Author: Joy Hurt

Weather is an interesting topic about which people enjoy conversing. Men, especially. At any coffee shop on any morning, men debate the ACTUAL rain fall amounts at great length. Who’s meters are more correct? What WILL the weather be? What are the HISTORICAL statistics? The amount of topics regarding weather go on and on. To men, this is delicious rhetoric. Not controversial, but informative.

I’ve always been the “WHO CARES?” kind of gal. It’s not like anyone can change the weather. I’m not planning a garden event, or travel through obscure mountain passes. I’m just hanging out at Winterpast. If it rains, I will go inside until it clears. If it snows, I will order my groceries online. If it is hot, it’s a good time for a nap in an air-conditioned house. The subject used to be vitally important when an entire raisin crop was on the ground. These days, it matters not. Period. End of Subject.

When farming, a September rain was often accompanied by squeals of delight from co-workers. A sign that fall was on the way after brutal Central Valley summers. To me, it met utter disaster. Period. Perhaps a total crop loss. I could never explain that to them, but during those 17 years of farming raisins, my fear of September rains was real and intense. A state of the art weather station was something needed on every farm.

A few years ago, my God Mother, sent me the most wonderful gift. It has traveled with me, and is now at its second and final resting spot, Winterpast. This little stick, made of balsam wood, is a barometer all on it’s own. “The stick bends down to foretell foul weather, or up for fair weather,” according to Maine Line Products, listing the stick barometer on Amazon for $11.25. It’s useful lifetime can be 9 years or older. Mine is 7 years and still predicting weather.

When weather is great, the stick goes up. Way up. When weather is inclimate, the stick goes down. Really, just like a person’s facial expressions. No one believes the stick is actually a working barometer. I can’t blame them. I didn’t really believe it until I owned one and made my own observations.

As I have stated, that is the extent to which I need to know meteorological information. A true barometer reading, I need not. Wind speed is nice, but if my trash cans blow over, I know it is crazy windy outside. If the flag is still, there is no wind. Pretty easy.

My new friend mentioned that a weather station is a really cool thing to have. So, now I have one, perfectly installed by him upon my patio cover. Wirelessly, it communicates with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. One must wait for the device to “learn” about its surroundings, and then, information starts pouring in on a little screen that now sits in my kitchen.

At this time, the outdoor temperature is 65 degrees, with a humidity of 16%. Partly cloudy with a rainfall amount of zero for the day and year. The wind speed is 2 mph. The indoor temperature is a balmy 71, with 25% humidity. Just perfect.

The thing is, in my world, the day is perfect already, whether the wind was 2 mph or 10 mph. I really don’t see any clouds in the sky, yet. Perhaps they are coming soon. I love 71 degrees, and feel most comfortable when my house is at that temperature. Not to hot, not too cold. So, I could have guessed that one. The humidity is higher today. I knew that because my hair isn’t frizzled.

I suppose it is just another way to remove our senses and abilities to tell time without a clock, or judge the direction of N, S, E, or W by the position of the sun and stars. Another way to make us depend on the government (NOAA), internet, and gadgets. Another way to discount my stick, which at the moment says the weather is perfectly UP outside.

I better hurry to get my daily gardening fix in. Who knows when the torrential rainstorm and blackened skies are coming. With a wind speed of 1 mph now, I don’t need to worry about my hair blowing into a giant rat’s nest of tangles. At 66 degrees, I can leave my sweatshirt inside and go make some Vitamin D. Happy Gardening!!!!

The neighbor walked by yesterday with his aging Schnauzer. He is a constant in the neighborhood, being the eyes of every detail around Rabbit Bush Range. I would suspect he is an ORIGINAL owner, which holds weight, as it should. Sixteen years of back-breaking work to develop a high desert lot into something beautiful should be applauded.

I love my ORIGINAL owner neighbors. They are respectful of their properties, keeping things in tip top shape. They know the history and order of which houses were built when the decade was brand new. They know the wind directions and historical weather patterns of the area. They have mature yards that they’ve nurtured and watched since they planted them almost two decades ago. With sadness, I realize that big changes will occur over the next five years, when beautifully quiet octogenarian neighbors are replaced with young families. I need to enjoy the quiet breezes now, before silence is shattered with newbies.

Respect for a culture and quiet settings is something that is lost on the young. People are amazed when visiting Winterpast. It’s so quiet you can hear the wind crossing the desert. Birds call to each other over long distances. There is the rumble of the train passing through town, and the Jake Brakes of the big rigs on 89A going right through town. Silence is a golden commodity in this day and age. A valuable commodity lost on most people.

This Original owner and neighbor has walked by Winterpast every day for a year with no more than a passing grunt. He’s a tall man in his late 70’s with snowy hair. He likes button shirts in plaid, and always wears shorts. He and his dog are very serious about their walks, seeming to be on a mission to get somewhere.

Yesterday, he heard me saying my Goodbye’s to my friend in the garage and looked our way. He waved and spoke right away.

“‘Hi, Joy! I haven’t seen you in a long while. I was worried about you with Covid around. You okay?”

“Sure! Doing great. Just been busy in the backyard. Have a nice day!”

Interesting that he did remember my name. I’m pretty bad with names of people that I’ve met one time a year ago. Awkward! Anyway, it was nice to know he is a friendly face that circles the neighborhood twice a day. It’s even better to know that he is someone that’s noticed that I’ve been absent. If if was yelling for help from the back yard, I’m pretty sure he would be the one to investigate.

It made me realize that everyone must think I died and mummified surrounded in the walls of Winterpast. Invisible, I have been cocooned inside during the winter months. The front yard is intimidating so I’ve been avoiding it. Whatever it becomes will be on me. I have some ideas about important features I’d like to see, but, the finished look hasn’t popped into my brain.

I’m considering something that will make every REAL gardener wince.

FAKE GRASS.

Yes. It’s true. I may move to the dark side and have fake lawn installed in the front yard only. In this day and age, fake lawn looks very realistic. It uses zero water and lasts for years. Just hose it off occasionally, and all is good. No mustangs eating up the greenery. No poop on the grass. Just a nice looking lawn that needs no care. I do have trees and bushes in the front yard that still need water. Winterpast needs some front yard greenery. Desperately. Stay tuned for the final decisions, yet to be made.

In the back yard, spring is busting out all over. My friend got the water running and plants that I never noticed last year are blooming. Tulips are almost finished. Dahlias are emerging. Iris are making a run at their show. The Peonies are all growing. The established plants are quite tall, while the newbies are a little more hesitant. But, they are all sprouting.

Blueberry buds are swelling. The new raspberry plant is going crazy. All the fruit trees are in bloom just in time for a spring rain that will fall today and tomorrow. The blackberry plant is unhappy. Today, I need to move it to another location.

I’d forgotten how much I love being outside. My skin is turning brown, healthy and glowing. Being out in the back yard is my happy place. Sunshine eliminates depression, and is necessary for our bodies to produce Vitamin D. Win. Win. If I never left the grounds of Winterpast again, I’d be quite happy. Without news from the outside world, I write and enjoy memories of my formerly frenzied life. My God Mother had it right when she told me to “Practice Lazy”. Although I’m not lazy in my actions, my mind is in a lazy trance of comfortable tranquility. The best kind of vacation you can take anywhere.

I must run. Spring cleaning may get put off until fall. But, there is a lawn to mow and hot tub in which to relax. Whatever you do today, make it lovely.

My town is quirky in a really wonderful way. Never knowing who you will run into, or what they may do, it is always fun to explore. In recent explorations, I’ve found some very interesting people indeed. Adding to the services in town, they also qualify as seasoned characters in a great novel. I’m taking notes and sharing a small bit with you today.

I’ll start with the ice cream man. Burt. He is the owner of Burt’s Butter Pecan. All the ice cream in his shop is handmade. He is very proud of this, as he should be. The town folk show up at his counter every evening after the dinner dishes are put away. He stays open until 9 PM, making sure that everyone who wants a scoop gets one.

Last year, the day VST and I put in the offer on Winterpast, VST wanted some ice cream, so we stopped. That day, the shop was empty except for Burt, who was happy to fill us in on the great points and short falls of our town. Burt came to our town more than a decade ago, and settled in this wide spot in the road. He sees all and knows all. His ice cream is the best I’ve ever tasted. Every scoop comes with a sweet memory of an old couple celebrating the purchase of their last home, Winterpast. With Burt’s New York City accent and blunt way of speaking, you just know your visit with him will be interesting.

Then, there is Movin’Dirt Douglas. He runs an excavation business, helping people move rocks here and there. In the high desert, you need someone with a tractor to move decorative rocks. Sand. Rocks. More sand. More rocks. One good thing is that there’s no shortage of landscaping material. Douglas also owns Dirty Douglas Pawn Shop. If you need to find a firearm or old saddle, his shop has these treasures and more. Douglas can show you whatever you may need, while replacing watch batteries, while telling you about the town. After all, he graduated from high school here and knows everyone.

Which is how Douglas became a City Councilman, helping to make major decisions for the town. Everyone wears many hats in a small place. Some just happen to be covered with blowing dust and desert skin tanned like leather.

My newest friend, I met last week when T and K were here to celebrate VST’s Heaven-er-sary. We had decided that to honor VST, we would buy a gun. But, they’re in short supply these days. The high desert is a good place to have them. You never know when you might be stranded and need a little self protection. To call this the Wild West is correct. One should never forget that people who want to disappear do so in the high desert. Protection is smart and necessary, as a policeman could be 30 minutes away. That is the fact when living somewhere remote.

There are plenty of fun places to target shoot safely, and target shooting is really fun. If you own a gun, you must know how to shoot it safely. A responsible gun owner has attended gun safety classes and obeys the rules. You also need to know how to care for it. If you’ve never been shooting, don’t judge. It is one of the most fun things I’ve ever done. Nothing dies. The only thing ending up with holes is paper targets.

As I was purchasing some ammunition at the hardware store, a gentleman told me of a new gun store in our little town. Make a right in front of CVS, go down to the bend in the road, turn right at the gravel road, go 1.2 miles past the growling dog and the “Eggs For Sale” sign, and on the left there would be a sign identifying the house. We did just that and met Craig, the Gun Guy.

Shy, reserved, and seasoned, Craig knows everything there is to know about every type of gun there is. His selection was wonderful, cleaned, and displayed on gun racks. There, he had two brand new target shooting guns. There is now an empty space where they sat. As Craig filled out the Federal background check and bill, we continued visiting.

It turns out Craig is the Baptist Minister for the little church next to the hardware store. I have passed the church many times always thinking I would like to visit this little country church. Now that I know the minister, I’ll do just that. Being a man of God, he gave us best wishes and prayers for a meaningful day of remembrance of our sweet guy.

As we were leaving, he reminded us that we were always welcome to come for fellowship. Yes, my town has the most fun type of people. Not stuck in one stereotype, people here are fluid types, because they need to be. In the desert, you need to have survival skills while being a bit of a Bad Ass. But, most of all, you need to be ready to meet and embrace new friends. Now, what will I wear next Sunday?

Why, oh why, can’t I be an analytical thinker. Maybe, in some ways, I am and just don’t see it in the moment. But, for problem solving, I immediately go to the worst case scenario. In the case of Winterpast, that would be brown, barren soil with the remains of trees and plants void of green life. All water gone forever, the yard would become a headstone to former owners who knew what the hell they were doing when it came to gardening.

My front yard is almost in that state. I wonder what the neighbors think when they walk by the front and see the lack of plants. It’ll be planted again, I have just been fretting about the back. Specifically, the sprinkler system.

Then my analytical friend arrived on the scene.

It seems the controller for all emitters along the back perimeter had died a natural death over the winter. Sad but true. Nothing lasts forever, and this “Toro” bit the dust. It was interesting to watch testing of all electrical inputs and outputs, skillfully performed and analyzed. The first point of business was to purchase and install a new one. Done and done.

No Water, still.

I could see the plants dropping more. Trees that are blooming need extra water to assure a good fruit set. They struggled last summer, so this added stress wasn’t helpful. Cherry, apple, jujube, blueberries……. mournful under the high desert sun.

My friend then went into action. I’m sure the neighbors were laughing as they listened to our bantering. So natural, we just went into typical Man/Woman speak. Being great friends, some of the conversation was too the point, and less than polite. Both of us being thick skinned, it was all the more real, with a dose of attitude on both sides.

“Get the wrench.”

“Which wrench?”

“Not the crescent wrench.”

“The adjustable wrench?”

“No, the wrench.”

Finally producing a plumbers wrench, the next request.

“Get the screwdriver.”

“Phillips or flat?”

“A nut driver.”

The experience drove us both a little nuts, and I had to remember that politeness is still something I need to work on, especially if I intend to have any friends. I guess you could say it was a trying experience, that in the end, produced water.

It seems I have a broken valve that is buried deep in ground. Far deeper than my farm worn shovel could reach. I’ll need to call a plumber to fix that in the weeks to follow. But, the water crisis was averted with ingenuity that comes from analytical thinking.

I now have working water. Would I have been able to muddle through the process with the same outcome?

Absolutely not. That is a resounding NOOOOOOOO.

Would the process have cost hundreds of dollars? Affirmative.

As a woman alone, it’s hard for me to admit that I am not Superwoman with all powers necessary to allow me to reach tall buildings with a single bound. I’m just an un-analytical girl who isn’t very strong. Still cute, but quite bitchy at times. Grateful, but envious of someone that can fix a sprinkler system and make the plants happy.

My super powers lie elsewhere.

Going along this journey of life, we all need to remember to ask for a little help once in awhile.

Happy Gardening!

Today is a day for reflecting. In light of the funeral of Prince Phillip, the recent shootings, and the trial of George Floyd, I need to pause and work in the garden.

If you have a need to read, take time and enjoy my past blogs.

I will return tomorrow. Do something a random act of kindness today. The world needs it.

Joy

Water at Winterpast equals life. And life is blooming right now. Or trying to, anyway. Fifty foot hoses are at the ready to deliver water to any struggling bushes or trees. Two, not one, automatic sprinkler stations watch the time for me, delivering much needed drinks to my yard. At least, one half of my yard.

Automatic sprinkler systems can lull you into a false sense of security that everything is getting a drink. You see the lawn getting water and smile. How lucky you are not to find it necessary to water each tree to the minute. Because, of course, the SYSTEM will do it for you.

Well, my SYSTEM has failed me on a few points. Today is the day of reckoning, as my new friend is on the scene to provide another person to find the source of the problem. Diagnosing problems is something he does very well. Me, not so much. Heck. There is only one problem right now. No water along the perimeter of my property with resident plants drooping as the hours of sunshine lengthen.

Peonies, with their front row seats next to my living room view are quite happy, although maybe a little too wet. Their alien sprouts are moving heavenward. These plants are the most odd I’ve ever grown. If you haven’t had the experience of growing them from a bulb, do so. From the emerging sprouts, to the tennis-ball-shaped buds, to the tissue-paper-flower like blooms with their beautiful fragrance, they are a flower not to be missed. Mine are right on time as they say “Hello” to 2021.

Yesterday was a day of reviewing the layout of the sprinkler system with an analytical person next to me. The main shut off, drains, solenoids, wires, and mother-ship-brains of the operation, the control panels all faced inspection. Winterpast has two very nice panels that control everything. One of them is a Bird-In-The-Rain brand. Very beautifully marked and easy to use. Right in the garage in plain sight. Easy to adjust and maintain.

The other, is NOT a Bird-In-The-Rain, but rather a Charging Bull Station. In the RV barn, it’s easy to forget, which I did last year with my perimeter plants taking a hit last year. Not being sure when the problem started, a problem there is and we we’ll be on the hunt for answers and fixes today.

My friend pointed out that one must look backwards sometime to find the source of a problem. Elimination of each possible cause must be examined and ruled out, until the problem can be solved. I really just want water and will be along for the ride. I’m a wonderful “Go-For” girl.

The quest involved opening up boxes in the earth holding numbered pipes, wires, and lots and lots of spiders. In one box, there is something large that used to be moldy. Neither my friend or I really want to investigate that, but, today, it must be removed. EWWWWWW.

To say that his presence is an overwhelming JOY is putting it mildly. So many days, I go to bed, immediately falling into deep sleep from sheer exhaustion. The cause? The constant demands of Winterpast, an unrelenting master. One half acre is equivalent to 21,780 square feet according to Google. Yes, I WAS a teacher. No, math WAS NOT my best subject. Hence, I write a daily blog and am not a up and coming scientist.

21,780 square feet is equivalent to taking care of 10 of my houses, in addition to the house I do take care of. Every inch can be covered with leaves, or weeds, or broken sprinklers, or any number of things. One space could have an invasion of toads, while another is gasping for water, while another is suffering under a pile of mustang poop. The jobs are endless around here, and multiplying every day.

As K pointed out while we were soaking in the spa, “There is so much to do. But, there is so much to do.”

Understanding that, one needs to understand that without the necessary care of Winterpast, by now, I would either have written my 20 novel, or be a very, very bored person. Gardening is second only to writing in my world. Gardening and writing represent life for me. Water is necessary for the life of my garden in the high desert.

Best-est Friend taking the lead, today will be a fun one. Budding fruit trees give the yard a fancy feel. The new bird house and watering can I found yesterday at the hardware store will find their Place in the yard. I have more plants to pot and more pots to plant. My garden is a happy place, ripe with possibilities for beauty.

Find a problem today and follow it to the source. Analytical thinking uses an important part of our brains, redirecting worry and sorrow into something productive. Enjoy spring!! Go water something!!!

Oliver is back home where he belongs. He had a great time at puppy camp, returning home a wee bit more sensible and a whole lot smellier. First order of business was a bath in Hawaiian Hibiscus Bubblicious Puppy Wash. Oliver loves his bath, so this was a real treat for both of us. I could tell the puppy camp smell was bothering him, too. Being the cutest dog in the world, he is even cuter when wet. His hair curls and he just loves being clean. His personality just makes me smile, unless he’s being destructive, and then, not so much. Since the soak and suds, he’s been sleeping . Puppy camp can be exhausting when working the entire time. He did lose some weight, so I know he had a blast running, jumping, and swimming. Next time, I will increase his daily meals, knowing he has lots of friends to play with. I remember his shy behavior when we picked him up from the parking lot of Atlantis Casino in the resort town near us. The breeder had been delivering another puppy on Christmas morning, and was kind enough to bring Oliver with him so we could make our decision. Such a timid and shy little guy he was at only 4.5 months old. He weighed 12 pounds and snuggled against me quickly. That decision took seconds to make. He was our puppy. Hard to believe that this bold, 25 pound dog is the same one. Looking at how he’s bloomed and changed, it reminds me of myself. Even down to the way I wear my hair, I’m no longer that 2020 version of a scared woman-child, shaking in my own boots. As I have grown stronger, so has Oliver. We are a team, the two of us. Whenever I go into the RV barn, Oliver is right by my side. I think he wonders when we’ll take the next trip. A trip like we used to go on. The long ones in the Winne-Bark-Oh. The one where we’d go to the beach and walk on the pee-ier. The one when Dad was still here. That kind of trip. This morning, in a fit of wistful thinking, I went to look at an RV lot in the next town over. I went inside a smaller version of what we used to own and wondered if it would be small enough for me to drive. Thirty feet of motor home is very intimidating, so I never drove ours. After VST died, I couldn’t even enter the the space without breaking out in hiccup-py tears. It was sold, complete with all our ghosts and memories. So, my RV barn is empty. How fun it would be to have a small rig for running to see CC or my other friends in the foothills of California. I could stay in the driveway of K or T like we did when VST drove. The fun I could have. The reality is there is no magic way to keep time in a bottle. No magic wand to erase the fact that I’m a 65 year old woman with zero mechanical skills. That the road between here and there will be tough enough to navigate in the Jeep without Oliver. Those beautiful days with VST are now great memories, but memories that happened long ago. There is the small fact that the motor home I looked at sported a price tag of $165,000. With that, I smiled and headed across the high desert back to Winterpast . Memories are a great thing. You can remember the good times. The laughs. The sighs. The sweet nights. And forget the normal parts of RV-ing with a husband. If you have been there and done that, you know to what I refer. I need not say more. Open your bottle of memories once in awhile and let time stand still. It feels great to know those wonderful things really happened. We were there. They happened to us.

Writin’ my life to save my soul on a desert’s Nevada road,

A friendly stranger came around to share apple pie ala mode.

If you’re goin’ to stick around for awhile and keep me satisfied,

You can sit and listen while I write all about my sad old life.

He asked me if I had been alone long, in my house on dust and sand

And I replied I ‘d lots of friends, “I’m read everywhere across this land.”

I’m read everywhere, man.

I’m read everywhere, man.

Wrote in the desert’s bare, man.

Of troubles I’ve had my share, man.

I’ve cried in the mountain air, man,

Of troubles I’ve had my share man.

I’m read everywhere.

I’m read in

Belgium, Australia, Brazil, Czech Republic,Bangladesh, Canada, China, Indonesia, Bosnia, Egypt, Germany, Lithuania, Denmark, India, Ireland, Saudi Arabia, Finland, Hungary , Malaysia, Netherlands, United Kingdom, Virgin Islands, and France.
Fans, they’re readin’.

This new friend now listened, quiet, while country names raced off my lips.

Bushy eyebrows raised a tiny bit, while on me he quite transfixed.

With grief this gard’ner told my tale, death’s horror never rang truer.

He listened awhile, at him I gazed; his eyes, bluer and bluer.

I’m read everywhere, man,

I’m read everywhere, man,

I’ve cried in the mountain air, man.

Of troubles I’ve had my share, man.

I’m read everywhere.

I’m read in

France, Greece, Japan, Jordan, Hong Kong, Korea, Mauritius, Moldova, Morocco, North Macedonia, Pakistan, Peru, Philippines, Poland, Portugal, Russia, Romania,Serbia, Singapore, South Africa, Sri Lanka, Sweden, Taiwan, Turkey, Ukraine, United States, Uruguay, Vietnam. Everywhere, and there, the fan’s, they’re readin’.

I’m read everywhere, man. I’m read everywhere.

He started reading, he now hooked. I, on display, an open book.

Two months pass, friendship grows each day, two hearts liking each other’s ways,

The stories real with Winter past, new tales to write are coming fast.

For all my friends around the world, You mean so much to this old girl.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart to the 6900 readers that have taken time to support me in my writing. Your sweet comments have made me realize I AM a writer. This has made my life long dream come alive!!! If I have missed your country, please send me a comment and let me know.

I send my love to you and all your beautiful countries. Joy

A special tip of my gardener’s hat to Johnny Cash who inspired this piece.

Quiet moments of the night are sometimes deafening, especially when living alone. During the day, our visual, tactile, and olfactory senses rule our kingdom. Sounds are often drummed out by the stroke of the softest fur of our beloved pet, or the smell of a peony bloom. There are so many things bombarding us that very simple sounds lose their importance. At night, everything changes. In my world, with the advance of the hour hand, the night sounds rule my queen-dom.

Each place I have ever loved has sounds all its own. From the crashing waves of the Central Coast of California, to the silence during my very first snow storm in the foothills outside Yosemite. Late night sounds of RV’ers finding their spot for the night; big rigs rumbling and growling to a stop. Soft voices setting up camp. Loud voices still fighting from the trip. Some sounds are so strange, they bring me right up from the deepest sleep.

Night in the vineyard we farmed for 17 years was full of sound. Coyote pups yelping for their mom. Her distant reply resonating from the San Joaquin River. Sirens in the night, screaming their need to get somewhere to help. And fast. Cat’s scrapping and yowling during an act of unrequited love. Cattle and sheep talking when everyone else was asleep. VST, with his bass snore sleeping soundly next to me, in our little patch of heaven on earth.

Virginia City had sounds that were comforting as they came up the hill to the Dunmovin house, through the deck doors, and landing in our ears. St. Mary’s Cathedral bells chimed on the hour. The 12:00 noon siren atop City hall alerted us all that the day was half done. Visitors would often wonder about the purpose of the siren. But, VC has her own ways. The siren was one.

The V & T Railroad with her tracks leading into town sent a forlorn whistle up Mt. Davidson as she rolled in and out of town. The steam engine, the only one VST found worthy of riding, had a voice all its own. Rich and full of the blackest smoke, she reminded us of her comings and goings.

Booms of the fireworks on the 4th of July jolted our hearts. The fiercest winds rolled through the canyons, sounding like a brand new kind of freight train, as they sometimes reached 50 mph before striking the side of the house. Through all the night sounds, there’s always been comfort to be found.

After VST left, the sounds changed in my world. Sounds in the dark became more urgent. Some sounds needed the cloak of night to emerge. Sad, wailing sounds somewhat like a wolf’s wail, calling for her lost mate. The sleeping sounds of one lonely widow, breathing quietly and dreaming of days gone and love lost.

Winterpast has provided me with a new soundtrack in which to find new dreams. The California Zephyr Train whizzes through my town making clackety-clack-zoosh-zoosh-zoosh-ding-ding-ding sounds along the way. In the night, the sounds make the train seem like I could lie in wait and stow away. The rumbling of the freight trains seems to go on for hours, usually causing me to fall asleep far before the sounds stop.

Big rigs rumble along I-80, as I dream about the days that I, too, used the corridor to the East on which to journey. Wyoming is just a short 3 days by big rig. Wide open plains that stretch your mind and heart to the limit. A place so magical, my heart yearns to return there for a proper Goodbye.

Dogs talk during the night. If you really listen, you can almost understand the conversation. Some barks come with question marks, while others are an obvious reply. Once in a blue moon, the clip-clop of a lone mustang comes down my road. With a whinny, they look for their herd, usually just around the corner. The occasional owl is asking “Who” . In the earliest morning hours, before sunrise, the doves rise and clatter over the fireplace vent on the roof while singing, first two soft coo-oo’s, followed by three louder ones.

Roosters crow and garbage trucks rumble.

The nights that keep me awake are the ones in which my own heartbeat is the only sound heard. Just the rthymic thump of a woman alone. A woman aware. A woman awake. A woman at peace.

Night sounds are different for every place I’ve ever lived. A comfort I find in my new days of womanhood.

Some days, I just need to enjoy new scenery. After working on the yard for hours, I decided a dinner out was just what I needed. The obvious choice of a dinner partner was Miss Firecracker, and after a quick text, we agreed I’d pick her up at 4 PM and we would head East to a bigger town down the road. Without really having a plan of where we would eat, we both decided a large-ish casino restaurant would have something to offer.

Spending time with Miss Firecracker is one of the things I enjoy most. As time has gone on, our friendship is one of my dearest. Her ideas and outlook on life are down-to-earth, and yet new and fresh. She has lived the fullest life, experiencing the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. I can always count on her for a true evaluation of any situation. As she is the only person that has known me longer than a year in this new town, her opinions on matters hold weight. She is trustworthy. Coming from me, that means a lot.

The days here haven’t been typical spring days. At least in my limited experience. The skies have a haze to them that reminds me of days in the Central Valley of California. Distressing, to say the least. The lack of rain and abundance of pollen have taken the brilliant blue hue of the sky and paled it. I wish we would have some great winter rains. “Gully Washers” as VST would have called them. The kind that wake you up and make you look out the window, leaving the sky a brilliant blue in the morning. Right now, we are all out of rain.

Shopping at WalMart, yesterday, I noticed that many items are gone from the shelf. There are other changes in our store. There is now an entire section on survival gear of all kinds. An interesting change in these days of uncertainty. Bags of survivalist food took up an entire shelf. Straws that purify water, and other crazy items now hang, ready for the next onslaught of customers wiping the shelves clean. People are very worried that soon, everything will be “All Out” as we have experienced already. Vendors are playing on our fears, big time.

When living in Virginia City, elevation 6200 ft., I learned early on that preparation for the unknown was essential. In the winter, it could mean your life. In the winter of 2017, snow-mageddon, left us with over 12 feet of snow behind our house. People living in the mountains above us were stranded for 10 days, with no help from the outside world. The National Guard came with bulldozers and dump trucks to remove the excess snow, pushing it over the cliffs. We were nestled in, with plenty in the cupboards to tide us over.

Prepping has been something I’ve always done, having lived in remote areas since 1990. Going to the store from the ranch involved a 30 minute drive. In the mountainside below Yosemite, the drive was 25 minutes. You learn it’s best not to forget things on your list, because they’ll need to wait until the next time. Winterpast is stocked for a two week quarantine for any reason. That’s the way I roll.

Getting back to last night, I was looking forward to a small salad. Dieting is in full swing and going well. The thought of going backwards and consuming carbohydrates is distressing. So, a plain salad was what I would order. A successful weight watcher plans these things in advance. So, I had it all in my mind. Salad and a cup of coffee. That would do nicely.

The first disappointment was that “Moo-ve It On Over Steakhouse” was closed. Many people were coming to the casino for Sunday night dinner. We we’d all be disappointed. The second choice, after our 30 minute drive East, was the casino coffee shop. Clean, it looked in disarray with chairs sitting atop tables that were out of use due to Covid. Our state isn’t 100% open yet. Every table that could have guests did.

With ice tea and coffee on our table, the waitress asked what we would like for dinner. Excited to enjoy a tasty salad, I ordered the BLT Salad. It fit Keto requirements perfectly and sounded yummy. It was then she burst my bubble.

“Sorry, We’re All Out.”

This is the same as saying we’ve no water, or condiments, or silverware.

No salad.

The shipment hadn’t come in. It might be there tomorrow. Maybe Tuesday. No tellin’ when the shipment would arrive. This led me to think of the condition of the greens when they DID arrive. Dismal.

After a 30 minute drive, I ordered two eggs and two strips of bacon, ala carte. A long way to drive for a very simple meal.

The was worth its weight in gold. Miss Firecracker and I stayed long after our food was gone. Chatting about life and the fact that she is moving away to be closer to family. We talked about Bailey’s and Creme, (her late husband),and VST. We talked about dating when we were young, and dating now that we aren’t. We talked and talked, the conversation delicious and something she and I will keep to ourselves because that’s what Bestie’s do.

So, if you see a head of lettuce today, you might pick it up and take it home. Ice berg lettuce, although having very little nutritional value, will at least give you the base for a salad if you desire one. It lasts in the fridge longer than some other kinds.

In fact, make a list and stock up. You just never know when you’ll hear those dreaded words, “Sorry, We’re All Out.”