,

Oh my heart returns to the desert grey

And the mountains tow’ring high.

Where the moon beams play in the shadowed glen,

With the spotted fawn and doe,

All the live long night until morning light,

Is the loveliest place I know.

Home means Nevada, Home means the hills,

Home means the sage and the pines,

Out by the Truckee’s Silvery rills,

Out where the sun always shines,

There is the land that I love the best,

Fairer than all I can see.

Right in the heart of the golden west,

Home means Nevada to me.

******California has a state song, too.

Pales in comparison, IMHO.

Home Means Nevada. For me, a truth.

After so many months in isolation wondering if I’d ever meet friends, my relationship garden as suddenly bloomed anew. I’m truly blessed. Finding my little country church has not only helped me grow spiritually, but also to grow as a valued community member and friend. This week, it’s evident. I belong in this sweet little town. Home Means Nevada. Winterpast is mine.

It all started when a church girlfriend invited me to play cards with her group at the Senior Center. Filled with eager anticipation, I looked forward to meeting a group of chatty women anxious to size up someone new to the community. A “Newbie” is always of interest with women in the know. I’m no different in that respect. I’d be honored to be their “Newbie”. Besides, they’d clue me in to important survival tactics. Always trust a card-player to know things.

Intimidated, I joined them at the game table. Four women examined their cards as seriously IRS auditors. This wasn’t just any old card game, but an intense coterie of four playing a game called “Hand and Foot”. They explained, in as few words as possible, the game was a form of Canasta. That’s when my heart fell. NOT CANASTA!!!!! I’d failed before I began.

Challenge me to a rip roaring game of “War” or “Go Fish”? I’m your partner! A lightning fast game of Bunco, I’m in. But, Canasta???? One needs to think. You need to remember who holds what and cards already played while using 13 decks at once. Helmet-ed by silver hair, my subdermal blonde roots, originating deep into my brain, were misfiring. These women took turns explaining all THEIR rules, which differed from hundreds of versions of the game. Drat. I couldn’t even study for weeks to understand this. Tailor-made rules.

Watching for an hour, I tried to understand the purpose of the “Foot” and in what order the “Hand” was played. Never mind the rule that you got an extra 100 points if you picked up exactly 22 cards to begin the game. And yes, one of the ladies did get the bonus. Never have I ever, and I probably won’t ever again. These women are way above my mental ability. After an hour, I thanked them for letting me watch. I’m happy to report I have three new friends, along with the friend that invited me.

When leaving, I found the August activity flier on display near the door. Yoga. Line dancing. Exercise. Bingo. Scrapbooking. Art Journaling. Choir. Cooking. Knitting. Quilting. All long with lunch for $2.00. Such a deal. An autumn writing class is needed. I just happen to know a pretty good author that would love to offer her services.

At the Tee Pee Bar and Grill, it was fun to visit Waitress Diane. Getting to know people is an art. Finding my way as a real desert gal, I’m meeting other women that are similarly content. Not a lot of high fashion skirts and stilettos in these parts. Nope. Just casual clothing that breathes as the temperature soars.

The lunch tab arrived way to soon. There’s always much to learn when lunching with a new friend. After 15 months, it’s refreshing to realize I’m not the newest kid on the block anymore.

Women are unique and powerful individuals bringing intelligence, intuition, and grace into their worlds. Distinctive gifts we have to share. How refreshing it is to acknowledge the differences between each other, appreciating the innate beauty and purpose found in each.