Author: Joy Hurt

When you think of ports, you probably picture bustling docks, towering cranes, sea spray, salty air, and massive cargo ships rolling in from Shanghai or Singapore. You probably don’t picture the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada, 500 miles from the nearest tide pool and roughly one million nautical miles from anything remotely resembling a coastline. But that hasn’t stopped local visionaries from opening the next BIG port, which is dry, dusty, and entirely devoid of boats.

The Port of Oakland has long been a West Coast shipping giant, but it’s got problems including congestion, union disputes, rent prices that require a second mortgage on your first mortgage, and seagulls that judge you.

Nevada, on the other hand, offers ample space to store over 14,000 shipping containers, with room to spare. With affordable rent, good-paying jobs, and the possibility of owning a real home, in your spare time, you can fish Pyramid Lake, a landlocked lake with water 1/6 the salinity of seawater. If fishing in a salty lake isn’t your thing, freshwater Lake Tahoe is a short drive away, where hiking, water sports, or winter activities await.

Landlocked, the Port of Nevada lacks an ocean, lake, or even a respectable puddle. As it turns out, water isn’t always necessary. On our northern and southern borders, there are almost 170 existing land ports.

After arriving by ship in Oakland, containers will be moved by train over Donner Pass and the Sierra Nevadas, through a large city within feet of a major interstate. Now, what could possibly go wrong with that plan???

Here’s how it working:

1. Containers arrives in Oakland by sea.
2. They’re immediately transferred onto train cars.
3. Those trains travel 5.5 hours inland.
4. Someone at the Port of Nevada yells, “Ship it!” to feel important.
5. The cargo goes back on trucks or trains.
6. It continues to its final destination.

Efficiency? Pretty low.
Public Safety? Could be threatened.
Is it already up and running? Absolutely. Just drove by the place yesterday.

Currently, the Port of Nevada staff is working to flatten mountains of sand undisturbed since before the days of covered wagons. Expanding daily, rail traffic has, indeed, increased. New fencing borders our fine port, and now there’s even talk of a new airport on the edge of town. All this excitement builds while colorful containers are stacked up in neat rows, like at a real port. Let’s hope the contents can withstand extreme desert temperatures while waiting to leave for their final destinations.

Anyone who lives in our town knows the seagulls and white pelicans have been planning this for some time. With breeding grounds at Lake Pyramid, all we need is some salt-air breezes and we’ll be set.

Never seeing an actual ship, the Port of Nevada represents something more powerful than global trade. There is at least one person in this world who person thinking out of the box to come up with new solutions to age-old problems. Why not truck the materials to a state where union membership is a personal choice? Why not ship containers by rail to an inland port on the other side of the Sierras? After all, does every port need to sit next to the ocean?

So, the next time you order something online and it arrives six weeks late with some sand on the box, just smile. It probably passed through The Port of Nevada, the premier ocean-less port.

Ahoy, desert sailors, Ahoy.

Dear Dad,

Happy 105th Birthday.

It’s hard to find words big enough for a milestone like this. 105 years ago, you started out on a journey of life, love, work, faith, and quiet strength. As I sit down to write you this letter, I can’t help but think about everything you witnessed throughout your lifetime.

Since your passing in 2018, the world has changed in so many ways. You nailed it by living in the best of times and leaving just before things started to go south. Through your 95 1/2 years on this earth, your character remained steady and constant.

You were just a little boy when you started driving a tractor for your father, not out of privilege or comfort, but out of necessity and grit. The depression hit and there were no shortcuts, handouts, or easy paths, Just long days, hard work, and a determination that somehow became part of your bones. Growing up, times were tough, but you always had enough love, responsibility, and backbone to build the kind of life others could lean on.

And we did lean on you, Dad. All of us. You raised five daughters with caring hands and a loving heart. Teaching by example, you showed us how to work, endure, and stay kind in a world that isn’t always so. As we grew, I cannot remember a single curse word coming from your mouth, and yet your presence commanded more respect than a hundred loud voices ever could.

Thank you for showing my boys how a God-fearing man lives his best life. You were a wonderful example of son, father-in-law, brother-in-law, brother, husband, and Dad. Teaching them how to work on the family farm, you found ways to make chores fun. Whether collecting aluminum cans along a dusty road or selling baby rabbits, you helped them earn pocket money, when you could have easily given them $20 and told them to go watch TV.

You lived your grace-filled life quietly, humbly, and with deep, unwavering integrity. You showed us that being a good man doesn’t require noise or drama but requires consistency, patience, and the courage to do what’s right, even when no one is watching. That was one thing we could always count on. You always chose to do the right thing.

The world today is a far cry from the one into which you were born. Cars have changed, technology has invaded farming, and even the way we talk to each other has changed. Thank goodness your values remained steady throughout your life. In a huge way, your lessons have been my North Star when I lost my way.

So here on earth, I’m celebrating more than just your years. I honor your legacy and the Christian life you lived, shaping lives with quiet dignity while loving us freely without conditions or complaint.

Happy birthday, Dad. I hope heaven is absolutely fabulous with lots of roses to water and fruit to pick and share. Save some for me when I get there. I miss you. Thank you for showing us what it means to live a full and wonderful life.

With all my love,
You Daughter,

Joy

There’s something strangely beautiful about summer thunderstorms here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. The sky shifts from blue to steel gray as clouds pile up like the work we still have ahead. Out here, storms don’t just sneak in but arrive with drama. Thunder rumbles across the vast open skies like an old engine coming to life, and if you’re lucky, there’s rain. And if you’re extremely lucky on a hot summer day, you can feel the relief as big drops fall.

But luck wasn’t on our side Saturday morning.

It was the kind of day where the sun doesn’t just shine, it burns. With five tons of river rock to be moved, the work area was a sun-blasted concrete driveway. No shade. Very little breeze. Just heat radiating up from the ground and reflecting off every surface, turning the whole space into a slow-cook oven.

HHH and I headed out to begin our day of work after enjoying a hearty breakfast. I’d picked up my metal bucket with bruised arms and began to fill it with rocks. It was then I felt the familiar lightning bolt in my back. Without argument, I was out for this job. There’d be other things I could do inside, but moving rocks was off my To-Do list. HHH would need to finish the job alone.

Throughout the morning, he drank bottles of water like there was no tomorrow. His shirt was soaked, his arms ached from moving the wheelbarrow, and his legs were turning into jelly with every trip. His muscles passed sore and were now screaming. You know the kind of ache that tells you you’ve gone too far, but you’re not done yet? HHH was there.

Throughout the day, his stubborn German side never hit the wall. Periodically, he’d stand for a long second, shovel in hand, sweat pouring off his chin, thinking: I can’t go on. He wasn’t even sure if he could lift one more scoop, but lift he did. Load by load, rock by rock, HHH kept going. There’s something incredibly satisfying about seeing a landscape transform under your own effort.

All that stone and sweat, placed like a quiet promise that something beautiful was coming. Over and over, he ferried rock until completely lining the entire driveway with five tons of it. (The remaining five ton will wait for a backyard refresh at a later date.)

By that time, I’d come out to marvel at his gorgeous job. Sitting on the tailgate of the truck like teenagers, we didn’t say much. It was a thing of beauty sitting along a mustang-poop-less street, thanks to the “Wild Hog Away” nuggets.

All of a sudden, the thunder cracked. That deep, rolling kind that makes your ribs vibrate and your eyes scan the horizon. The storm wasn’t overhead, but it was coming. The wind kicked up a little, just enough to stir the dust and lift our spirits. Somewhere inside us, something shifted. Maybe it was the promise of cool rain. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was madness. What it was, we became giddy with delight as the first huge drops fell as thunder and lightning danced overhead.

Fat raindrops sizzled on the driveway. The smell of wet desert earth rose up like a reward. We leaned back, let it fall on our faces, and laughed. The ache in HHH’s muscles remained, but the storm had washed the weight of the work. Satisfaction remained over a job done well and the deep, sweet calm that only a desert summer storm brings.

After enjoying a day of rest, today brings a new project. Painting the trim on the house. The transformation has begun and we can’t drop the ball now.

Stay tuned!

If we could eliminate one month of the year, August might be the best choice. Here in the desert, it is hot beyond hot. The spring flowers have finally given up the ghost. Sadly, the last of our mustangs are struggling with their new foals. Every August, they come down from the high country in search of food and water. It’s in our neighborhoods that they get in trouble.

It’s been hot this summer with the kind of days where the sun personally roasts you for your life choices. Our horses have returned to the neighborhood, bringing happiness to the local poo hunter and his trusty dog, Rex. Strangely enough, this man canvases the neighborhood in his little ATV, cleaning up after the horses. I’m not sure what use he has for the road apples, but he does collect them.

Our horses were missing for over 8 months, but have somehow found their way back to us. They not only eat most new plants, but can destroy a complete sprinkler system while looking for water, learning very quickly how to break lines. This is all be very expensive damage.

We had talked about putting up a fence long ago, but with a quote of $15,000, we decided there must be a cheaper way. Turning to Amazon, I started looking for deer and hog deterrents. If something works on deer and wild pigs, it just might work on horses.

There it was — “Wild Hogs Deterrent”. Now, if you know anything about wild hogs, you must know it’s hard to deter them when they move in. The advertisement read as follows: “Our wild hog repellent is made of the freshest mountain lion urine, peppermint oil and Citrus Essential Oils, emitting a strong scent, making pigs afraid and causing them to run away. Please replace the product after rain.” If these make wild hogs run away, these little balls of mountain lion pee might do the same for our skittish horses.

I’m outside, glistening while sweating like a cheese wheel in a sauna and armed with a box of “WILD HOG DETERRENT” that I bought off the internet during a sleep-deprived gardening spiral. Now ready for deployment, I must remind you that we’re not plagued by wild hogs. We have wild Mustangs.

I’ve been told there ARE lions in the hills above us, so these horses should know the scent and be afraid. Very afraid. Between that and the incessent barking of Wookie and Oliver, we might just have a chance to grow some pretty flowers after all. Apparently, the smell of lion pee tricks animals into thinking they’re about to be eaten. Terrified, they flee. Genius, right?

So there I was, crouched like a weird suburban hunter. These golf-ball-sized scented balls covered in lion pee were placed into little lace bags and then were placed around our “Rose of Sharon” plants. The instructions were very clear: “In the heat of the afternoon, place one pellet 3′-6′ apart.”

HHH and I obeyed and placed them with reverence, like sacred meatballs of fear.

And then we waited.

The outcome? Let’s just say… mixed reviews.

The Mustangs have shown up like clockwork. But this time, instead of grazing gracefully, they walked on by while one mare gave me the side-eye. The kind that says, “Ma’am, RUN!!! Mountain Lion!” while our plants remain untouched. That says something!! All I can hope is that they keep walking on by.

If any of the neighbors ask about the strange stench coming from our front yard, I’ll answer, “Just warding off the horses with predator pee,” casually, as one does when their yard smells like a safari.

In case you are wondering, the rock work is coming along. After many bruises, I’ve decided to take a little break while HHH continues on. It looks amazing. Now, let’s hope the hogs don’t decide to come for a visit.

Have a wonderful weekend!

Front yard beautification sounds so innocent, doesn’t it? So hopeful and Pinterest-y. A vision of artfully arranged succulents, a charming gravel path, and maybe a tasteful birdbath where small desert creatures can sip daintily and ponder their life choices.But, in reality, not so much.

Reality showed up at 7 a.m. in the form of a dump truck named “The Widowmaker.” Rumbling up the driveway like a caffeinated buffalo, it offloaded ten tons of river rock onto what was, moments before, a perfectly empty spot near the garage. If you’ve never heard ten tons of rock hitting the ground before breakfast, it sounds exactly like optimism being crushed beneath the wheels of ambition.

Just minutes before, HHH (Hubba-Hubba-Hubbie or Hero-Hauler-Human) was in the kitchen, cheerfully flipping pancakes, eggs, and bacon like the super cook he is. The smell was glorious, and the mood relaxed. The coffee was hot. Birds chirped. Somewhere in the distance, our neighbor’s chicken screeched as she laid her morning egg. And then, everything changed.

After that truck dropped its load, we were in full-on high desert plains emergency mode. HHH glanced up from his spatula with the haunted look of a man who just realized he’s going to spend the next week doing things his back hasn’t done for years.

After gobbling down our breakfast, we stood at the edge of the rock pile, sipping coffee and contemplating our life choices. It looked innocent enough at first. Pretty, even. Dusty round stones catching the morning light were whispering “just a few wheelbarrow loads…” like sirens in a landscaping-themed tragedy.

Just thirty minutes after breakfast, the work gloves were on. Forget metaphors—WE had become the mules. Only instead of carrying provisions across the desert, we were hauling loads of river rock in a very wobbly wheelbarrow and one small galvanized bucket, down the driveway, while trying not to sprain a hip or start an argument over rock distribution strategy.

You learn a lot about yourself when moving river rock:

• You learn that shovels are both best friend and mortal enemy.
• You learn that “just one more load” is a lie told by the optimistic side of your brain.
• You learn that your neighbors will absolutely come out to “supervise” while holding iced drinks.
• You learn that if you hear one more rock clink, you may commit a minor felony.

But you also learn how good it feels to see progress. Slowly, inch by inch, the front yard has taken shape. That once-barren stretch of hard-packed desert dirt? Now a shimmering riverbed of effort and sore muscles. That formerly nasty slope? Now a landscaped wonderland that says, “We showed up to win. After a few hours, we conquered.”

Plenty of chilled water can make anything a little better. Let me tell you, it tastes even more amazing at 10 a.m. when your shirt’s soaked with sweat and your hands look like you just auditioned for a gravel-themed action film.

So, beautification continues. We’re a little sunburned, sore, and occasionally swearing at inanimate objects—but the front yard is becoming something special. Something wild, yet managed. Natural, yet clearly influenced by two stubborn seniors with shovels and a dream.

And a LOT of river rock.

Pictures tomorrow.

Little in this world can match New York Cheesecake. While Oreo’s may come close, they don’t match the cream deliciousness of a slice of this fabulous dessert.

Growing up in a German household, cheesecake wasn’t on the menu. With five little women all watching our waistlines, it’s best this was never introduced. I first tried the dessert in my 30’s and ran to buy my first spring-form pan. Only made for special occasions, it was a treat I managed to perfect.

Every July 30th, dessert lovers across the country celebrate National Cheesecake Day! Whether you love baked or no-bake and topped with fruit or chocolate, cheesecake works great with any meal.

My most beloved variety is the rich and velvety New York-style Cheesecake. Known for it’s dense, creamy texture and tangy flavor, it’s the perfect way to celebrate this indulgent holiday. Unlike other cheesecake varieties, New York-style Cheesecake is baked and ultra-creamy thanks to a generous amount of cream cheese, eggs, and often sour cream. Typically made with a graham cracker crust, it’s baked slowly for a firm, yet silky finish.

If you have a little time today to create a mouth-watering dessert, try this. Lately, I’ve noticed that AI has given me some really good recipes. This is an unexpected benefit in our technological world.

🥄 Classic New York Cheesecake Recipe

Ingredients:

For the crust:

• 1½ cups graham cracker crumbs
• ¼ cup granulated sugar
• ½ cup unsalted butter, melted

For the filling:

• 4 (8 oz) packages cream cheese, room temperature
• 1 cup granulated sugar
• 1 cup sour cream
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 4 large eggs
• 2 tbsp all-purpose flour
• Zest of 1 lemon (optional)

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 325°F (163°C). Grease a 9-inch springform pan and wrap the bottom with foil to prevent leaks.
2. Make the crust: Combine graham cracker crumbs, sugar, and melted butter in a bowl. Press the mixture into the bottom of the pan. Bake for 10 minutes. Let cool.
3. Prepare the filling: In a large mixing bowl, beat the cream cheese until smooth. Add sugar and beat until fluffy. Mix in sour cream, vanilla, flour, and lemon zest (if using). Add eggs one at a time, mixing just until blended.
4. Assemble: Pour the filling over the cooled crust. Smooth the top.
5. Bake for 55–70 minutes, or until the center is almost set but still slightly jiggly.
6. Cool: Turn off the oven, crack the door, and let the cheesecake cool for 1 hour. Then chill in the refrigerator for at least 4 hours or overnight.
7. Serve with fresh strawberries, berry compote, or simply as is!

💡 Tips for the Perfect Cheesecake

• Always use room temperature ingredients to avoid lumps.
• Don’t overmix after adding eggs to prevent cracking.
• Bake in a water bath for the smoothest texture. (thank you AI)

Whether you’re hosting a summer dinner party or just treating yourself, National Cheesecake Day is the perfect excuse to indulge in one of the most wonderful desserts ever created. This New York-style cheesecake is rich, tangy, and worth every bite. Of course, if you are not in the mood to heat up your kitchen, the local Walmart often has mini-cheesecakes with slices of four different flavors.

Enjoy today and celebrate!!! It isn’t often desserts have their own day!! Especially desserts as wonderful as this! Enjoy!

More tomorrow.

July is that magical time when the sun shines a little hotter, the air smells vaguely like sunblock, and gardeners everywhere are living their most generous lives. These days, our kitchen is overflowing with fresh produce, while we’ve been actively trying to offload our bounty onto anyone with opposable thumbs and a heartbeat. Now, at the end of July, few takers to be found.
In June, zucchini was cute. HHH and I whispered sweet nothings to our first little green squash as we lovingly sliced it into a sauté pan. We boasted about the flavor while posting pics on Facebook. It was all about that first zucchini.

But now it’s reproducing faster than a pair of rabbits in a vegetable patch, and the one “forgotten zucchini behind a leaf” accidentally grew into a club big enough to fend off a wild mustang.

There comes a point in every gardener’s life when walking into church with a brown paper bag full of tomatoes is met with sidelong glances and polite excuses.
“Oh, I would, but… I just picked up some at the farmers market.”
“No thanks, Janice gave me six yesterday. I’ve been making sauce for the last week.”
“I’m allergic to… freshness. Yeah. Sorry.”

And, it’s not just tomatoes. The last few plums are falling from trees like fruity meteors, staining paths and attracting ants. Last week, we stealthily secreted them in church like a fruity Santa Claus.

“Oh, weird, who left 44 plums on the table?”

Hmmmmm. Must be the Produce Fairy.

Zucchini bread. Zucchini muffins. Zucchini lasagna. Zucchini noodles. After awhile, everything begins to look and taste like zucchini. Enough already.

We could start leaving them in unlocked cars in parking lots or “google”crafts made from zucchini. We briefly consider drying and stringing them into a Christmas garland. No inventive ideas will be rejected if it means we can offload the zucchini.

Meanwhile, at the garden center to the east, roses are on sale for 60% off. Nothing says “fall is coming” quite like a rack of half-wilted tea roses in pots that say “hope” but smell like “we tried.” Just as we are trying to push produce, the nursery is dumping the last of its plants before fall arrives. We’re planning to hit the August sale starting Friday, with our front yard to finish.

Here at Winterpast, the sad, crunchy remnants of early spring flowers sit in flower pots awaiting removal. Once full of marigold ambition they’re now reduced to brittle botanical fossils. It’s time to dump them out, hose them off, and stack them in the greenhouse with lots of hope for a better crop next year.

These days, my imagination plays tricks on me as I wish for a hint of cool in the morning air. Sunday’s thunderstorms brought much-needed rain, making everything feel like we managed to skip August altogether. Fall will be here in just a few more weeks and then the zucchini will freeze, the tomatoes will give up, and the garden will finally sleep.

Until then, we’ll keep the faith and our stack of paper bags ready. We’ll just leave them at home next Sunday.

You know what really brings a yard together? Not solar lights, gnomes, or a fountain shaped like a fish spitting water. Nope. It’s big, chunky, beautiful, ground-covering redwood bark nuggets.

In 2020, when Winterpast was knew to me, the backyard needed some sprucing up. Each morning at 6 am, I’d drive to Lowe’s, where I would lift eight huge bags of bark onto my cart. Pay. Load. Drive home. Unload. Wheel-barrow them. Spread. This was repeated for weeks until all the beds were covered. Who needs a spa when you garden?

And so, five years later, it’s finally time for the front. HHH and me. Two people with a dream, a front yard in desperate need of mulching, and a whole lot of false hope.

At 6 am on a glorious desert morning, we headed to Lowe’s to get the bark. Seems in 5 years, not only prices have changed a bit. The bay where it used to be now held rubber bark in five, non-fading colors. Not choosing to cover our beds in rubber, we traveled to the east. Just a month before, we’d checked at our toney little nursery, which had the stuff for $90 a yard (27 cubic feet) with a delivery charge of $100. They’d been hoarding piles of glorious Redwood Bark just for us.

But, just a month later, they weren’t hoarding anymore. A large “We’ve Retired” Sign hung on the gate. The place was an empty yard where we’d just bought the cutest pot and our 2025 Portulaca, along with ladybugs and praying mantises.

All wasn’t lost because their next-door competitors were thriving. Surely, they’d have the same thing. But again, we hit a brick wall. It seems there’s a shortage at the moment, and no one is delivering Redwood Bark. They hadn’t seen any for quite some time, but assured us they’d call us when it came in.

We waited weeks. Phones remained silent and emails were unanswered. HHH even began talking to the answering machines in a hopeful tone, like they might eventually respond if we were polite enough. We made calls to the very best nurseries just to the west. Some associates didn’t even know what we meant by redwood nuggets. We might need to drop the dream and come up with a new plan.

And then—defeated, barkless, emotionally mulched—we decided to take a break. A “StayCayAway.” No bark talk or landscaping drama for 24 hours. Just us, cold drinks, and an evening at our favorite resort. But one minute we were relaxing, and the next minute we were saying, “Let’s just go check out that huge landscaping and rock store to the West. No big deal. It’ll take an hour.”

We pulled in, walked up to the counter, and casually asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have RedWood Bark Nuggets, would you?”

The guy didn’t blink. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t ask us to spell it.

Instead, he said, “Yes. Bin #82. $62 a yard. How many do you want? By the way, it’s $27 a yard cheaper than those jokers to the east.”

I looked at HHH. He looked at me. We high-fived in that slow-motion, movie-ending kind of way. Cue music. Cue sunset. Cue the brother with a borrowable trailer. Fer-get-about-delivery-fees. Just 48 hours later, the front yard looks like it just came back from a spa weekend at the redwoods.

Neighbors have been walking by while nodding in admiration. One lady whispered, “Where did you get that bark?” as if we’d mulched with shredded Benjamin Franklins.

HHH and I just smile, sip our ice water. Sometimes, the bark you’re looking for isn’t across the state or hidden in a secret mulch vault to the east. Sometimes, it sits just down the road from a StayCayAway to the West.

Sometimes the best vacations are the ones closest to home. Traveling without an international boarding pass, hours in TSA lines, or an exhausting cross-country drive feels just right. As soon as the sun comes up, we’re off. With our destination only 40 minutes away, we’re going to turn a regular weeknight into a rejuvenating, soul-filling escape.

This isn’t your average staycation, but a quick jaunt from the front door to a place that feels like it’s a world away. With overnight bags and a feeling of freedom, I’m not looking back as the gardens of Winterpast fade in the rearview mirror. Even retirees need to take a break sometimes. The tomatoes. The plums. The zuchinni. It’s all just too much!!

Whether sipping wine on a terrace, hiking down to the pool, or sleeping in, we’ll be reminded that beauty and fun aren’t only found on the high seas. With our next oceanic adventure a little less than two months away, this is the next best thing.

Nestled where the high desert meets alpine peaks, resorts at the base of the Eastern Sierra Nevada’s offer an unforgettable blend of rugged beauty and sophisticated comfort. Not just pit stops for skiers or hikers, these are full-service retreats with hot tubs, farm-to-table dining, and coffee shops that take their espresso as seriously as we take our vine-ripened tomatoes. With dramatic mountain backdrops, we’re not just stepping out of our routine but into nature’s majesty.

Even the dogs need a break. Oliver and Wookie will go to puppy camp to visit their friends. Shhhhh… Don’t tell them. It’s a secret until the car starts. They won’t be moping at home but romping through fields, playing tug-of-war with new friends, getting belly rubs from people who call themselves “counselors,” and passing out in cozy kennels after full days of doggie adventures. We’ll get to recharge our batteries, and they’ll come home cleaner, happier, and somehow more socialized than when they left. It’s a win-win when the dogs get their own “camp story,” while we’ll enjoy an uninterrupted sunset soak in a mountain-view hot tub.

So here’s to the stay-cay, the underappreciated gem of vacationing. Just minutes from our little town of industry, we’ll find the kind of peace, beauty, and perspective that people fly thousands of miles trying to find. When we return, the dogs will greet us like we’ve been gone for years with wagging tails and sparkling eyes. What a great weekend for a reset.

Ill be back on Monday! Have a great weekend!

Here at Winterpast, days move at their own pace. Morning sunlight dapples through the trees, birds call from hidden branches, and the breeze carries with it the quiet reassurance of routine. Another pair of Robins busy themselves feeding the newest babies in plain sight on the patio. The bees are buzzing about, while Oliver continues on his hunt for anything edible, including grubs.

Oliver will never change. After he finds something delicious and nutritious, it’s off to his lair under the dining room table. Slowly, I’m being trained that if I offer him a BETTER treat than the one clamped between his jaws with the strength of a pit bull, he MIGHT consider a trade. So far, I’m up three rotten apples and a very disgusting grub that measured at least 2.5″. Well, at least some progress has been made.

The peaceful rhythm of Winterpast is one that invites reflection. Lately, HHH has found a new way to engage with that rhythm by simply changing his location. In various spots around the yard, he’s placed seating, some more comfortable than others. Each seat offers a different view of the same space. Some days, he faces the back fence and watches for the dreaded squirrel. Other days, he turns toward the house, letting memories and stillness settle in.

It’s the simple act of changing perspective, which changes everything because changing your seat changes your sight. What was once overlooked becomes the focal point. A path you’ve walked a hundred times becomes new again. From a different angle, a patch of weeds becomes a wildflower bed. That’s the power of perspective.

And what’s true in the yard is just as true in life. The way we choose to see the world shapes how we experience it. Optimism and pessimism face the same reality, but from two entirely different seats. One sees challenge as a possibility while the other sees it as a wall. One notices beauty in the overlooked corners while the other only notices what’s missing.

Choosing optimism doesn’t mean ignoring difficulty but looking at life from a place of hope. It means pausing, shifting your stance, and saying, “Maybe there’s more to this than I first thought”, or “What lessons can I learn from this?”

That’s what HHH has discovered here at Winterpast. Sometimes the most powerful change doesn’t come from going somewhere new but from seeing the same place with new eyes.

So, whether you’re in a backyard, a busy season of life, or just a quiet moment with yourself, try moving to a new vantage point. Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and look again. You might be surprised by how the view changes.

More tomorrow.