Author: Joy Hurt

To pass many lonely nights, I’ve been watching old movies. Funny. I think of one title and three more come to mind. These old friends have helped me fill evenings when I am too tired to read, but not tired enough to fall off to sleep.

Growing up in a house of five girls, spanning a bridge of 16 years from oldest to youngest, I was imprinted with music from many different decades. My mom’s music was added to the mix. She loved it all, having exposed all of us to musical notes and instruments. Church choir. School Choir. Piano, accordion, saxophone, guitar. We changed with the times. Musical trends and preferences became harder for my mom to accept as years went on. By the time I was falling in love with Joni or Crosby, Stills, and Nash, she was clutching her ears wondering where she had gone wrong.

One safe genre on which we could always agree was musicals. I could listen to them, over and over, watching the stage sets, photography, and costuming. Each time I watch again, I find something new that is strangely important and relevant. I can’t say that I have a favorite. I love them all. South Pacific. Oklahoma. West Side Story. Evita. Mama Mia. And my latest favorite, Come From Away.

Fiddler on the Roof. I remembering first hearing of this movie when I was in high school. My oldest sister and her husband, needing to escape from their small children, had gone out on a date night. The next morning, she called Mom, bubbling over about this amazing movie. Nothing else would do but that we all went to see it. At the time, I liked the songs about forbidden love. I saw myself as the young daughters trying to break deep traditions that would anchor them to a life outdated. At that very moment in time, I, too, was experiencing love forbidden by parental restraints. VST and I, sang the sad song, Anatevka, for a choral performance.

A few weeks ago, I watched Fiddler on the Roof for the first time in years. This time, when I watched it, something else was so evident. Love and family are all any of us have.

So many times, VST and I talked about life if one of us died. Always theoretical, of course. Cancer was not invited into our home. It broke the door down and stole VST, smashing dreams in its hateful wake. Destroying what could have continued to be. Stealing what could have come. Leaving a wake of destruction and quiet, as if three decades had not ever even happened.

Aside from my devastating loss due to cancer, 2020 has shown me that at any time, an invisible and deadly threat in the form of a microscopic virus could rob all of us of a way of life and traditions we hold dear. People who were our friends might be forced to behave differently than their heart desires. Places that had been comforting might become dangerous. Traditions that were loved might become banished. Life will become bleak, unless the love for family and friends prevails. With that love, all things are possible to endure. All things.

As I watched the story unfold, it had a richness and melancholy that I had not embraced or fully understood before. The same story, yet heard from a different point of view. Yes. Bleak. The outcome of their story we all know. The outcome of ours has yet to be written. The love of fathers for their daughters. Of husbands for the wives. The love for places dear. New love. Old love. Love, in the end, is what we have when the important parts of our lives are distilled, insignificant things falling away. With this love, new traditions replace old.

In this, a most beautiful season, connect with those you love to remember those we have lost. Through memories and stories told, it will help us journey through these tough times.

A Note.

A cyber shout out into the universe. Happy Birthday, Karen Bowser, a dear sweet Central Valley school friend and neighbor girl. 65!!! Who would have thought those two hotties swimming and going motorcycle riding with the bad boys on that summer day so long ago would turn 65?!?!?!?!?! Have a wonderful day, however you decide to spend it. I miss you and hope life is treating you well. Joy

If anyone happens to know Karen, please send her my birthday message. The universe has a way of delivering the best messages. J

I am forever cold. It could be 80 degrees outside, and I’ll find a way to be cold. The kind of bone chilling cold that is hard to recover from. This has been me since the beginning of time. With a resting temperature of 97.6, I’m wired just a little differently. How then, could I choose to live in a place where the temperature this morning is 28 with snow coming down? Love. I love it here. I also loved my life-mate husband who loved it here while suffering from crippling arthritis. Crazy? Yes. Friends KNEW we would retire in Hawaii. No. We chose layering.

Layering makes all things possible in all climates. You start with a basic black turtleneck and go from there. The possibilities are endless. Turtle, cashmere. Turtle, hoodie. Turtle, blazer. Turtle…..well, you get the idea. For the bottom half, add “Cuddl-Duds” and then, whatever is appropriate over that. Of course, in the desert, jeans are a Go To. If a skirt is what you’re looking for, (Skirts do not go well with desert life, but are cute), change out CD’s for tights. Good to go. Throw a heavy wool coat over the entire affair and I’m ready for the beach.

I’m discovering that layering is also an emotional tactic I’ve been using to protect me from widow-winds on my journey. Layers and layers of “Great”, “Wonderful”, “Just Fine”, and “Perfect” carry me through as people ask how things are going, but, really don’t want to know. Besides, how could they know unless they had been through this? Even then, each person experiences grief differently. Their own unique path and sadness are waiting for them. So, layering protects us all from this messy situation.

As I’m recovering, I find I don’t need those layers as much anymore. Any one of my true-blue heart friends can tell just by the tone of my voice that I’m having a tough day. Or that I have some delicious and funny story that needs telling. Or that I am so lonely I think my brain will explode with the stories trapped inside. They know. No matter how I attempt to dress things up in layers, the truth glares through an armhole or seam. I thank everyone who has noticed, and not mentioned it, rather like finding a hole in someone’s favorite cashmere and keeping it to yourself.

They don’t let me off the hook in all respects. When they smell Bovine Scat, they simply call me out on it. For that I thank you all so much. As a widow, we all know nothing is “Great”, “Wonderful”, “Perfect” or even “Just Fine” a lot of the time. Basically, as widows, we all need shirts that say, “Things suck right now. Thanks for asking.” But, as stated above, that shirt would be three layers down, in my case.

In my dealings with a new relationship, layers are tricky. Because a very easy question starts an unraveling to places that leave me thinking late into the night. Things come up that haven’t been thought of for years through harmless conversing with a new friend. Deep within, the tiniest unhealed emotional abscesses can be found, longing to be dealt with, once and for all.

When I write about VST and I, it is through a cloud of friendship, devotion, and love that spanned five decades. One half of a century. Imprinted through pictures in which we’re all smiles. Framed memories hold the best days front and center, letting the reality of day to day life slip into the background. The fabric of our lives together was velvety and supple, a cloth we wove over the years through trial and error. The final piece had visible patches. Could I give hundreds of examples where we failed? Yes. But, those things can’t be redone or fixed. They gave our story a kick. Imperfections that acknowledge we made it through married life and came out still wanting to spend another day together. And another. And another. No matter how many days were left, it would never have been enough for VST and I. Period. We would have fought though whatever was necessary, because we were US. Sadly, he needed to leave earlier than I did.

Through conversations and introspection, I am forming ideas about what is desired in my next important relationship. These surprise me, as I realize there are things that worked at age 30, 40, or 50 that I don’t care to embrace at age 64 years and 361 days of age. There are new things I would like to try. My growth has transformed me into a woman in a new stage of life that is exciting and empowering, yet leaves me more vulnerable than I would like to admit. Each brick of my foundation for this next chapter of my life is of my own choosing. I need to choose them wisely, with the benefit of 64 years and 361 days of experiences, good and bad. Now, that’s a lot of layering right there.

I can’t wait for spring, when the layers of my peony blossoms are unfolding. Layers of stacked garden tools will become scattered about the back yard. New decomposed granite spread over layers of garden cloth. The layer of a morning’s hoodie flung off revealing the cutest swimsuit just right for a tired gardener to soak in the new hot tub (which just might be purchased this weekend).

For now, a new black turtleneck and cashmere will do nicely. Grabbing my coat, I’m off to meet a waiting friend, layered.

Music is a crucial part of my life. Do I play an instrument? No. Can I read music? Yes, a bit. Do I sing? Badly. But, music feeds my soul. Without it, my world would be empty. Most days, I would rather enjoy music than any other form of entertainment.

In my teaching days, I would have some kind of music playing most of the day. Instrumental only, the best pieces had a rhythm the same pace as a resting heartbeat. Music played during our writing time. One day, sweet Sarah came to me with a comment about the music. “Mrs. Hurt, the music helps the words come out of my fingers.” Yes, it does, Sarah. From my fingers, too.

VST and I met because of our love for music and a need to fill an elective in high school. In choir, he was a bass, me, a soprano. This was only because my blond roots didn’t possess the ability to harmonize as altos do. My fondest memories involve the beginning of class when he and his football buddies would come tumbling in, still moist from their PE showers. VST always had the sweetest smile. His tousled hair had the slightest curl to it. Odd, because by the time I met him later in life, his hair had no curl at all. He was a happy jock, later in life, to become a serious intellect.

VST was a purest when it came to music. He wanted his Country Western, and that was it. After his death, I listened to my fair share of Willie’s Roadhouse, remembering with each song all the miles we spent together in the RV. The thing about Country Western music is that the lyrics can be totally silly or trite, but, they can also be so tender. Many times, driving back and forth to retrieve my packing boxes while talking to VST, just the right song would come on. Sometimes, this would bring laughter, but more often it would bring tears. I need to be in the right frame of mind for Willie’s these days. It’s a trigger that can still bring on the ugly cry with the first note of a favorite song.

My favorite types of music don’t involve Country Western at all. On a good day, I listen to a variety of smooth jazz, 70’s and 80’s music, and what the kids, (who are not kids but adults), refer to as my funeral music. This music came into our lives when we got Oliver. VST was NOT a dog person. But when furry little Oliver came to live with us, he amplified a tender and sweet side is us both. VST found a channel that had very soft instrumental music that seemed to soothe our little puppy. From then on, this was referred to as “Oliver’s Music”. To this day, I enjoy this channel as much as Oliver does.

VST told me he had a list of favorite music on his computer should the unthinkable happen, He was still healthy and IT was never going to. When the unthinkable DID happen, I went to his computer and spent a long, long time looking for this file. To my shock and dismay, there was no file, and the memorial was in a week. We needed a play list for the luncheon after the service. My creativity was at an all time low, but, I knew I had to get this just right. So, I began to think back to all the best times in the rig, and the songs that played.

As I picked through U-Tube, the songs started coming to life with videos. I spent a long afternoon crying and listening to lyrics that took me back to times with my sweet VST. Although a tough afternoon, I felt like we were together for one last trip, one last song. Just us two, rolling along. As the afternoon ended, I had my list of songs. I needed 45 minutes worth of music to fit with the video. So, I started adding up the lengths of the songs I had chosen through tears. When I finished, I looked at the number with amazement.

44 minutes 59 seconds. Without planning. Without rejecting one of his favorites. Just the right songs. In the right order. To say the right Good Bye.

Music. Listen today to what ever makes you feel the way you need. Really listen to lyrics you thought you knew. Let it hug you. Because it will, down to the last song.

My own healing is progressing each day. The holidays have always been a challenge for me. As a teacher, I remember being in my classroom on the eve of Christmas Eve some years, leaving me in a spent mess of wrapping and tinsel as I tried to ready a Christmas for my own family, while sending little ones home with handmade gifts for theirs. Emotionally draining in the past, this year, I choose to celebrate differently. Savored in little bits, the true meaning of Christmas is occupying my thoughts.

So far, it’s working, with a little help from my friends. Yesterday, the sweetest card came in the mail. The first Christmas card to Oliver and me, ours and ours alone. It’s from a dear heart friend that I have yet to meet and hug. She and I share a deep and abiding love of our Winterpast, it belonging first to her parents. Her memories are of days past, mine are forming every new day. Christmas is remembered differently for her, as her mom decorated her home with cheer. Her memories of meals and holidays linger here. I hope that when we do meet, she approves of the way I am honoring her mom’s love of home as I make Winterpast my own.

In my holiday healing, I’ve been holding what has scared and scarred me in an emotional bear hug, inhaling the essence of the pain while accepting that it can’t hurt me any deeper. I have many ghosts of Christmases past. Memories of those lost at Christmas time, like my beloved Grandmother, gone on December 23, 1981. Loss sneaks in like a thief and can cloud a time of year that holds the promise of birth, life, and happiness. It takes a conscious mind to choose happiness when the sadness of loss takes over.

Each day, I risk a little more, trusting the new foundation that I’m laying. New routines. New interests. Driving more. Planning things fun and just for me. I’m trusting that today will be better than yesterday. More than that, I’m trusting and KNOWING that I’m taking good care of myself, making healthy choices and moving toward a life of my own choosing. I smile accepting real limitations of age and station in life, but also knowing that there are many silly, self imposed limitations that need to be shed. As I heal, the words flow out of my fingers in my morning blog, delighting me as I express myself.

This holiday, I’ve already discovered there are many judgments from others that I can simply disregard. If someone doesn’t even know whether I prefer my new plaid blazer or my favorite hoodie these days, they simply don’t have enough valid information to judge my current state of mind. If they’ve not talked to me in months, only to call expecting me to be stuck in July’s sorrow, that is on them, not on me. Embracing this is freeing me to to heal more quickly. The expectations of others on widows is often an unfair projection of their own demons unprocessed. Sorry, I’m dealing with enough right now. Opinions of me by others will not take up space in my healing brain.

In this holiday season, I remember something wise that my wonderful God Mother, TJ, shared with me long ago. Healing is knowing what doors to close and which ones to leave open just a crack. Healing doesn’t happen overnight, but slowly, like the mending of a cut or the opening of a peony. My life is becoming a garden rich with new friends in my new town. People that I can call when sorrow and grief get me down, like my sweetest gal pals, Miss Firecracker or Ninja Neighbor. I also call them when I have the best news to share or just because I feel like hearing their voice.

Find some time to Celebrate the things from which you have healed this year. Celebrate your own new friends and make some new traditions. Although robbing us of many things, Covid has forced a very busy world to slow down and hold close our family and friends. I’m finding Christmas is the best time of all to heal, while honoring those new angels we love and miss so much.

Eight months ago today, at 10:30am, I became a widow. Quietly. Without much fanfare or notice, I entered a club in which no one wants membership. There isn’t a handbook for navigation of this territory, except for five road signs of grief along the way, and endless ways to express those. I would like to share my experiences with these stages, so far. I’m pretty sure they will stick around in the days to come, but, I know their faces well. They have come to be accepted comrades in my widowhood.

In the first months, widow’s fog wasn’t much fun at all. Not the kind of cozy fog in which you might stay by the fire, drink hot tea, and read. A fog that leaves you forgetful and dazed. I referred to it as my months of shock. VST died so quickly, it was as if he died in a car crash. Violent and final. And yet, looking back, his illness was at work long before we chose to acknowledge it. Long before we knew what was causing his changes. By time we did know, the oncologist was telling us to go home. There was nothing that could be done. Live a best life. Eat and drink whatever tasted good. Two months, max. It turned out to be a week.

I was so lucky through those first months to have a move to keep me occupied. Many people warned against relocating within the first month of VST’s death. However, VST and I had planned this together before we knew he was sick. There was no choice except to ride that pony. With T and K’s help, that is just what I did. Looking back, even the thought of visiting VC after he was gone was impossible, let alone continuing a life there. I chose the move even against the most stern advice.

Denial hit us when VST was still alive. He went through a heavy dose before accepting that he had a serious illness. Looking back, so many symptoms were either ignored, or denied their very existence by us both. They were explained away. A rough patch in our marriage. Stress. Exhaustion. A cold. Probiotic overload. So many reasons we came up with as the cancer became more and more serious. Time wouldn’t have mattered, as he was already deep in trouble when he started to feel poorly. In some ways, it was the kindest for him, as he slipped away from me little by little, not realizing he was. I found a wee bit of respite in denying something was very, very wrong in the months before.

The only thing I ever would have bargained for was a total elimination of the disease. For that, there would have been nothing to great to give. Even my own health in exchange. But, those thoughts were replaced with the truth of the matter. It wasn’t me. It was him. Bargaining for chips worth less than our old life was not something either of us wanted. Fifty percent of the life we had wasn’t anything desired. One December day, I found myself sobbing, begging, pleading for the life we once had. Still driving, he was headed out the door for the 4th trip of the day to Reno to buy a forgotten bolt. A man that was slipping through my fingers turned to me and said, “Don’t we all, Darlin?” Little did we know in a few short months, he would be gone.

With the holidays approaching, I’m staying busy with lists and activities. Sunday, I drove on my favorite road to Bridgeport. Heading on the highway we had enjoyed so many times, I was the only car for most of the 4 1/2 hour trip. Sadness had me at many turns as I remembered things we had discussed, or just music we had enjoyed together. But, then, many memories brought smiles and thoughts of how lucky we were to have shared such beauty on our travels. Sadness and loneliness have their time with me. I’ve come to realize I need to embrace them like fellow grievers. There’s a time when those emotions are totally normal and part of the healing process. Covid has given me private time to make sure they get my attention, for to stuff them would do no good. They need to have their say in the matter so I can work towards becoming 100% again.

Anger is still at bay, maybe disguised through fumings about other situations causing grief right now. Like the pandemic and the restrictions on normal life caused by it. I still wonder what in the heck I have to be angry about, and I still come up with nothing at all. I’m grateful to a God that has helped me find my way through this nightmare. To place anger there would be pointless. To the doctors and nurses that helped VST, I am eternally grateful. Cancer is not a thing that would be affected by my anger, although I hate it with a passion. But, even through the hatred, I am grateful that its attack was swift and complete, not leaving VST to linger into a holding pattern for years. VST wouldn’t have settled for that for a second. He was too impatient. Each new day found him wanting to get moving as quickly as possible. To me, it’s no surprise he passed so quickly into the next place. It fit who he was.

Acceptance has been with me for some time now. Being a grieving wife, I KNOW he left April 8th. There are still those split seconds of denial when the mind plays such cruel tricks. I need tell VST this one funny thing. Or ask him how to air up my tires. Or tell him the latest gossip just heard. These thoughts zip through at lightning speed caught by the realist me who gives me a little mental hug while redirecting me to reality. I accept that this is how our story ended. I hate it. Totally. I wish there had been time to repair a few divets. Time to hug once more. Time to reminisce about the favorite moments in our lives together. One last walk along the shore. But then, there never would have been enough time, would there? There would always be one last thing.

Eight balloons will be released at 10:30 this morning. Not at 11:15, like his death certificate says. It lies. At 10:30, a widow 8 months. A treacherous journey. A walk through fire I would wish on no one. Beauty found on the winter side of April, something I couldn’t have expected, but, a beauty welcomed. A pride in the fact that I am here, blogging to you. 8 Months of forever. 8 Months a second old. 8 Months of Growth all mine.

Ninja Neighbor is the best neighbor I’ve had in my 65 years. Funny, intelligent, spunky, and real, she brightens my life every time we are together. There is a 20 year spread in our ages, but, our spirits mirror each other. I think of how different my move would have been if my house wasn’t next to hers. I love the little path I am wearing as I walk from my front door to hers, over our landscaping. A trip to happiness every time I go.

We are also the kind of neighbors that share when we are in need. “Do you have a..” “Could I borrow a…” These calls always result in a flurry of chatter and chuckles as items are exchanged. I would do anything for this woman and she would for me. She is my family in a town very far away from my own.

Through this wonderful bit of seredipity, many, many family members and girlfriends are now in my circle. Ones I don’t know yet. New Camping friends. New fishing friends. New Gals in Grace. Just new in every way. Last night I got a call, and window into how much fun awaits.”

“Joy, do you have anything that fries stuff?” I am already laughing at the question.
“We just need the cord.” L.O.L. I had an electric skillet that I delivered. Not being the right type of cord, I asked if they would like to try my trusty Ninja 5 in 1, which I would never loan out to anyone for anything, except NN. My kitchen is her kitchen. I returned the skillet and came back with the Ninja 5 in 1.

In the kitchen was the most beautiful array of young women celebrating Teacher Girl’s birthday. TG is NN’s sister, and together, they bring beauty to the word. Friends and sisters in the truest sense. In the kitchen, a group of women were cooking Korean BBQ for TG. All long time friends, they were making this a birthday Teacher Girl would never forget. Busily chopping, dipping, dredging, and sauteing, these women were on a mission of deliciousness.

I was introduced to everyone, but one woman made my night. All of these gals were beautiful, but this one said something that made my heart glow. She validated so much of my hard work this year with the sweetest comment.

Ninja Neighbor had introduced me as her neighbor and an extraordinary writer. She went on and on about the blog, Grievinggardener.com.

“Oh, so you have gardens? What do you grow? How long have you been doing it?”

It shocked me so. She had totally disregarded the grieving and focused my true passion. Gardening. The one that has to do with a focus on life instead of death. The one in which my eyes shine and I smile as my yard changes with the seasons. The one from which WINTERPAST sprouted. A focus on grief was absent. She focused on a normal gardener, who has grieved for 8 months, but who is healing nicely. She focused on me.

“I’m grieving, too.” I added, still processing that she had missed the first word in my domain name.

She stopped and looked into my eyes. “I am so sorry, I didn’t think.” I assured her, her response was perfect in every way.

After a quick visit, I excused myself, needing to get back to Ollie and evening writing. As I inched back through the landscaping, the window in my studio glowed, giving me just enough light to avoid rocks and drip line. My entries for the writing contest needed one last read before sending them into cyberspace. Lost in the four stories I chose, small errors were corrected, and when they were all just right, the SEND button was pushed.

Mr. Fighter Pilot called when I was finished for a quick chat before bedtime. He has no idea how much those calls mean. Sometimes the quiet of the night makes every ghost come out to play. Loneliness is a demon. While on the phone, there was a knock on the door. Very unusual for my house at any time of day.

On the other side was beautiful Ninja Neighbor. In her hands was a plate brimming with Korean BBQ. Everything from the most tender steak to spicy noodles. Panko-crusted shrimp, veggies, and steamed rice.

“The girls wanted you to have a little of everything! Enjoy!” Her smile radiated friendship and love. The food was so delicious. Made with love to celebrate a woman they adore. Love makes everything most special.

Gardener grieving. Names flipped. Different emphasis. I am coming into a new phase of womanhood in which I will grow my soul, spirit, and self. Soon, I’ll be lost in my springtime passion of Iris’s and Peonies. Of blooming fruit trees and the insidious toads that plague me under night’s cover. I will pull out some things and plant others, while singing badly to 80’s music and jumping in and out of the hot tub not yet purchased, but definitely planned. I will watch the stars from the comfort of my comfy lawn, while enjoying the desert I love so much. Grief will be tempered by knowing my marriage was special enough to grieve his loss deeply. I wouldn’t have missed one moment of our lives together for anything.

Happiness is a state of mind. It’s a healthy and safe garden for me to grow my new life. It flourishes in my heart with the help of Ninja Neighbor, Teacher Girl, and all the friends they so graciously share with me. I am a lucky gardener grieving.

Note–My Ninja Neighbor, Trish, and her best friend, Amber, have a delightful Vlog -“Gals In Grace”. You can find them on YouTube sharing tips on cooking, cleaning, and organization. Their last post was a funny one demonstrating “How to Wrap a Present”. Be sure to look up their post on Black Light Cleaning if you need a good laugh. Just remember, don’t get too stressed with the holidays. If things get to you, just take another sip of wine. Trish, I love you, sweet friend. Remember the code word, my Ninja Neighbor.

Today, I was thinking about RVing and how much I miss it. Truly miss it in a heart wrenching way. Being on the road, away and on a mission to get somewhere new was always so much fun for VST and I. He would only need to look at me and say, “Darlin, where should we go this time?” Wherever I mentioned was just the place he had on his mind. We would be hauling new supplies into the rig and chasing the sunrise.

Many times, the neighbors asked in a puzzled way, “But, what do you do?” It was hard to explain to them exactly WHAT was so much fun. VST and I just liked going places. When we got there, it wasn’t that we had some exciting event to attend, or people waiting to entertain us. We like each other. We liked traveling. We liked seeing Oliver so happy on the road. We liked the beautiful sights along the way as we traversed our country. 50,000 miles with three different rigs.

We were creatures of habit on the road, and so, meals were super easy. Both of us were on Keto most of the time we RVed. Protein, salad, and sugar free anything. VST had his movies packed up, and always seemed to pick a good one I hadn’t seen knowing what I would like. He would save the hardcore war movies for later, when I was engrossed in whatever book I was reading at the time. Oliver would be so happy to have us all together in a small space. He would happily chew on a new bone or toy. The calm peace and quiet was something that radiated from our rig.

For a time, VST and I were traveling to the coast once a month. The trip wasn’t the easiest or cheapest at 600 miles one way and gas at $4 a gallon. We would break it into two nights each way. Once there, we behaved like the locals. Just breathing the coastal air was a treat. VST loved walking Oliver to the pier, always coming back with fan stories. Some I witnessed myself, like the lady who asked if she could take a picture with him. Not VST. Ollie. He was the star. Once, there was an Easter Pet Parade. Oliver did go down for the festivities, but, being a very young puppy, he tuckered out before the grueling one mile pet and people parade.

What did we do? We practiced being retired. We walked. We visited with RV neighbors. We ate too much. We went out sight seeing. We had dinners out. We mapped our next trips and analyzed things that could be better. We talked to each other about lots of things. We argued. We made up. We watched movies and TV. We cuddled. We slept well. We enjoyed ourselves.

What didn’t we do?? We never got bored. We never decided we didn’t want to travel anymore. Most arguments were fixed by morning. We never got lost. We never disagreed about where we were going. We loved remembering where we’d been. We never discussed how the person left would ever survive if the other died suddenly. Because, quite frankly, we never saw ourselves as aging mortals. Just feral parents that were having the happiest time of their lives.

I think of all the trips taken with VST. He was a fitting travel companion for me. It just worked well that way. When Oliver was added into our dance, he worked well, too. We could button up the rig and be on the road in an hour, including all necessary grooming, bathrooming, and breakfasting. We were reasonable about the demands of the weather, and could change plans without question, even though I did mumble loudly on our last trip to the coast, when we were lucky enough to get Spot 1, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The trip was cut in half because of the first major snow storm of the year. It was the last time we would ever visit the beach together.

What did we do? We did US. We did MARRIED. We did COUPLE. We did LIFE. And those things we did while we RVed.

I had planned my first return to the coast in January 2021. A way to start off the New Year on a good foot. A return to a place that will hold some tears and a lump-filled throat for me, when I do get there. Pretty sure the ghosts of good laughs and quiet moments will still be hanging around to taunt me. I’d almost given up going for all the wrong reasons. Too far. Too much driving. Too complicated to take Ollie with me. Too. Too. Too. This morning I made peace with the fact that I have a beach house rented and will be going.

This evening, the California Governor has locked down the county to which I was traveling. Most likely into 2021. Closing the beach. Closing the pier. Closing the reason people travel there. My reservation has been Covid canceled.

For now, I’ll need to find new adventures to places I haven’t been before, traveling in ways that don’t involve an RV. Friends will probably still ask, “But, What Do You Do?” I will just need to smile. Because now, the answer is pretty simple. I’ll Do Me. Plain and Simple. Just Me.

Yesterday was a day of no movement, forward or backwards. Some days, as retirees, we must practice lazy. As widows, we need to stop for much needed reflection and ponder the growth we make every day. Next week, 8 Months will have passed since I lost VST. Although in some ways, it seems like not one second has passed, it is undeniable that the growth I have made in these months is astounding. Hardly a day passes in which a new problem requires skills or knowledge I didn’t know I possess. For these new skills, I am profoundly thankful.

I started to think about moving forward and what it doesn’t mean for me. It doesn’t mean that I have forgotten VST, for he is embedded in the deepest place of my heart, safe and sound. After loving someone so deeply for so many years, his words and deeds are memories at the ready to comfort me when no one else could know. It doesn’t mean that I don’t feel the pain of this loss every day. It has become manageable, but just like a physical pain, if I move the wrong way, disturbing a hidden memory that squeaks, the pain of my loss is real. It doesn’t mean I believe life is always fair. There was nothing fair or right about what happened to VST and I. No one could ever make me believe it was part of a loving master plan. But, nothing can change the fact that Cancer was the victor. No matter what I do, I must move on, knowing the truths above are important parts of my life now.

As I move forward, my pain is not necessarily less. I have found ways to manage it, much like a critically injured patient would understand. Family, friends, exercise, healthy thoughts, laughter, a busy mind, good food, and plenty of sleep help mitigate it. Finding words to express my feelings allows venting in healthy doses. Treasuring my best memories is something I now can do without crying excessively. I can find humor inJ the things we used to do and say, and while others might not get it, we did and always will. I have realistically accepted the different aspects of my loss as the days have gone on. Being a farm girl has helped with that, having learned early on that there is a season for everything, including the loss of a loved one.

As I move forward, I can and will form new relationships and try new things that bring renewed faith in the goodness of life. I discount nay say-ers who say I’m not following recommended time frames for grief, because the only person that knows my heart is me. There is not some kind of magic dip stick to measure my level of grief and healing. Not a magic calendar in which the train to happiness will leave the station. I am finding those milestones on my own by trial and error. And errors I have made. But, successes have been found, too. New friendships #have let me find peace and happiness with conversations, shared stories, and outings. Forward thinking has allowed me to go ahead on my own path, assured that I am not alone as I walk on.

In a forward mode, I am growing in grace in my private talks with God. Without faith, my journey would have been much worse, if not impossible. It has comforted me when my lonely house was Covid silent with one lone occupant. Me. With faith anew, I have been more able to accept my loss and forgive others. More importantly, I have found forgiveness of myself and things I wished I would have done differently. VST is smiling now, reminding me, “You can’t go nowhere on yesterday’s train, Darlin.” Both Joy and Loss are part of my journey now. I need to stay focused in the moment to avoid missing the wonder of life. The past can’t reflect a pair of noisy crows talking their hearts out on my roof, or mustangs enjoying the sunshine on an autumn day. There is so much beauty in the Right Now of life. Beauty that soothes my soul as I walk my neighborhood on sun-drenched mornings.

I know, most of all, God is good even when life isn’t. With so many external distractions, I forget, at times, that I don’t need to fix everything in my broken life all at once. If moving forward, I’m not stuck. Better yet, I’m not in reverse. By moving forward, I can get past fearful days in which I’m not sure which fork in the road is best for me. The perfection of now is found when I keep moving towards life, family, friends, and goals, even if it is inch by inch up a steep grade.

I’m grateful for the last 8 months, strange as that sounds. Obviously, not for losing VST, which has been excruciating. I’m thankful for Hope and Growth, which have turned my focus toward life at its best. Exhilarating and freeing. I am thankful for everything I’m learning each day as I move forward on my journey towards a happy life. Simply being grateful for the Good in life. Try it. It will help.

In third grade, story time was a reward for me. It was never included in scripted minutes which teachers must now justify and adhere to. Time shaved off other subjects was used, because story time was something that my kids and I needed. Like air. After lunch, little bundles of sweaty happiness knew. They came to the carpet and got a story rock. Sitting or laying, the rule was, the smooth rock could only be in one hand. Not thrown at Sally or Rob. Not tossed or dropped annoyingly. The rocks were thinking rocks. Smooth and flat, they fit nicely in small fingers and were to be rubbed as the story unfolded. During suspenseful times, the rocks moved with their little fingers. Big wiggles ceased, as pure, sweet eyes watched me read. Not with a pure gaze, but with visualized words flashing before their eyes.

I had a favorite book, read every year. “Because of Winn Dixie.” It was one that I read every single year, because of the voices. They were in rich southern drawl, which I could read in a very entertaining way. The kids ate it up. I loved reading it to them. Winn! Winn! The character, India Opal, hadn’t had the easiest life, living with her father, The Preacher. The kids related to her. When I started reading the award winning story to them, it was brand new. Right off the press. No movies or visuals preconceived visuals, we all made our own. Each of us would have known Opal on the street by our ideas of her height, weight, hair length and smile. We knew her in our hearts.

After I had read the book through many classes, the worst of all things happened. Towards the end of my 3rd Grade adventures, when scripted lessons and minutes timed by the principal had robbed so many rich and joyful teachable moments, “Because of Winn Dixie” became a movie. My class being legendary, my 3rd Graders came in knowing after lunch story time was a priceless experience. Everyone was giddy when I brought out the book. But, the saddest thing happened. Slowly, the rocks couldn’t work over whispered spoilers. Kids commented on the color of the actresses red hair. Or the size of Winn Dixie, her dog. Or anything else Hollywood dictated to be absolute. If they could see it, it was. If the story in the pages didn’t match what they had seen, the book lied. Just like that the magic was stolen. I never read that story to anyone again.

Sometimes, on the hottest of Central Valley Days, when the thermometer read 100 by noon, the kids would come in from lunch drained. Many needed time to rest, longing for rainstorms missing for awhile. On those days, story time would turn into rain-storm reading. Recorded rain drops and thunder would bring images of storms to them. Under the cooling storm, they would all get “out of the rain”, curling up under desks or tables, to happily read their favorite book. The sound of rain cemented good feelings about reading into their brains. Never a “I don’t want to” or a “This is stupid”. Nope. Rainstorm reading was a hit when we were all needing to check out into our own worlds for just a few minutes. No movies needed because we all had rainy day words.

Being a life long reader, books will always be my first love. But, there is definitely a place for movies in my world now. How many of us immediately know what the King of Siam looks like? Dorothy? Don Corleone? The African Queen? King Kong? R2D2? Yes. What a shame if we didn’t have that collective visualization of such rich characters. What a shame if such brilliant minds hadn’t taken words on a page and created them for us. But, what a loss of all the individual possibilities never born, because after seeing an image, we accepted that as we would the nose on our best friend. What if Dorothy was blonde with bright blue eyes? Or R2D2 the shiniest of copper?

VST had a small DVD player on which he would watch movies when he went to bed. Complete with headphones, he would zone into his own private little world, not wanting to bother my sleep. I always found it strange, as sleep would find me so easily, providing dreams of the richest kind. Much more entertaining that a canned experience a movie maker created.

One day, I really wanted to watch a movie I didn’t have on hand. I didn’t want to buy the image online. I wanted a disc. Something tangible that I could hold and manipulate. I ordered it and some others through Amazon. When they arrived, I remembered VST being excited when he found a movie he had been looking for in the $5 bin at Wal Mart. Just like that, I had a new way to relax at night.

As I started thinking back to my favorites, more came to me. Cocoon. Fried Green Tomatoes. My Best Friend’s Wedding. Sleepless in Seattle. You’ve Got Mail. Murphy’s Romance. Fiddler on the Roof. South Pacific. West Side Story. Rear Window. North by Northwest. Vertigo. Psycho. The Birds. These movies were created by visual geniuses. The music created by real musicians and chosen to enhance the visual and emotional experience. Real movie stars created by Hollywood gave us someone to imagine with perfect life and happiness when ours weren’t. Visual Fantasy Land.

Although nothing will ever match the perfection of story time with eager children wanting to know what happened next, my story time is now one in which I can let someone else do the telling, while I soak up tale and stop my brain for a few minutes.

Last night, after spending hours writing and editing, I had texted MFP to tell him I was stopping for the night because my brain was sweating. He replied that he didn’t know how to air condition a brain. I do. Movie-fied stories are my brain air-conditioning. Whether through written word or big screen viewing, find a way to let someone else tell a story for a bit. I highly recommend it.

VST was the kind of the Honey Do guy of which every woman dreams. There was no request too much, no matter the time or skill required. I only needed to say, “Gee, it would be nice….” or “Would you….” and requests were fulfilled at warp speed. For 32 years, light bulbs never remained dark, because he changed them. The most minor leaks were repaired immediately. Dragging doors were analyzed and problems resolved. Any possible fix-it needed over the years was woven into his extremely busy world with just a simple request. The physical aspects of our lives were always in good repair.

All true, until it came to the Christmas Season. VST was not a HO HO HO Jingling Jingle kind of guy. He had no time for things like Christmas lights or lawn ornaments, until he retired. Last year, our Christmas memories were purposeful and sweet, as Dunmovin House neared completion. There were only two big projects remaining that he would complete in his lifetime. Forever more, his last home was perfectly mended. The flip that ended all flips finished, he put down his tool belt and smiled.

Christmas lights were hung with care last year. Strand after strand, he patiently weathered the cold, while hanging them on hooks he had installed the year before. No attention to painful arthritis, a paralyzed hand, or bad knees. He took me to Lowe’s to buy 40 poinsettias on Black Friday, which I placed all over the house. It takes a patient kind of guy to put up with 40 poinsettias because they make his wife smile. But, there he was helping me count them out.

The neighbors had asked us to join them for Christmas Dinner, but, quietly, he asked me if we could spend it together, just us two. He had a romantic Christmas vision. Of course I explained this to the neighbors, who looked suspiciously. What could two old people possibly need with romance on Christmas? Just what was VST planning??? His plans will remain secret and forever be a sweet gift he shared with me alone.

It was me that ruined that with the onset of a cold. Not the worst I’ve ever had, but one that required Chicken Soup, blankets, and tender care. I so graciously gifted my sniffles back to him, and returned the favor, passing the box of Kleenex. Looking back, it was romantic in an entirely deeper way. One that gets me in the throat if I think about it too long. The most precious kind of holiday missing this year.

Yesterday started out with the realization that November was ending. December always clouds my brain in the most confusing ways. I am a Sagittarian. For those of you unfamiliar with the Zodiac, I’m a December baby. This is an important year. 65. VST was really bothered when he turned 65 in July, and was troubled about it just a year ago, as the snow fell. When traveling, he commented that the road signs were telling him not to exceed 65. Eery, looking back now, as cancer stopped the ride at precisely that age,

In two weeks, I, too, will turn 65, that adding to a mood darkened. Having a birthday the week before Christmas is the worst, so over the years, I’ve done a good job extinguishing it. I don’t celebrate it, acknowledge it, or run around like a child with a new Barbie doll. The quieter it can pass, the better. This year, it’s just me, so, I have decisions to make. Will it be a new tradition or will I find comfort in blotting the day off the calendar? That remains to be seen.

Getting back to yesterday. With invisible clouds in my head on a perfectly brilliant day, I decided to drag out my newest outdoor decoration. The hope was it would elevate my mood. A very tall “Joy” for the front yard. Independent letters formed by a wire basket filled with red, green, and silver Christmas balls, lighted to add to the sparkle. I had loved it from the first glance, and bought it to cheer up the front yard. It was packaged in the RV barn, so, I rolled up the door and got to work unboxing it. The letters were waist high, and connected with wires, and , after a bit of a struggle, they were in the front yard.

Neighbors taking morning strolls, all stopped to talk. The old man with the dog who walks by twice a day stopped to chat, a little more flirty than usual. We laughed about the dangers of ladders, while I examined wire connections. Thankfully, he walked on. It was then, I saw them. Coming straight from the box, without any help from me, the wires on the J were never soldered into the display. The J was disconnected from the OY. It was over. Just like that. It so fit 2020. I could’ve just decided to illuminate the OY as in Oy Vey.

Immediately, I could feel them welling up. I. WOULD. NOT. CRY. Not over something as ridiculous as an unlit J. I had been through hell since the beginning of 2020. I WOULD NOT WASTE TEARS OVER SOMETHING SO STUPID. I thought back to VST and his soldering tools. With a mumble, he would have finished connecting the J, never focusing on a minor inconvenience. Although I had seen him do it several times, it was not in my wheel house of expertise. So, just like that, J — Oy was packed up and taken back to Lowes for a refund. Period.

To anyone else walking by, the house looks neat and tidy. A visual break from the others adorned with icicles, colorful bulbs, and festive yard art. To me, it’s a statement. Christmas is different this year, never to be the same again. There’s always next year to find just the right yard art and design. For this year, it will be stark white, like the snowfall. Someone dear, gone missing. Someone quieted and retired. Someone thoughtfully remembering the sweetness of holidays past, while awaiting a Christmas of new beginnings.