Author: Joy Hurt

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.

Christmas 1983.

In a land long and time long before VST. Another kind of First Christmas. Lonely. Scared to death. Newly divorcing. Mother of two small boys, aged 3 and 5. Working swing shift at a winery. (3:30 – 11:30pm). Did I mention two small kiddos? Worried. Penniless. Yet, timidly optimistic, in the most beautiful way. Purely knowing everything was better than it had been in years, and would continue to be better every single day. Because, there are many things worse than being alone.

The boys had been restless all day. The Older already knew about Santa and what would happen soon. The Younger was just aboard for the ride. I had exhausted all the normal activities for the two of them, and had one last thing planned on this my day off. In the next town over, just 30 miles South, there was a magical street that went on for miles, or so my silly memory told me. Christmas Tree Lane. I had just enough gas in the car to get there, back, and to work the next day. My wallet told me I couldn’t fill gas for two more days, but this would be worth it. The boys needed this bit of magic, and so did I.

I had returned the empty soda bottles, collecting change enough to treat us to McDonald’s hamburgers, as an added surprise. They were going to have the best night ever and think I had lost my mind!! Sadness and anger had their talons sunk deep into my neck. At times, I didn’t know if I would find my next breath. Mother. Father. Breadwinner. Funmaker. Maid. Gardener. The list went on. With the demands real and overwhelming, seldom was there time for self assessment. It was just that way.

Thankfully, the ride South was always fun for the boys. They were aware of everything around them, this being before the advent of phones or DVD’s. I Spy was a fun game to play with them on the road, amidst their precious squeals as a semi-truck would pass us. The Older soon learned to give the truck drivers a signal for a honk, as he set his giggles free when it worked. The Younger would always fall asleep in his car seat, the motion carrying him to his dreams.

McDonald’s was a rare treat. Again, no jungle gyms or running willy-nilly. We sat together and shared hamburgers and fries. All smiles. Again, a game of I Spy helped pass the time. The Older was curious.

“What’s next, Mommy?”

What WAS next for me? At that moment in time, there was no reason I should believe I would get a NEXT. Just more of the same.

“A SURPRISE!!!” More delight from these two little humans I loved more than the moon and the stars. I loved more than me.

As quick as a cricket, we were back in our blue Toyota station wagon, and in search of Shields Avenue. I had grown up in on a farm outside this town and had done this very thing many times in my own childhood. I was pretty sure the street I needed was Shields Avenue. The sun was going to bed, and the Younger was yawning as we rolled along.

“Hang on, Buddy. We are almost to our SURPRISE!” His eyelids had closed as he catnapped, happy and full. The Older’s eyes darted back and forth, taking in the sights of a new place.

The sun was now down, a veil of light still hanging in winter air. On Shields Avenue, we were creeping down the street. At this point I was sure that I was on the right street, but then again, not. Growing up in the country, just driving to see the town lights was always so exciting and beautiful. I realized now, many trips to town to see the night lights had been my own parent’s ways of stretching their dollars when there were not many left to stretch.

Cars lined the One Way street on both sides, bumper to bumper, in total darkness now. I was so disappointed that I had obviously missed the street altogether. I would need ask CC which street I was supposed to take. She and I were 5 year friends by then. The kids were restless now, and it would be best to head back home for bath and story time. The best part of our very long days.

Coming to a 4-way stop. It happened. Just like that. For us. The first car of the night.

“Mama!!!!!!!!” , the Older gasped, waking the Younger. I couldn’t speak, as tears welled up in my eyes. There were no words.

For one block, the most beautiful lights magically appeared. On both sides of the road, the massive pines were laced with lights to their tippy tops. Lights carefully hung in the most beautiful patterns on trees that were way older than I was. At each intersection, lights crossed the road high above our car. Houses on the sides of the streets lit up. Everything at once. One block of magic. Lawn scenes had taken hours and hours of preparation. Elves, Santas, Reindeer, Sleighs. On the roofs. In the grass. Shining from behind windows of quaint little houses. This was a street in which everyone was involved. Period.

Both my babes were shrieking, never having seen such beauty in their short lives. All I could do was roll on. Sad that this beauty was only found on one block in life. But, how wonderful we were to be Car #1 on this chilly night.

As I approached the next 4-way stop, the next block lit before us, and it was tears and shrieking all over again. Even more beauty. Sparkling. Surreal. Animated scenes, one more fantastical than the last. From total darkness to wonderland. It made sense now! The cars on the sides of the road had been waiting to cheat the lines. Here I was, muddling along, lucky enough to be the first of the night. I rolled down my window to hear Christmas Carols playing softly throughout the treetops. I had needed this as much as the kids.

Block after block, it was the same scenario. I would get to the intersection and another section of lights would appear. In my memory, it went on for at least 20 miles. In reality, by the 3rd block, the remainder of the Lane was lit, lasting 5 blocks in total. In my mind, I was a girl again, coming to town with Mom and Dad to see the magic of lights in the night. In reality, I was a very sad, tired, broke, really great mom enjoying a magical moment with my boys.

At the end, when the final turn would lead us back home, there stood Santa. By this time, Older and Younger could barely contain themselves. Smiling, as all Santa’s do, he gave us three candy canes. His eyes said, “Believe. Everything is going to be okay. It already is. Look behind you.”

Because it was the only song they knew so far, we sang Jingle Bells on the way home. Until it was just the Older and Me. And finally, just me, as they slept.

Santa was so right. For all the things I didn’t have, I had everything I needed in my two boys. I was safe now. And, now, I would keep them safe. There WERE worse things than being alone. I had spent 6 years in a situation that bad. This first Christmas FREE was the beginning of our new journey towards happiness. Optimistically joyful, we were home.

For Older and Younger. I love you to the moon and back. Mom

Such a fair weather word this has always been for me. My best adventures have always been during or in search of 70, as in degrees or miles per hour. 70. The most perfect temperature known to human kind. 70. The best speed to get somewhere in a reasonable amount of hours. Now I find myself speeding towards another 70, knowing age will define the quality and quantity of my adventures at some point.

My new normal for desert life now is immersed in cold. For those of you in California, this is a different type of cold. The kind that makes old injuries ache, while burning your skin if you are out in it too long. Add wind, and WINTERPAST surrounds me as adventures are limited to indoor activities for this old woman.

Bundled up in my toasty bed this morning, I thought back to that day in August with the word Adventure chosen to define VST and I. Each month, a chosen word helped me when I floundered. Descriptive words of VST and me. Month 4 the word Adventure was an obvious choice. VST and I were always chasing crazy fun in one way or another. The days flew by, because, we were concreting, building, painting, buying, selling, traveling, and using up every minute of every day. Never was there a day to lounge or study navels. We were on the go 24/7. As I’ve mentioned before, our true mission statement was, “We can sleep when we’re dead.”

One of us is now dead. And it isn’t me. I must say, normal life is a wee bit boring. Okay, really boring.

So on this August day, with “Adventure” looming over me, I made it my task to create one for myself. Still new to driving and not wanting to venture too far, I needed to find something that would take up the better part of a day. Quickly, I decided Lake Tahoe would be involved, being close and inviting.

“The beautiful 1966 Million Dollar Classic Yacht has been around the world and now cruises Lake Tahoe’s pristine waters. Measuring over 70 feet. Luxuriously comfortable. Two hours. $90.” The add hooked me, and within minutes I had booked this cruise for one on a Tuesday at 11. Such a deal, it fit the bill for my first solo adventure.

I had a girlfriend that was envious and wanting to join me, but, this adventure was importantly personal. For many, this wouldn’t even begin to qualify. VST had always scoffed at boating in which he wasn’t the captain. Having plenty of boating experience on his own, he wouldn’t have dreamed of this. All the better for my first solo excursion.

Tuesday came, and after the two hour drive to the marina, arriving early of course, I had time to sit by the water and just BE. I had forgotten how much I missed pine trees, and thought of our little cabin was bittersweet. I had forgotten how much I missed hearing noises in a marina, as I listened to lanyards clanking and flags whipping with the wind. Voices take on a mysterious fluid quality when they come from a few docks down. People forget to use dock voices, especially when husbands and wives are airing differences in how to best perform boating tasks. Justing BEING by the dock was worth the drive as I hid behind my mask, smiling.

The yacht was everything promised. An old girl, stately and solid. The captain and Stewardess were uniformed and friendly. Only ten of us boarded, and I went to the highest point on the boat, to a comfortable little perch. There, I stayed during our voyage, unmasked and free to breathe in the freshest air.

The colors that day were just for me. An American Flag flew proudly from the stern staff. The wake churned right beneath where I sat sipping champagne and snacking. The waters turned from turquoise, to blue, to royal blue, and at the deepest point, midnight with the sparkling wake glistening like stars. The other guests disappeared to the bow, and I was left to enjoy the entire two hours alone with my thoughts and a visual feast of pines, eagles nests, puffy white clouds, and a continuous shore line as the highest of the Sierra Peaks watched over me.

The morning filled me with a peace that had been missing for some time. I felt an independence and freedom in this mini-adventure. If I could make this happen, what other adventures would I be enjoying in the years to come? You can bet your bottom dollar, there will be more.

The captain chose to monitor, navigate, and control the yacht from his upper station where I sat and watched him. As we made our way back around the lake, he pointed out things easily missed. A private tour just for me.

With a glass of champagne and the beauty of the day brightening my mood, I decided on a selfie. I despise pictures. I rarely agree to them. I also despise the time it takes away from a moment when one needs to fumble with phone or camera, while finding just the right shot. I much prefer the memorable images stored in my brain, captured while being fully present. But, at this moment, a selfie was what I chose. Just me. Alone. On my very first solo adventure. Planned and executed on the best day in August. On a million dollar yacht. With my own captain right in front of me on Lake Tahoe.

Adventures come in all shapes and sizes. We’re the ones that determine whether the most mundane activity will be just that or qualify as a mini-adventure. Auntie TJ always says, “Boredom is just another word for lazy.” So. Find your own adventure today. They are there for the taking!

Settle. To appoint, fix, or resolve definitively and conclusively.

This week, my autumn of independence blows on towards it’s conclusion. The words “settle, settled, and settling” whirl around my brain. Like the leaves I try to rake, they are important parts of my life as it distills, leaving naked truths and core beliefs I must acknowledge. I am no longer stuttering with sobs of grief, although, I miss VST. I don’t find myself angry about the last year with all its mysteries and revelations. This, a most precious time, has become one in which to make choices that are exciting, self affirming, and mine.

Just as the walls of Winterpast are adorned with memories displayed of my choosing, I must now carefully select values suited for the woman I am, and those that will pave my path as I continue on my journey. The days left cannot be anything but a brilliance of my choosing in every aspect. From morning’s dark covers until evening spreads her veil, my every move must be conscious and deliberate, because my days are now short. Life is my most prized possession. It will not be squandered or carelessly ignored as I am now my own firebrand, cheering my soul, strong and beautiful after suffering through the darkest of days.

Settle.

Agree upon (as time, price, conditions).

The desert and I agree her howling winds awaken feelings in me heart. She and I have have settled upon conditions I need to accept. My hair and skin will always lack in moisture. Sand blasting winds sting a bit, rocking the Jeep as I zip here and there. I need to respect her power, the bitch that is the desert. I have found a stark beauty that speaks to my heart in ways I understand. I love her for letting me come in from the cold to rest. She soothes a battered woman that is rebuilding. She and I have settled on our terms and work well together in this place I love so much.

I have accepted and agreed to conditions in which I find myself. Of course, I would have loved my story to have ended in any other way. But, it ended the way it did. Just as things in life cease, new beginnings are possible. Winterpast is dormant now. Frost has stolen it all. The gardener was removing some bushes and plants a few weeks ago. One ugly, lone bush was bare, so I requested that the dead plant be added to the list.

“But, look, Joy,” he showed me, snapping a small branch, “Life is still here.” Yes. He was so right. Dormancy had come early to this little bush, but life was resting deep inside. My new life is embryonic and fragile. Some days, decisions and choices are intoxicating and wild, possibilities endless and exciting. Agreeing and accepting just the right ones can be exhausting, but also exhilarating as I create my own terms.

With days flying by, I see my past life with VST on the stage of my memories. Right now, some things are still best clouded in a mist of perfection, remembering them in gilded beauty, which was woven throughout our lives. But, as in any real marriage, there were peaceful days fractured as life happened. Broken families mending and blending hold a myriad of challenges and bitter splintered dreams. No man is the perfect version of himself in every aspect at all times. VST was no different.

As a reader myself, loving refreshing and fulfilling words, I often look for beauty and an escape from real troubles we all know and have. Perhaps a bit too much of that Pollyanne-ish syrup is poured over the cornflakes of this, my story. It is the totality of our years that, together, resulted in the beautiful life we experienced.

To settle.

Choosing to become romantically involved with someone who is not exactly right, but convenient to be with, as in the best available, because it is easier.

Now, my life lessons are in review. In this, my final chapter, I will be faced with defining personal boundaries. Surrounding me in safety, boundaries will provide a place in which to enjoy life. New Friends are coming into my life now. Neighbors becoming family. Bank associates learning my financial habits while watching out for me. CPA’s and lawyers tending to things in which I am not well versed.

A special friend of a different kind has entered my life. While offering minutes of quiet in which I can take a breath to feel a sense of safety, I have found kindness in MFP. As familiarity grows in sweet moments, I find a bit of relief from the constant need to divert incoming dangers from every direction. This friendship is a soft space to be present, while we overflow with intelligent conversation, laughter, and peace. Our dates are no longer identified by a number, but by brand new memories that are unfolding, slowly and sweetly, one after the other. Settled by the smile I wear when he is around, it is by total choice that we have shared time together. By total choice that our sweet dates continue.

Settle.

In my next chapter as Woman, I won’t settle, even for a moment, because it is easier or just convenient. Editors and Agents will be selected, not taken at first sight. Professional services will be carefully evaluated and chosen when needed. Unwanted influence will not change what I wear, say, or write unless I concur their ideas may enhance my health and life. Judgement, thrown like darts, will simply bounce off this tough crone while sage observations and suggestions will be up for consideration, the final assessment and choices mine, along with consequences. Trusting my inner voice, I won’t settle just because.

My mother-in-love had a saying that would bring me to teary laughter every time. A sweet and ladylike woman, she was also wickedly funny. When conversations had circled enough times about any subject she would stop, and with a delightful smile tell me,

“Joy. You must remember this. The more you stir a turd, the more it stinks.”

In other words. Stop. Don’t overthink or worry for a moment. Let things settle. What is left will be the essence of what’s truly important in any troublesome situation. Flush the rest down. Repeat. Crystalline truths will appear, springing forth from the muck of confusion.

Settled. Settling In. Never settling, just because. Settled with the New. Settled with time. Settled in very sweet arms. Not settled until more is known. Settled with what is, when everything is settled.

Yup. Just like the leaves outside. Churning, whirling, changing, revealing, and then, gone, leaving stark realities behind. I remain. Strong and resilient in happiness that is my life.

Settled. For this moment in time.

Happy Thanksgiving. This was penned last night. Tell those you cherish how much they mean to you. Enjoy………

I have had the most wonderful day. It started with my Ninja Neighbor needing ice for her brine-soaking turkey. Quickly filling a bowl, I hurried to her door, where her brilliant smile welcomed me. Her home, festively decorated, was as inviting as her giggles while we talked. Time stops when we visit, even though she is the one of the busiest people I know. As we stood at her counter, I talked to her about womanly things that are best left between friends. Even though I am twenty years her senior, in some ways, our roles were reversed, with her knowledge so much more worldly than mine. I am grateful that when the moving van arrived, it was next to her that I unpacked. This loveliest of neighbors is friendly, funny, and wise. I love her.

Some days I am so shocked at my ridiculous insecurities. The smallest details can put me in a tailspin, sometimes difficult to right. Having been brought up with feminine ideals founded way before the 1970’s when I was a teenager, wires are crossed with old fashioned thought that was outdated before I set out on my own. Now, fully capable of fielding any problem in this new solitary new life of a Senior Citizen, many decisions are still fraught with hours of personal deliberation. Debating one’s self is exhausting, because which ever side is chosen, the losing side is right there complaining, as well.

I am grateful for patience I’ve found dealing with emotions in my sweet new relationship. I appreciate, even more so, rationale thoughts about the “shoulds” and “shouldn’ts” with which I sometimes flog myself. Remaining neutral and accepting of each new day has helped me to stay in the present and enjoy every minute. I am thankful for a peaceful heart.

As Oliver sleeps next to me, I’m thankful HE is my dog, sweet and smart. He puts up with my moods and nonsense, while knowing my sense of humor and what will make me perk up a bit. He loves me most sincerely, making sure I get plenty of hugs, as he presses his little body against mine. He listens to my requests and really tries his best to comply, except when garden lights or drip systems are involved, which results in doggie shame. His adorable little soul came to me on a bleak Christmas morning, when I had the ridiculous notion I might find him unsuitable, sending him back home. He was mine from the first hug; the silly puppy he remains.

My kids are slowly checking in with holiday wishes. How blessed I am that they were the ones to be placed in my care. Each one beautiful and sincere. I am so very thankful for their love and worry for me, their mom living so far away. It’s amazing to watch them reflect the parts of their dad and step dad that I miss this holiday, for the very first time. Miles can’t erase sweet memories. I am thankful for their love and concern.

I am thankful for Miss Firecracker, and her wit and wisdom. Today, she will be my dinner guest, as we share turkey and all the trimmings. Although both new widows, our luncheon will be defined by delicious smells and tastes, as we find lots to talk about this holiday. Dear friend that she is, she is such a blessing to me.

I am most Thankful for the woman I am becoming with the sunrise of every new day. I am thankful for every stranger that stepped up this year to hold my hand, or give me a hug when things were at their darkest. I am so thankful for my ability to forge my own path, although blurred through tears at time. I am so very thankful for the day in February when VST and I decided WINTERPAST was to be ours, and ultimately, mine.

I am thankful for the years of being a Wife to my lovable VST. I am thankful for all I have learned as I was forced into the position of Widow, not of my choosing. I am thankful for the my present role as Woman, with many more experiences just around the bend. This is the best of times for us all to be thankful. Blessings do abound, we just need to stop and count them. Giving Thanks on this Thanksgiving Eve has set my brain in the right mode to find sleep and sweet dreams.

For you, my readers, please have a wonderful Thanksgiving Day. For my International readers, a day of thanks always lifts the spirit. Thank you for following my blog and helping my dreams become a reality.

Oliver and I are a lot alike. Doesn’t take much to amuse us or make us happy. This morning, while finishing my first cup of coffee, Ollie had taken real interest in his toy drawer. This drawer hasn’t been opened much lately. It holds toys picked out when Ollie was a puppy. His “brother”, a blue dachshund, only made it this long because I protect him from Ollie’s jaws. I may not have mentioned the fact that Ollie is an extremely destructive dog.

Ollie chews through the indestructible. Nylabones last minutes. Deer antlers take a wee bit longer, but not much. Oliver dismantles the most adorable cloth toys in search of the squeaker inside. No matter how many hours the two of us have discussed this, Oliver cannot help himself. In most ways, he is still just a dog.

This morning, I found his favorite tennis ball and gave it to him. One of his games is to take it next to a cabinet and push it under. He then will stare woefully at me. He turns on the guilt, never moving a muscle. Extreme puppy eye contact will work every time, and he knows this. I always get his ball for him. At this, he finds humor of the best kind. This game can go on all day, so the balls usually get put away with the other toys after awhile.

Chewy’s sells bigger balls that have a squeaker in them. So, this morning, I remembered I had two in the garage. After braving the cold, he had a brand new one. In two minutes, the squeaking apparatus was removed and eaten. Just like that. Even being a dog, Oliver never forgets the important things.

For me, there are the simplest things that keep me entertained for hours, just as the ball does for Ollie. Obviously, the first is my keyboard or journal. If I have one or the other, time matters not. I can amuse myself for hours. As the months have settled me, I have so much to say before my time expires. “Writing is life.” This bold statement opened a 5th Grade student’s essay, penned in class. She had started writing at 5. I took a little longer, however, we both knew our heart’s truth. Writing is life.

Just as Ollie chases his tennis ball until exhaustion overtakes him, I find words and stories waiting to be told. Just the other day, a girlfriend was telling me that she wished she had an exciting life like mine about which to write. We had a long discussion about the fact that plain life is exciting. Everyone has a story to tell. It is in the telling the true excitement lies. The Joy of Storytelling.

Ollie needs very little. Two meals a day. Fresh water. A bathroom with a clean pee pad and a door that closes. A safe place to rest. A toy or two. Me to love him up. Oliver is a happy camper with the basic needs met.

As I count my blessings, and look at what I really need, the list gets shorter every day. Eliminated are most things girly-girls desire, such as jewels, purses, shoes, and other possessions, having tired of those things long ago. I have always been much more interested in a well designed shovel, or leather boots that keep my feet warm when I am outside working. Levi 50l’s were my favorite jeans for so many years, when my figure looked so adorable in them. Much to my mother’s horror, her fourth daughter was a renegade, who shunned the more feminine accoutrements of life.

What I need most of all, I have. My kiddos (which are definitely not kids but successful adults) shower me with their worries and concern, while loving me for no reason at all except that they do. They are there at the ready, letting me find my way. They keep me in texts and GIFS. They hold the memories with me that make us a family. They share my grief, but also our happy memories. I can count on them and they can count on me. A good team we make.

As girlfriends go, mine are the bestest BESTIES in the world. The kind that get a sixth sense and call me when they have no way of knowing I am sprouting shingles. The kind that hold their tongue when I am going off on the road to crazy town, until I get to the turn, where they shout loudly. They giggle when I have new stories about a certain MFP who has the best eyes that gaze rather than avert. Although Oliver knows ALL my secrets, my BESTIES know a good portion and they still like me

I am now thankful that people from around the world are enjoying my writing. Never in my wildest dreams did I think someone from Saudi Arabia, Brazil, or India would find my words worth reading. It is amazing to think my night readers are having their morning coffee somewhere in the world, as they check in to read my words. I am so thankful for you, from wherever you may be reading.

I have every physical comfort I need and more. Plus a great shovel. It doesn’t get better than that. My gratitude journal overflows on this, Thanksgiving week, 2020. AS we all hold on for relief in 2021, counting blessings is a way to pass the time. Oliver is asleep clutching his new tennis ball. Time for me to get another cup of coffee. Oliver and I have the best things in common. Comforting to know I have some things just right.

On this Thanksgiving Week, I am going to re-run my first three blogs. I hope you enjoy revisiting them. Please take time to hug those you love, and save one for yourself. I will return with a new posting on Friday.

As always, I can be reached at Gg202071548@gmail.com. Happy Thanksgiving!

Although we were under the 30 minute maximum time allotment set for the service, it felt like an eternity had just ended. My legs felt jello-ed and unsure as I sank into the chair, welcoming others to take over for me.

When we, as a family, had decided the order of presenters, I had made one thing clear. I could not speak after my sweet Grandson’s song, Amazing Grace. After anyone else, I could find my voice and speak. I was pretty sure after he sang my requested song, practiced for two months with his vocal coach, I would be a sobbing mess. So, I needed to speak first. How unthoughtful I was not to realize anyone speaking or singing after me would be in the same boat.

This charming young man of 16 years, over 6 feet and yet, still the little boy I had watched grow his entire life, stood to take his place. The music started and so did he. Emotions were so raw with the ten of us sitting together. The reality of VST’s passing was something we were all dealing with, each one sobbing at different times during the service. Now, sorrow overtook him and his voice was robbed with tears taking its place. This young man, who had been acting in an adult ensemble for two years, could not act his way out of true, absolute, and raw grief for the Grandfather he loved so much.

It was at that point, I never loved My son-in-love more. For, with a Father’s sense of their son in need, he stood with him, and immediately put his arm around his weeping child. With internal strength and will that came for the depths of his soul, my Grandson started to sing a duet with his dad, after wiping tears to soldier through. Again, he was betrayed by his mourning soul, buckling under the weight of sadness and now, the surprise of the onslaught of these raw and powerful emotions. It was at that moment I could not allow him to be there alone with his Dad. I joined them on the other side. As the three of us cried through the song, we conquered it as a tribute to our family. A final tribute to VST. In that moment, the entire group in attendance, each and every person, was moved to their knees, while witnessing pure love in action. It was a moment that is etched in my soul.

The song completed, emotional surprises continued. K moved to the front with a large gift bag. We had not planned this part of the ceremony together as it was a surprise for me. She began to talk of VST’s love for me, and their love for me as well. It was then she produced a framed picture. Weeks before, she had asked if I would send her a particular picture of VST I had taken at a lake near Mammoth. The picture was one of my favorites, and really, one of the few we stopped to take of each other. We were always so fluid and busy in our outings, that we never stopped long enough to capture ourselves by camera. On this picture, K had inscribed part of the dedication VST had made in his doctoral dissertation.

The inscription read…….

“Words cannot express my gratitude, respect, and love for my darling wife and my best friend, Joy, whose continued support and encouragement made this dissertation possible.”

This beautiful gift was an emotional hug to me. As I sat stunned, her bag wasn’t yet emptied. She went on to produce an even sweeter present. K had made a Hugging Pillow out of one of VST’s dress shirts. How many days had he rushed home the back way, deeply troubled by things he had dealt with at work. Zigging and zagging, he had one mission. To return to me. How many days I had hugged that man-filled shirt and felt the tensions of the days dissipate. I was reduced to sobs as I clutched it to my chest. The beauty of these gifts makes me weep still today. I cherish my sweet daughter so much.

Masonic friends made a special presentation of a Widow’s pin, complete with instructions on when and how to wear it. As they stood encircling me, I felt their presence and the love and respect they felt for their Masonic brother. I am so blessed with the love of so many friendships VST forged.

Finally, the time had come. With my girlfriends bringing out beautiful balloons, it was time to release them into the heavens. Because no matter our grief and wishes that it were not so, it was time to Let Go, and Let God. With a Happy Birthday, we released 66 beautifully colored balloons heavenward. As they danced their up into the bright blue sky, the beauty of the moment stunned everyone. For a moment time stopped, and there a most delicate Good Bye symbolized as their colors became smaller and smaller, until they were finally all out of sight.

The beauty and healing of the ceremony created by my family and I has been fully described through my writing, inadequate and stumbling. The love required to make that day possible, started so very long ago, with a guy not much more than a boy himself and his girlish-gal grabbing love and holding on for dear life. In an explosion, over the 32 years we were together, we created something grand and unique unto its own. Our Family.

We did alright, Dr. H. Smile down and be proud. You are missed every day. We send you love. We will see you again someday, and until then, Fare Thee Well.

With pride, strength, and beauty, I was honored to offer this beautiful eulogy in honor of VST. It was the hardest of things to do, but in my own way, I needed to say Good Bye in this public way. VST was a nickname given by my outrageously funny and wonderful God Mother, TJ. It made him blush when he found out what the letters stood for, and once that happened, it was too delicious of a name to abandon. His name is something I hold very dear and close, and for now, he will remain VST or Dr. H.

My Dr. H was a man for all seasons. Trustworthy and loyal, fun and loving. He touched lives wherever he went. “Don’t Worry, Be Happy!” was his theme song. He treasured every beautiful memory made with his family.

Born on July 15, 1954, he shared his happy childhood memories often. As a boy, he was an adventurous soul. In Kindergarten, he repeatedly fell from his bike cutting his sizable forehead several times. This resulted in wearing a helmet to Kindergarten, and earning the nickname “Crash”.

When VST was in 2nd grade, his family planted their roots in the countryside of Central California. He was brought up to love God and Country, and of course, Country Western Music. During our travels together, in excess of a million miles over almost 33 years, I learned to love so many songs that Terry had listened to as a child with his beloved Grandpa. Some of my favorite titles included “This Old House” and “Great Ball’s in Cow Town”, along with ” On The Wings of a Dove”. Through the years, his love of music grew, and soon he played bass guitar in a garage band with friends.

During these years, his family would often vacation on the Central Coast of California to escape the hot valley summers. He loved body surfing and fishing off the pier with his dad. Through the years, he never lost his love for the ocean, and we visited there often, our last trip being in November, 2019. One of this last wishes, spoken just days before he died, was that he wanted to return to the ocean just once more. Me, too, VST, me, too.

In the 8th grade, a coach realized that he would benefit from football as much as the high school team would benefit from having him. He fell in love with the sport and played on winning teams for four years. He was an immediate star, enjoying football and friends. He earned his Letterman’s jacket quickly and was a leader among the other players.

During his sophomore year, settled with friends and football, he was struggling with his German class. Fifty years ago, in 1970, he transferred into choir. Music AND girls!! Win! Win! It was there he met me, a lowly freshman. Our sweet and golden friendship grew until he graduated in 1972.

Although receiving requests to play football for many colleges, VST had other plans. He started his work career early in life doing odd jobs at the parts house where his dad worked. Being smart, strong, and gifted, he learned about mechanics early on. His super power of analytical thinking allowed him to fix anything after giving the situation thought. He bought his own car and loved having responsibilities and his own money.

VST married at 18, and at the age of 21, became the fathers of twins, a boy and a girl. In 1979, another daughter was born, completing his little family. His children were the light of his life. That never changed through the years and their days together made memories he cherished deeply.

During those years, VST became employed by a John Deere tractor dealership servicing the Central Valley. In 26 years, he rose from Field Mechanic to Service Manager, and then finally, to a trusted and valued Store Manager of a multi-million dollar business. He was known and respected nationally and internationally for his knowledge of all aspects of John Deere tractors. Before retiring, he won many awards and his name is legendary in the farming world of the central valley of California. He was the guy farmers wanted to deal with.

But, as life often does, things changed unexpectedly and quickly, VST was divorced. At 30 years old a new chapter opened and he enjoyed the freedom of new friends and opportunities. While devastated emotionally and financially, he turned to God for strength and moved towards his bright and promising future.

On September 5, 1987, VST was a bachelor with no thoughts of ever marrying again. He owned a brand new home and had settled in as a loving father, enjoying his children when they were together, be it camping or at the beach. He was a tall drink of water, handsome and full of himself.

Deciding to attend our high school class reunion, VST met up with me again. I, too, was devastated by divorce and quite happy in my own solitary life with my own two young sons. Things were about to change.

After a date, in which I burned the dinner while I babysat three active chidren, we both felt this could be something more than friendship. Familiar and safe. Our friendship from long before was alive and well. Eleven days later, he proposed and I said , “Yes!”

We exchanged vows on Janaury 23, 1988 and remained devoted to each other for 32 years. We were best friends, parents, lovers, business partners, confidants, and each other’s hired hand when we couldn’t afford real ones. We were dream makers and doers. To say we were soul mates doesn’t even begin to describe our love story.

As a step father, VST provided a stable, wonderful example to my two young sons. I could never thank him enough for helping me raise them. I can never thanks his three children enough for sharing their dad with us. The seven of us had special times while they were growing up. It was hard for outsiders to decide who belonged to whom. Just a mass of kids getting into the red VW Van to go on adventures.

When we met, VST had three college credits. From 1988-2001. he earned his Bachelor and Master’s degree, both with thesis required. He then became a Doctor of Psychology in Organizational Development in 2003. This was done while working 8-5, raising 5 kids, farming 40 acres of grapes (without hired help), and going to Hawaii or the Sacramento Delta whenever the whim struck us, which was often.

In 1990, we bought our beloved vintage Thompson Seedless vineyard. There, we raised our kids and made a lovely home for his parents to join us. Many nights throughout our 17 years on the ranch were spent enjoying “therapy” on their porch. The four of us were best friends and even better neighbors, only needing to run across the drive to borrow a cup of sugar, or a needed hug. During those days, VST and I could and did count on the kids to come help with the ranch work. He always said, “There’ll be time to sleep when we’re dead.” It became our mission statement.

VST was always the one to wait up for the boys to get home on date nights. He watched to make sure his flock was safe and loved. Farming provided our family with a wonderful life. Soon, the five kids were grown professionals, all on journeys of their own.

We had the dream life of which fairy tales are made. From beautiful children growing up strong, smart, and healthy, to farming grapes and shaking raisins. From sailing in the Pacific to mountain retreat renovations. From western sky sunsets over the vineyard to sipping tropical drinks in Waikiki, when we were the only lovers on the entire moonlit beach. From beautiful new family members welcomed through marriage to gorgeous grandchildren making us proud every day. Blessings showered upon us like spring rains. Steady and Abundant.

During his third career, VST worked in Social Services. For 11 years, he helped countless battered women, foster children, and abused children and elders. He loved his work and was held in high esteem throughout the state.

After retirement and a move to VC, a new adventure unfolded for us. A Street was a stunning and inviting place to enjoy family, friends, and each other. VST walked four miles a day for most of the time we lived there and was known for residents as the Bionic Cowboy, always sporting his heavy knee braces and sharp cowboy hat. He made countless friends throughout our time there with his smooth drawl and great wit.

VST became a Master Mason through the VC lodge and cherished his friendships, duties, and memories. He also became a Knight Templar.

VST’s brief, devastating illness brought an unthinkable reality to us, after three wonderful years of travel around the country as feral parents in our RV. Through our years together, either in our rig, by car, or by plane, we visited Hawaii, Colorado, Minnesota, Maryland, Louisiana, Missouri, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Texas, Wyoming, Nebraska, South Dakota, North Dakota, Montana, Idaho, Oregon, Washington, Florida, South Carolina, North Carolina, Georgia, Iowa, Tennessee, Arizona, Utah, Washington, DC, Kentucky, California, and Nevada. He finally found his real, true dog in Sir Oliver, Gentleman of Ashworth Hall, who grieves deeply when he catches a whiff of VST from an old possession while missing his frequent walks on the pier with his best bud.

In the last days of VST’s healthy life, we found our final home together. We were both excited to start a new chapter. But Cancer won.

In closing, let it be known that a name has been chosen for this, my final home. This home, chosen together, will now and forever be known as WINTERPAST, taken from the Bible, King Solomon, Chapter 2 — 10-14

My beloved said to me,

Arise my love, my beautiful one, and come away.

For behold, the winter is past;

The rain is over and gone.

The flowers appear on the earth,

And the time of singing has come.

The voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.

The fig tree ripens its figs and the vines are in blossom;

They given forth fragrance.

Arise, my love, my beautiful one and come away.

Oh my dove, in the clefts of the rock in the crannies of the cliff,

Let me see your face, let me hear your voice,

For, your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely.

As I finished this eulogy, this yard, so lovingly created by people I never met, surrounded me with peace and a knowing heart that VST was safe now. It was done. It would be up to my children and grandchildren to finish with the last bit of the Memorial. Because, truly, more was not in me. They took over, and the celebration continued in the most beautiful way I could ever have imagined.