Author: Joy Hurt

The garden of Winterpast are waking to spring. Yesterday was the first full day I found time to wander the gardens while pondering what new plants will thrive there. With the cherry tomatoes in place, and the three new 1/2 wine barrels looking sharp, it’s time now to address the drip system.

The amazing thing about gardening is that seeds and bulbs lie dormant for the winter. They are at the very least plain, and often, ugly. If you didn’t know what you were looking at, you would insist the bulbs might be a rotting piece of bark. And yet, they produce the most glorious blooms. Dahilias the size of dinner plates. Peonys, as you already know, come in the most beautiful shades of pink, from the most pale to bright pink. Even rose bushes look quite dismal in the winter. Just sticks with thorns.

I feel just like the peony tubers, ready to burst forth with new life. The possibilities for this year are endless, and I plan to explore all my opportunities while growing into my own skin more each day. I hadn’t realized how much I was dreading the one year anniversary of VST’s death. But at the same time, it became a milestone and marker of the growth I have made as a person. I am blooming in my life, with roots that have grown deep in the last year. I am thriving as a woman, which is the best feeling ever.

The springtime weather has brought sweet little leaves out of the thorny sticks. I spent part of the day grooming them by removing the dead wood. Wearing my heavy leather garden gloves, it felt nice to sit on the path and carefully trim off death. Giving them the proper nourishment of rose food, I can’t wait to enjoy their blooms.

Two doves reside in Winterpast’s massive apricot tree. The pruning over the years has left this tree resembling an island banyan tree. Last year, the crop was light. I would assume that will be the case this year, as the late snow covered the tree with its tender pink blossoms. The tree, itself, is lovely, even if barren. Last year, it surprised me with two dozen apricots, so tasty. I’m hoping for a late bloom, and a bigger crop this year.

As I worked in the gardens, I started evaluating the sprinkler system. It’s like diagnosing the circulatory system on an aging patient. When I moved in last year, the water was already on. With only seventeen days of widowhood under my belt, I really didn’t watch which trees were getting water and which were not. Now, I realize that some damage was done last year with my neglect. I have promised the angels of Winterpast that I will do better this year.

Being alone, it is a tedious task to turn on a watering station and find out to where the water is flowing. So far, I have found where Oliver has been a busy beaver. Like little fountains, emitters are missing here and there. Ollie and I will chat about this when he returns, and he’ll need to understand it’s not a good thing to mess with Mom-Oh’s emitters. For now, I just need to open the repair kit and get busy.

Water makes everything in life better. Living in the high desert, the precious stuff isn’t cheap. But, the green oasis of Winterpast is my retreat and holiday all rolled up into one. With a daily shot of water, anything grows here, although the season is shorter.

Tending the garden, I’m so grateful to the previous owners who had the vision to create this beautiful place. Drip emitters placed just so, water hasn’t been wasted on paths or areas covered with gravel. The plants that need water are receiving it and thriving. It took patience and love to create Winterpast. To tend to her needs is an easy task that I can accomplish.

Slowly, my yard art is coming out of the barn to be set around. Lawn furniture, placed inside to avoid the affects of the harsh winter, are outside now. Even the garden gnome is watching over the back of the house. Winterpast is at her finest in the spring and summer, when blooms and leaves adorn her.

May through September will be a time for friends, BBQ-ing, and soaking in the hot tub. For cool crisp mornings and starry nights. Winterpast, again, will host laughter and friendship. I hope that your yard gives you as much pleasure as I get from mine. Have you named it yet? Every good friend needs a name. Winterpast is the best kind of friend. Just sayin’.

Forget fancy-schmancy department stores full of the newest spring fashions. No pinks and pale blues. Hold the fancy nail polish or just-so makeup. Give me the garden center every time. Jewelry? Not for this gal. Skirts and dresses? Not so much. Shorts, tees, a tan, and tall bottle of water. Spring is here.

Yesterday, I was out and about, enjoying Day 1. I had a blast. It had been so long since trotting over to the Garden Center to look at the 2021 blooms. Freshly delivered plants were waiting for me, with the most delicate little blooms already present. They leaped into my basket, filling it right away. Growing for this year, I bought new geraniums in pink and red, cherry tomato plants, and a variety of annual blooms. Six very large and heavy bags of soil came along for the ride. I am set to plant.

The sweetest young woman was my garden associate, scanning the little bar codes to give me my final total. She was different than most associates. Gently she picked up each plant, careful to protect the very tender leaves. Gingerly, she set them back down in the cart. I think she was a plant whisperer, reminding each young sprout to grow the most beautiful flowers for me. It was fascinating to watch her work, reminding me that flowers bring out the best in everyone. In fact, flowers are an essential part of life.

Crocus poke through the snow in the last days of winter, surprising us with color. Flowers are necessary at weddings and the union of two lives into one. They are necessary to celebrate the beginning of spring and long, lovely summer nights. With their healing qualities, they help those who are recovering. Fall flowers are surely necessary to say goodbye to summer fun. Flowers soothe a grieving heart when loss occurs. All in all, they are just plain magical.

With extra water being applied to the greening lawn, I feel at home in the safe back yard of Winterpast. It’s strange. A year ago, I was still living at the Dunmovin House in Virginia City in deep despair. This year, here I am. Happy, thriving, and focused on my garden. When I think of the journey so far, I smile. It’s taken a strong chick-a-dee to weather the storm. Strength that I didn’t know I had, but was glad that I found.

Hoisting the heavy bags of soil onto the dolly and rolling them into the back yard, life surrounded me. The breezes of the high desert whipped the American flag back and forth. T and K surprised me with a new flag pole the day of VST’s memorial. It is a lovely addition to my home, making me feel happy just to be an American.

The new tomatoes are snuggled in. There is nothing in this world as delicious as cherry tomatoes. I could eat a bowl of them for dinner every night. I hope the birds don’t find them as delicious as I do. I will be hovering over them until the first blooms produce my 2021 crop.

Have a wonderful day with whatever you decide to do. Choose happiness. Grab a little sunshine, increasing your natural levels of Vitamin D. Breathe some fresh air, and find something to smile about. Better yet, just laugh a little bit. It might become a habit!!!!

This is the first day of the rest of my life! What challenges and rewards await, I can only imagine. No one could have ever prepared me for the last 365 days. Now, I find myself on Day 1. The birds are singing in the trees of Winterpast. Temperatures are rising and will hover at the perfect 70 degrees for at least a week! This gardener is getting her game on and getting outside.

The first thing I’m tackling is the water system. Winterpast is draped with at least 25 miles of drip systems running off two controllers. That might be a small exaggeration, but there are drippers everywhere. Under normal circumstances would last for at least a year. But, in my situation, we have the small tornado named Oliver. He happens to find emitters as lovely as creamy caramel, and quietly removes a couple here and a couple there. I’ve been waiting for the perfect time to turn the water back on. I promise you, I will breathe deeply when I find the damage created by this little dog.

Winterizing the water system last fall fell to the able muscles of the gardener, but this year, I wanted to tackle it myself. I started at the end of the line, closing drains, just as I had observed. Finding success, I made it all the way to the main valve. Drat. Again, it is something I’m not strong enough to accomplish. Sometimes you just need to admit defeat and wait for someone with more muscles. Thankfully T will handle that one for me.

For the next few days, Oliver is finding company at Puppy Camp with his friends. With T and K visiting for a few days, and the celebration of VST’s heaven-er-sary, I thought it best for him to take a little break and go have some fun. He’ll be back next week.

Last week, I started planting my Peonies while Oliver was present. Devious and observant, he hangs back in the shadows watching the very things Mom-Oh shows interest in. Iris plants, peonies, rose bushes, solar lights, drip emitters. He just lays on the cool cement and watches. As soon as I go in for a refreshing drink he hits them like a shark. He sniffs every single thing I’ve touched and makes notes. He plots his attacks carefully and I can be sure some things will be his target.

Wine barrels, cut in half, have made their way to the back yard. Today, I’m planting strawberries, asparagus, potatoes, and rhubarb around the yard. T, K, and I will hit the garden center to find new additions, and Winterpast will have new color. There’s just nothing better than tending a yard. It brings peace and comfort to my soul.

If gardening is new to you, start with a big pot and try a geranium plant. They are pretty hard to ruin, and they come in beautiful pinks and reds. Geraniums remind me of Barstow Elementary School, where I attended Kindergarten through Fifth grade. Barstow was built long before I was born, making it ancient. The caretaker of the school lived on the property, making sure the lawn was watered and the leaves raked. One of the flowers planted around the playground were geraniums. One brush across the leaves reminds me of days of school polio vaccines and nuclear bomb drills in which we would all duck under our desks and hold on. Makes me smile.

The mustangs are heading to higher country now. The snow is melting, leaving spring wildflowers and tender grass. The foals should be showing up about now, with their fluffy little tails and tiny hooves. For me, the garden is calling. The breezes are sweet with blooming sage under the bluest of spring skies. More tomorrow!!!!

I

Song by Demis Roussos

Hear the wind sing a sad, old song

It knows I’m leaving you today

Please don’t cry or my heart will break

When I go on my way

Goodbye, my love, goodbye

Goodbye and au revoir

As long as you remember me

I’ll never be too far.

Good bye, my love, goodbye,

I always will be true

So hold me in your dreams

‘Til I come back to you.

See the stars in the skies above,

They’ll shine wherever I might roam

I will pray every lonely night

That soon they’ll guide me home.

Good bye, my love, goodbye,

Goodbye and au revoir

As long as you remember me

I’ll never be too far.

Goodbye, my love, goodbye

I always will be true

So hold me in your dreams

‘Til I come back to you.

Today marks one year ago that we said our final Goodbye. I miss you and think of you every day. Enjoy heaven. Remember me, your Darlin’. Mrs. H

VST lay quietly on the bed, after hours and hours of struggling. His peaceful breathing was like that to which I had fallen asleep thousands of nights before, but different now. He was leaving on his heavenly journey alone, and very soon. Before the sun rose in our eastern-facing windows, this was my chance to wish him well on his journey. A time to quietly thank him for everything he’d done for me and our children from the moment he walked into my life on September 5th, 1987 until now.

Holding his hands in mine, I began to talk to VST, even though I knew he could no longer answer. Our eyes could no longer meet in all-knowing, non-verbal conversations. He could no longer pull me closer to give me a sweet kiss. The time had come to say Goodbye to the best friend a woman could’ve ever wanted. My VST was now slipping in a coma.

On April 1, while complaining of pain and needing meds, VST and I met with the Oncologist for our first and only time, receiving the devastating news. A cruel April Fool’s joke awaited us. Go Home. Live your BEST LIFE. No more doctor’s appointments. Hospice would be calling. Devastating cancer of the bile ducts. No effective treatments. Maybe two months left, at most. It was nice to meet us. Goodbye. Just like that, we were shuffled out the door, after filling out a ream of questions for the doctor in a hopeful state only minutes before. Nothing else to be done. No help to be found. No miracles. VST had already lived his best life.

Just weeks before that, we had made an offer on Winterpast, and accepted an offer on Dunmovin. Two months before, we had nursed each other through colds during our last Christmas together. Six months before that, we had been at the ocean, breathing in the fresh air and sniping at each other during silly spats. How I wish I could run the clock back and relive our days from the beginning. The further I went back through memories, more pulled me towards our beginning. I wanted to stay there, far from the last memories we were making now.

Speaking to VST in hushed tones, I poured out my heart and soul. Things needing to be said for years came tumbling out through my tears. At times, I was sure I felt slight pressure from his fingers held gently in mine. A slight movement from an eyebrow confirmed that he was listening intently. I appologized, lamented, complimented, remembered, memorialized, and pleaded. The two hours left me spent, empty, and exhausted. I had told VST everything left to share. My heart was torn open, and there was nothing left.

The minutes had raced through the second hour of my conversation with VST, as the sun finally peaked over Sugar Loaf Mountain. How many times sorrow had followed a sunrise just like that in Virginia City. Mining Accidents. Illnesses. Lost babies and mothers. Parents and grandparents. They all lay quietly at the cemetary, visible from our bedroom window. I could feel the comforting spirit of Virginia City, assuring me that VST would find peace. How I wished Virginia City wouldn’t be the one to keep my husband as I moved away from her beauty and into my own tomorrows.

VST and I had an intensely private and quiet relationship shared only with each other.
With whom would I share those deepest thoughts with now that he was leaving me? Who would understand with a simple look what I was feeling? Who would ever accept the complexities of a farm girl from the Central Valley of California? Difficult. Brazen. Foul mouth-ed at times. Brittle. Broken. Mourning so deeply for the death that would follow in mere hours.

With the sunrise complete, my tears subsided. There was truly nothing else to say or share with the man I had loved so completely for 32 years. He was free to go, and it was my job to make sure he knew he could do that at any time. Quietly, we sat together in our bedroom, as we had done on countless other mornings. Two people in love. Two people ready to start their day going in their own directions. Two people always returning to home and each other every night. Just two people. Soon to be one.

Later in the day, T and K arrived, shocked to find their dad in his deep sleep. There are no words for the sadness surrounding the three of us. There are no words for the comfort their presence brought to VST and me. Sometimes, at the gravest of moments, there are no words left, even for the best of writers.

With that being said, it means the world to me you followed me through this hell-ridden trail of grief. April 9th brings new focus to my blog. I’m now a gardener who has grieved. A woman first, one of thousands who experienced widowhood during Covid 2020. My blog needs to pick up and carry on, with focus on my days, rich with new stories and laughter. I hope you continue to tag along. The stories to come promise to be wonderful.

Thanks to everyone. Joy

Virginia City Hospice, Wild West Setting

City spirits know what the city is gettin’

The creme de la creme, in VST, stayin’

VC’s ghosts, on good fortune, a-bettin’

Time flies, doesn’t seem a minute

Since the Red Dog Saloon had us sittin’ in it.

All changed, now. Two scared people

Looking out the window. Prayin’ to the steeple.

Don’t you know, that when you lose

There’s nothing left, but the cryin’ to do?

Fresno. Biola. Coarsegold. This place.

Only memories now.

Hospice hits like mace.

Squarely in the face.

Nothin’ in his eyes.

Terror on my face.

One night in VC,

our world’s a disaster

Hospice bed sits

On a broken-legged caster.

VC’s gold nuggets ain’t free.

If you’re lucky, pack your things.

Grab your blessings, and flee

I can feel my angels movin’ away from me.

One town, very much like another,

When mourning the loss of a husband or father.

Tourists crowd this charade of a town

Right out our window, as we just look down.

VC’s here to witness hospice slavery,

The ultimate test of this girl’s bravery.

Death gripping me unlike any horror

I’ve ever seen.

One night in VC makes a hard woman humble.

Not much between despair and destiny.

One night in VC and the tough girl tumbles.

Can’t be too careful with your company.

I can feel the devil watching over me.

Dear God, I’m watching

Cancer

Control this scene.

This woman giving hospice just can’t be me.

Through the blackest night, I’m waiting.

Thoughts of my loss, devastatin’.

Giving Hospice to the sweet man I love.

Waiting for some comfort from the one above.

One night in VC made a hard girl humble

Not much between despair and destiny.

One night in VC made the tough girl tumble

Can’t be too careful with your company.

I felt the devil watching over me.

Angels now surround, I need no sympathy.

My Love True still lays next to me.

I can feel sweet Jesus watching over me.

(Joy Hurt –Hospice Night- Palm Sunday, April 5, 2020 )

(Inspired by “One Night in Bangkok” by Murray Head)

Hospice beds are the most atrocious, ugly, uncomfortable, and temporary pieces of furniture in existence. It seems so helpful that a hospital bed is offered at the beginning of the hospice experience. Something the average house doesn’t have or can’t afford, the offer of such a bed seems the one thing that is truly helpful. In our case, we should have been careful what we wanted. What showed up was not exactly great.

The bed entered our house in parts, chipped and well used. Exposed twin bed springs hooked to chipped and dented headboard and footboard, all rather loose and wobbly. The mattress was well used, which led to many thoughts of where it had just been and who had gone before. Lumpy and cardboard-like, it was wipeable. With Covid ramping up, it did make me wonder if the last occupant had been a victim of the new virus.

A masked delivery man cheerfully asked where the bed would be placed. All of this was going at such a fast rate of speed, I was glad VST could make this decision for himself. He went right to an Eastern facing window in our bedroom and smiled. Right there would be his spot. The bedroom, set above the garage, was suspended in air. From the window, there was 20 foot drop to the asphalt drive below. Looking out, Sugar Loaf Mountain stood in the middle of our 100 mile view to forever. The bedroom was surrounded in glass, with four big windows facing East and South and a glass door leading onto the suspended deck. It was the perfect spot for his bed because it was the one he chose. With just a little rearranging of furniture, his new bed was in position.

One thing that no one mentions is that these beds are delivered without sheets, especially in the age of Covid. Plastic coverings make for uncomfortable sleep. But, sleeping without sheets or blankets would make it impossible. Being alone on the mountain, I took Kingsize sheets and made them work. A light blanket become snuggly when folded in half. With a quilt on top, VST had a hospital bed.

Looking on, I wished he would stay in our bed, just inches from the new one. We’d decided we’d wait to purchase a new mattress until we made our move, so the old mattress stayed. In many ways, VST’s subpar hospital bed might just be more comfortable than the mattress I’d lay while watching over him. VST was not the clear and precise Dr. H I was used to conversing with. His thoughts were confused and clouded. But, one thing was certain. He was very happy about the placement of his hospital bed. It was one choice he could still make.

The view out the window would be a source of entertainment. Behind a half lowered shade, he could be covert in his observations of the daily activities of the neighbors and town. A tiny state highway was visible from the window, bustling with morning garbage trucks, or yellow school buses delivering children to school. St. Mary’s on the Mountain stood proudly next to the St. Paul the Prospector Episcopal Church. With the window open, the VC breezes would bring fresh air into the room. With the heating vent under the bed, VST would be warm on the chilly spring nights. The mountains, 100 miles away, stood like snow-capped ghosts. Somedays they were barely visible, on others, they disappeared. There was always something to look at from the windows of the Dunmovin house. Views that provoked deep, meditative thought, necessary and needed in the situation in which we found ourselves.

That night, I lay on his side of the bed to be closer to him, and he lay on his new bed, resting. It had been an exhausting day, both emotionally and physically. With the room rearranged to accommodate the new furniture, we were both tired. But, the body never stops and he had to get up to relieve himself. Without thinking, he grabbed the beautful, metal curtain stay we had chosen together when moving into our new home. With a tug, he was pulling himself up to stand.

“Hey, be careful. You could rip that out of the wall.”

Standing, he smiled.

“Impossible. I installed it.” It was one of the few statements that made him laugh the tiniest bit, and smile with pride.

I had to stop and ponder the truth in his statement. So true, VST. Anything you had a hand in building will be there long after we’re gone. Through the years, you found every stud in which to drill. You tightened every screw or bolt with the strength of 1,000 gorillas, as I used to tell you. No one would ever remove those curtain stays. At least not easily.

You prepared a beautiful home life for us, VST. You engineered the right construction with perfect angles, straight and true. You steered us on the best headings. You took my hand and made sure I stayed upright. Together, we were unstoppable, until you had to keep going alone, on a path of your own. I hope sleep on your heavenly bed is refreshing and peaceful these days. Wish you were here, but am at peace you are there.

I LOVE getting comments from my readers! I am still pinching myself that my blog is read around the world. I wonder who in Sri Lanka awakes my posts, being one of my night readers. Who are the Portland readers? Do they know each other and discuss me? My biggest hope is that each day, someone feels better reading my blog. That would make my day.

Strangers are just friends that haven’t yet met. Soon, I’ll be RVing around the country, looking forward to meeting readers from coast to coast! So, send me comments! I’ll put you on our route!

This time of year is the perfect time to reflect on life and the strength we all have to find new beginnings. The renewal of our faith and spirit is reflected in the happiness of Spring. New life is everywhere, and we can all try again!

I’m finding happiness with my new friend. We’ve known each other for 7 weeks, each day finding new and interesting things we like about one another. There isn’t a time limit for seclusion after widowhood begins. I feel so lucky to be enjoying days with my guy friend. I’m truly blessed.

So, if you feel inclined, please send me a comment and let me know what I can do to make my blog even better. Portland, you have quite a few readers there. I am wondering just what goes on in Portland!!! For for my foreign readers….. You make blogging mysterious and real for me. Please send me a Hello and let me know what you think.

As your prepare thoughts for today, remember that kind words have a way of healing so many ills in our world. I thank all of you for reading my words and sending me your thoughts in my writing, I am humbled by your kindness.

Happy Easter!!

Ice cream is a buzz word in our family. Growing up, summer ice cream was a staple at our house as Grandpa made the best vanilla ice cream known to human kind. With a slew of little kids around, he would simply mix up his secret recipe and then leave the rest to the grandkids. Each child would need to take 100 cranks at the icecream maker, counting loudly as they went along.

The process is what made the entire event so magical. In the first place, Grandpa would need to take a trip to a magical “Ice Machine’ in a dusty little village some minutes from his house. This was always a fun trip on which to accompany him. He, wearing his customary farmer overalls, would pile kids into the pickup. In those days, the excess kids might right along in the back. Yes. The open back of the pick-up. Funny, never I nor any friends ever blow out. We all made it to adult hood even without childhood seatbelts. Just amazing.

After we arrived at the “Ice Machine”, Grandpa would put a coin into a slot on the outside of this very rusty box, the size of a container. With a lot of noise and commotion, a tremendous block of ice would come shooting out. A big block of ice, 18″x18″x18″. I am talking a sizeable chunk of ice that Grandpa would hoist into the back of the truck with us. Back home we would roll.

In the shade of two huge mulberry trees, Grandpa would sit with an ice pick and chip away at the block. Sometimes he would use a hammer if we were getting to him a bit. But, in the end, the big block of ice was chipped into smaller pieces and we were ready to made ice cream.

VST knew, when the the chips are down, icecream can heal all wounds. It was in this frame of mind I remember him a year ago, today. VST was weary from all his procedures and lack of information about the source of his cancer. He continued to insist that he felt too good to be seriously ill, although the rest of us could see the toll the cancer was taking on our beloved VST. No longer the same in personality or looks, he was often confused, although always in a chipper mood. Our worrisome faces were something he couldn’t understand. We were all worry warts. We were asking him to go to the hospital for further testing. All he wanted was some ice cream.

We pleaded with him, asking him to find reason with our thinking.

He wanted Peanut Butter Chocolate.

We asked him to speak with his doctor.

Two scoops on a sugar cone.

We begged him to reconsider.

And sprinkles. End of story.

K and T took him for a quick trip to Carson City for Ice Cream that day. I stayed home in a bath of tears. Each day, he was slipping further and further away to a place I couldn’t go. Terrified, I cried and cried. But, in the final analysis, there was only one thing for sure, I was the one that got no ice cream.

I have my own ice cream maker now. There is no hand crank or need of many children to make it work. Plugging into the wall, it simply creates icecream in 40 minutes or less. It makes vanilla with a far simpler recipe than Grandpa’s. Although I can enjoy it under my Apricot tree, I am missing two magnificent Mulberry trees that still grow at the home place.

Ice cream. The food of champions. When life gets you down, have a cone, topped with whipped cream and sprinkles. One day later, it may be too late.

Today is just a super day!!! I have so much good news I hardly know where to start!

I’m moving to Nepal!!!! YES!!!!! During some research about adopting a child from Nepal, I met a gentleman named Fravash. He owns a business in Kathmandu, and will come to visit me In-80 days!!!! I can’t tell you how happy we are, just hanging out doing nothing. He watches over his mother, who really doesn’t need much watching. She is spunky and happy, and they two of them make a great team.

Oliver just loves the thought and Fravash and I have decided that we need to start on our new journey together, so we are tying the knot on our planned mountain journey two weeks from now. Fravash and I are both fully vaccinated, and even more than that, we’ve already had Covid and are now totally immune. Yes. For Life. So, the Nepali trip will be amazing. Staying at his bungalow at the base of Mt. Everest , we plan to hike every day and eat way too much Momo, cooked by his staff of ten. Did I mention? He is Nepali royalty, so he inherited his estate and pays zero in taxes or dues. Even the help is free. 24/7, he has help with all his needs.

The staff has the exclusive on Kathmandu Katharoo Wine for the entire region. It’s all the rage. I wish I could try it, but, alcohol just doesn’t agree with me. His profits from the wine are outrageous. He just bought me a mink back pack! Can you imagine????

I’m in the midst of planting 35 trees in the gardens of Winterpast, in a variety of mountainous species. My new friend assured me that they will all grow in the high desert and they are arriving by boat next week. A staff of gardeners are accompanying the shipment to my high desert get away, and will plant them with the best Napali blessings they know how to give.

After the adoption is complete, we have lots of plans, one being to transform Winterpast into an interpretive center for those of Nepali descent. His mother and he are planning to move here after we return from our last planned ascent to base camp on April 24th. We are preparing a place for his pet monkeys, all 24 of them. He assures me they are not always as busy as they were when I first met them. I am surely hoping not.

I’ve also decided to go back to work teaching. I so miss the little rug rats and hope to teach Kindergarten this year. There is some enticing new Nevadan curriculum in which the American alphabet will be replaced with the Napali alphabet. So, with the interpretive center and all, it’s a time of great excitement. The Nevada governor called yesterday to discuss the plans further. I’m really excited about returning to the classroom.

I’ve trimmed 35 excess pounds and now taken up mountain biking, which is a hobby of Fravash’s. We regularly go for overnight rides through the mountains with mosquito netting, of course, my mink backpack. Just the way they do things in Nepal.

Along with all of this, I just sold my new book, “How to Marry a Rich Nepali Sherpa Dude in Ten Steps or Less.” Penguine Books snatched up the chance, after my blog reached 20,000 readers yesterday. With a hefty signing fee, I am off to look at new sports cars. Fravash refuses to ride in the little white Jeep anymore. Onward and Upward!!!!

With love in my heart, and a huge smile on my face, there is one more thing……………

April Fool!!!!!!!

Come back tomorrow for more of the REAL stories. J