Author: Joy Hurt

I am living between wife and widow. Swaying towards the past, leaning into the future, trying to find my balance in the middle without a terrible fall. Rather like that childhood toy, the punching clown. If you have kids as old as mine, they might have had a similar toddler’s toy. A four foot blow up clown, with a weighted bottom. Toddlers loved to punch the nose and sending it flinging backwards, with a return trip up to knock them down, resulting in giggles and “Do it again’s”.

I hate clowns. Grief is the worst of all. White paste faced, exaggerated emotions, overly decorated to be one thing at all times, clowns can be any living thing underneath. Evil. Sad. Compromising. Denying. Angry. Bargaining. Depressed. Any real feelings might even be noticeable through the makeup, but the outward illusion dominates the focus of others. Anything at all can be painted on the outside. With clowns, you never know what you are going to get once inside. Just like grief. I REALLY hate clowns. Not to be trusted.

This Halloween doesn’t find me in the costume of a clown. Even though I feel like the clown toy as I bob and sway, my center is happiness. These days, I am anchored there most of the time. A gust of memories might blow me back a bit, but resilience helps me return to center. There are less times that memories of being the wife I am no longer disturb my peace. There are more times, the terror of aging widowhood sneaks up on me. I cannot let the old woman in.

We all have experienced it. A surprise visit from mother or grandmother in the mirror. It’s shocking, to saw the least. In my bathroom, I have a picture taken when VST and I had been married for a moment. This girl. Beautiful. In blue lace, with bluer eyes. A sweet girl in love, apparent in the expression she had for her VST photographer. The prettiest of pictures, that one is the one I think of as me. The reality is, those days are gone. The old woman has a foot hold and is setting up shop.

I never knew so many things could sink and sag at once. Grief has accelerated the process. New clothes, a bit of walking, staying busy, finding happiness, these thing have all helped. But, the truth of the matter is, I need to embrace the fact that I am of Medicare age. Signed up and waiting for December 16th, when I will be a part of that new system. I think the most similar experience for me was going into school as a kindergartner. A milestone in life. Now, I find myself a full fledged, card carrying, senior citizen.

Willie Nelson asked a great question. How old would you be if you didn’t know the day you were born? Some days, my answer would be 120. Other days 12. But his question made me realize, most days, I would not say 65. My average would be somewhere in the mid-forties to fifties. Happy years that were so incredibly busy and full with careers, projects, and love.

The old woman at the door. I cannot let her rob me of choosing just how I feel by pasting a number on my forehead. Life should’t be defined by passing years. The moment doesn’t depend on a number, but on choices, opportunities, and experiences.

The kids, who are adults, came to help me on the 8th of October. They helped me make that day a beautiful celebration of 6 months of survival as a widow. They helped me make it a beautiful day of honoring their dad, 6 months an angel. We decided to decorate for Halloween. One of the things I selected was a paper witch, which obviously flew into my door. Her flattened body can only be seen from the back, and she is hanging on my door. She has new meaning. That is the old woman. Tried to get in. Smashed flat as a pancake on my door. Sorry honey, the old woman needs to stay away for now.

This ageless woman has things to do. Words to write. A book to sell. She needs to see Hawaii about 50 more times. And go to Paris for the weekend, just once. She needs to love again. She needs to keep laughing and embrace life. There is no time for hours rocking away the day while wallowing somewhere between wife and widow. She needs to find the next in between. That place between Widow and Woman. Happiness is there. I know because I am spending days there. Sorry Old Woman, there’s no time for you right now.

Goodbye. Such a word. Sometimes Bye is a Good thing. Many times not. Yesterday was both. Good because the reality is, MMD and I have very full and busy lives that need tending. Business, writing, family, friends, and our day to day existence are all outside of the bubble in which we placed ourselves for a few days. Not so good for the obvious reasons you might think. We had a wonderful time just being mud ducks. Yesterday, there were no outward tears, only promises of a return. With that, he took flight and was gone.

Coming home to the empty house just was. Not anything descriptive. It just WAS. Everything the same as before, just quiet. A cup of coffee, half filled and cold. A bar stool askew. Laundry in mid cycle. Dishes in the sink. Evidence of activity only hours old.

I sat in the recliner with Oliver and thought for awhile. Just took inventory of the events from Saturday past until now. Every little detail, joke, and look. I filed them in my brain for easy retrieval, while periodically texting with MMD as he flew over the desert I love so much. Hawthorne, Mina, Luning, Tonopah, Goldfield, Beatty. Places I have eaten and slept, but never seen from the air.

The rest of the day was spent resting. I finished watching The King and I, and, sadly, the Kind still died. I stretched a Subway sandwich between lunch and dinner. I held Oliver and told him secrets he assured me he will hold dear. With some things he agreed, with others he gave me his judgmental gaze, before promptly falling asleep from sheer and utter boredom. With little else to occupy my time, writing brought solace through thoughts and words swirling in my head. MMD had landed safely, while focus and clarity settled my soul.

At 4:20, my phone alerted that a text had arrived. I always like to guess who is contacting me before looking. The list of possibilities is short, but I didn’t expect this.

On the screen flashed one picture, no text was needed.

The visual was confirmation that I HAD seen the name on the house. I could really drink this in without being considered a stalker. The image was so perfect. In my mind, there was nothing that would symbolize VST and I better than two mustangs in a clearing, surrounded by trees. We had found a safe place to settle and rest, protected from the dangerous elements of our world. Although we were part of a much larger herd, for a time, we were traveling alone, enjoying the fresh grass and each other. That sign said everything VST would have wanted it to say, and yet, was totally chosen for new owners with their own stories and reasons for selecting it.

How did the Mrs. know that this would mean the world to me? How did she decide to send it at just the right moment? Did she see me at the moment I saw this for the first time? I had been so stunned, I didn’t notice if anyone was present. She couldn’t have known that this visual would bring me back to the wonderful day MMD and I had shared on Sunday. Her thoughtfulness and sweet soul I first met when I found a still warm loaf of bread left at the back door after VST had died. I had cried the ugly cry then, too, in the midst of Covid solitude and grief.

The picture reminded me that I stood so many times eating grapes at the top step from a very abused and neglected vine that, in spite of that, provided summer sweetness. I spent hours painting railings and trim, washing windows, or spraying the patio to prepare this home for them. The perfect naming spot had always been right where they hung their plaque, we just hadn’t known that.

I immediately sent a text to her, thanking her for the picture, and letting her know the ugly cry had got me at the initial sight of something so unbelievably humbling and beautiful. I also sent her the link to the blog, saying the day had been documented under the name DunMovin. A few minutes later, she assured me that she, too, had experienced the ugly cry while reading it. The Mrs. is a good, good woman. DunMovin is hers to love.

Virginia City, Nevada. She pulls all the strings. She knows things. Important things. Lasting things. She chooses her own. She keeps some people. She lets some go. I think maybe, just maybe, she had a little bit of compassion and sorrow at how things ended for me. She is making amends and we are settling our differences, little by little, Virginia City, and I. Through the sweetness and grace of two very dear new owners, VST is smiling. There is a name on a place he loved so much. A perfect name for two that have come home, a perfect name remembering two that moved on. In that, I find peace.

Note–Today’s piece includes bolded words from a song I listened to last night (ALL BOLDED WORDS WRITTEN BY JONI MITCHELL). One of the most beautiful pieces from Joni Mitchell, I had never heard it. If interested Google “Joni Mitchell, Come In From The Cold”. It speaks about me at this time in my life. But then, it’s Joni, my soul sister. Thank you for being patient with my creative endeavor. Enjoy.

I FEAR THIS SENTENCE OF SOLITUDE, TWO HUNDRED YEARS ON HOLD.

Frost will not be denied. Near Halloween, its killing ways come a few days earlier or later, but, always with immediate results. The last few days of balmy autumn are behind us and the mornings are frigid. I haven’t been paying attention, finding my happiness in the sunshine rays of late mornings and laughter at my own watering hole with MMD. Just forgetting anything but moments now.

OH, AND, ALL WE EVER WANTED WAS TO COME IN FROM THE COLD.

I AM NOT A STONE COMMISSION, LIKE A STATUE IN THE PARK.

As the cold came upon the high desert the last few days, the winds grounded Goodbye. I had time to relax at the pond, getting to know MMD better. A good thing and a bad thing all mixed up in a pile of leaves. Winter is almost here, which will lead to early darkness and snow. No matter who the visitors are, the cold will turn them away towards warmer places.

In just the time it took for my gaze to turn upward seeing MMD drop from the sky in a Bonanza of possibilites until the today of farewell, my yard has taken on a new look. It morphed over nights, reminding me of the dying spring last with VST. Leaves that were golden and beautiful now cover the ground in brownish grays. The bone chilling reality of winter’s approach is here, and I must say, I feel a bit threatened and alone.

LONG BLUE SHADOWS OF mustangs, grasses grazed on by the road, OH ALL WE EVER WANTED WAS TO COME IN FROM THE COLD.

Days have passed and truly, the laughter has been the healthiest of medicines for me. I’m a realistic woman, knowing that when happiness lights on your shoulder, you need to embrace the moment and enjoy it. The chance for real communication shouldn’t be ignored or squandered. Meeting at a pond doesn’t guarantee anything except some water and rest, for lifetime alliances take years to create. Just facts of life at the watering hole.

DOES HIS SMILE’S COVERT complexity DEBASE AS IT ADMIRES? (JUST A FLU WITH A FEVER?) ARE YOU CHECKING OUT YOUR MOJO OR AM I JUST FIGHTING OFF GROWING OLD (JUST A HIGH FEVER)? ALL WE EVER WANTED WAS TO COME IN FROM THE COLD.

I often question how MMD and I both appeared at the watering hole of internet dating at the right time to find each other. He, the polymath. Me, the sapiosexual. (Please look up the terms before judging.) Months have passed and I’ve not tired of his quick wit and intelligence. The watering hole has been an interesting place to hang out, but, one never lives their lives on the run. That fact is not lost on me.

I KNOW WE WILL NEVER BE PERFECT, NEVER ENTIRELY CLEAR. WE will GET HURT AND WE will JUST PANIC. AND WE will STRIKE OUT OF FEAR. (YOU WERE ONLY BEING KIND).

So, MMD will again migrate today, heading west towards a life not parallel to mine. For now, our lives can only intersect at future points. Initial loneliness at the watering hole will diminish as new memories appear from far and wide, just to settle, drink, and rest awhile. For now, there are plenty of leaves to rake.

I FEAR THE SENTENCE OF SOLITUDE, TWO HUNDRED YEARS ON HOLD. OH, AND ALL WE EVER WANTED WAS TO COME IN FROM THE COLD.

It’s amazing how many shortcuts I have discovered during my years in Nevada. They hide in plain site unless you know them, and once you do, they are your first choice. Ramsey Weeks Cutoff. Turn right at the red barn. Left at the biggest cottonwood, not the one that is dead. Down the dirt road until you come to a fork in the river, and then, there you are. Nevada is full of shortcuts, often convenient. Sometimes the roads are not groomed, or even there at all. Dirt roads, gravel roads, ways unknown to Garmin. Ways full of the most amazing sites and sounds saved for those who know.

VST hated new shortcuts. It takes trust to turn on a road hoping it joins up to the main highway somewhere along the way. Therein was the problem. VST was a black and white guy that wanted everything mapped out before the Jeep ever left the drive. ETD and ETA were always calculated along with approximate time used in between. He metered minutes like gold, maximizing time and squeezing the most out of life that he possibly could. I find myself not as good at this.

Now, the shortcut for which I am searching doesn’t exist, anymore than teleportation. A turnoff from unexpected grief and sadness. The road through my wilderness is odd. Things can be going along great, even marvelous. New friends. Unexpected phone calls. Welcomed visits. Happiness. Calm and quiet. But for the briefest moments, terror in the dark woods. Fleeting thoughts dangle. What if? When? How will I? Why? How could it? Where are you? Treacherous obstacles that can trip up the most solid individual, resulting in racing hearts and sweaty palms.

I navigate through, hoping to avoid a fall and massive head injury, or worse. Sooner than soon, the path clears and I arrive at new and wonderful destinations. Thankfully, the detours are less these days. But, they arrive when they want to, not exactly because I have chosen to turn in that direction.

It is said that grief will not be denied, lest it will be there to fester later, like an unhealed wound. This worries me. These days, approaching Month 8, I find myself content and happy. I look around and marvel at the semblance of order I see in my day to day life. It is similar to my old life, but a new life all its own. I look at pictures on the wall hanging in new groupings or places they haven’t ever been. A “kitchen” picture now hangs in the bedroom. A favorite vase always in the china hutch now hugs fresh flowers on my dining room table. New perspectives on old belongings. Every aspect of my life is now mine to decide. I own the results.

Anger has eluded me so far. I question what exactly it is that I should be angry about? I suppose I could sit on that bench for awhile, rolling around in Anger-ville, but it seems pointless. It also seems a shame to cloud wonderful years of my life with bitterness. For any dark thought, I can always come up with thoughts of gratefulness that are comforting.

VST was a proud, stoic, funny, intelligent guy. I must believe in my heart that his passing was exactly as he chose. He had been sick for longer than we embraced the reality. Looking back, the visions of things to come were appearing in lonely nights in Cheyenne, and even on the bluffs of San Simeon. Unidentified and years prior to death, there were cancerous moments that remained unexplained until, in retrospect, everything became clear. If we would have discovered the end years before, the end would have still arrived. Cholangiocarcinoma will not be mitigated or denied. Like seeing an unavoidable car crash from years before, while speeding towards the inevitable with eyes wide open. I am thankful that our car crash was immediate and final, and I know VST felt the same.

This road of grief will lead me through different landscapes, but, I am still in control of me. For those moments when it becomes overwhelming, I know God will walk with me through the worst, and heal me. Knowing that, I continue on.

Yesterday, with internet down, I went on a visit to VC. My friend, Mr. MudDuck, MMD, was visiting and we decided to venture out to buy a cowboy hat, as his had been lost. VC is a great place for such purchases, with hats ranging in cost from $30 all the way up to $Thousands.

The weather was a beautiful golden day, autumn leaves showing their color all the way up Six Mile Canyon. Bright blue skies were above the beautiful mountains surrounding VC. Sugarloaf Mountain watched over the town, already bustling with tourists by 11:45. The usual fight to find a parking space was on, and we parked toward the south end of town, and walked back to the hat shop.

So many choices were on display. Stetsons, straw or wool felt, in every type of brim possible. Black, tan, grey, brown, and every color in between. We were in hat heaven, and after a complete search, settled on a chocolate brown Stetson that fit just right. Happy with the purchase, we walked around the town a bit, and I ventured into the post office to check my mail box, which was empty. I guess it is time that I relinquish my keys and possession of the box back to the Post Mistress, giving up my last physical tie to VC.

Noon had passed and we were both hungry. We decided to visit the restaurant that had kept me fed while VST was so ill, and after he was gone. The owners had been so gracious, watching over me and making sure my orders were hot and fresh when they were picked up. We both ordered the Gospel Fried Chicken with mashed potatoes, gravy, and cole slaw, which was just the best.

They seated us by the window in front of the 100 mile view, while the ghosts of so many meals past ran through my head. How many times VST and I had eaten there with all the A Street Gang and the former owners. How many special parties had been planned and celebrated. Just last January, VST and I had enjoyed a meal, announcing that we were planning to stay for at least another year in VC. I remember the neighbors all happily cheering. It was then, VST announced that our house had a name that he had chosen. The DunMovin House. Period. Because, we were DUN MOVIN.

At the end of our lunch, the new owners brought us a piece of cheesecake to share. When VST was so sick, and after he had passed, I would call in my orders on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. So many times, there was a piece of cheesecake included, just because. Just because they knew my heart was breaking. Because they knew it would make me feel the least bit better. Because they cared so much. That cheesecake was LOVE.

MMD had mentioned that perhaps we could stay in VC for the night sometime, so it was the perfect time to take a ride around the town. I found myself driving right up to A Street to view the Cobb Mansion, a lovely old Victorian that would be a nice place to spend the night. I kept traveling down A Street past neighbors, thinking of all memories six years could hold. It had been impossible for me to return even for a few minutes until recently and now, there I was, almost to our old house.

The new owners obviously loved her as much as we had, and she looked just the same. MMD commented on the deck and how fantastic the view must be from up there. I assured him it was. And, then, I saw. I burst into the ugly cry, almost driving off the road as we went past. MMD didn’t understand what I had seen that he hadn’t, and besides, wouldn’t have understood what made the tears flow instantly.

To go back in time, VST had passed and it was the Friday of my moving weekend. T and K were visiting to help with the move, when the phone ran. It was the new buyers asking if they could stop by. It was the perfect time for them to do so, as I had time to show them lots of details about the house.

During their visit, the topic of naming houses came up. I mentioned to them that although there was no plaque on the house, VST had, indeed, named it DunMovin. I shared the story of the day at the restaurant with neighbors surrounding us while they listened intently.

“Well, this is interesting, because on the way to see you tonight, we were having a discussion about what to name the house. We couldn’t come up with anything,” said Jim. ‘How would this name have been spelled?”

“DunMovin.”

“Just as I would have spelled it myself.” He smiled. “We shall name the house ‘DunMovin’ in honor of VST.” Just like that.

Getting back to yesterday….. I was looking at the top deck, when, my gaze fell to the front door on the bottom floor. To the side, in at least 10″ letters was the name “DunMovin” in flat black metal, sharp and crisp. It was then, I lost it. Well done, VST, well done.

That part of my life is finished. Like a deliciously wonderful novel, in which the reader slows their pace to make it last longer. It was the most beautiful story lived in real life together there on A Street. In fact, VST was DunMovin here on earth, and has moved on into his new heavenly digs. I pray the new owners find every bit of sweet loveliness built into all VST’s projects with skill and perfection. I hope it wraps them with comfort, as it did us.

DunMovin House, A Street, Virginia City, Nevada. Go see her. She is magnificent.

Waiting for widowhood to come is a grueling task. VST and I often talked about our wishes should the unthinkable happen. It would usually be banter about who would check out first, and why. ending up with both of us being certain we would be the lucky one to go. Never did we see our Easter surprise approaching. Yet, we watched it approach for at least two years, unrecognized as the killer it was. When the diagnosis came, we were told we had two months. In reality, we endured Hospice services for 7 day, and VST was gone, the worst of the cancerous nightmare, nine weeks, from start to finish.

VST was my guy climbing the hill to come home to me every night. For the last 13 years, we lived in the mountains, trying to get as far away from civilization as possible. While working, each of us chose a one hour commute to and from work. As a teacher, I was always home first. Dinner on the stove, my internal clock would alert me to the fact that he was on his way home, no matter what I was doing. Then the phone would ring, confirming it.

Each day, he would wind his way home, coming “the back way”. After dealing with management stressors of Child Protective Services, his safe place was back on the hill with me. He would call as soon as he left work, the strain in his voice palpable through my phone. He was never allowed to discuss details, so we would talk of DYI projects, or the latest play we were involved with. The twists and turns would lead him back and forth, as he unwound like a spring, until his voice would be gone, because the reception was too poor. Ten minutes later, he would walk through the door. I lived for the car on the hill, taking turn after turn as he came home to me. My life was the richest when he was there. Once home, he shed his suit and tie, and became VST. Sporting shorts and tees with his bronze tan showing through, he could forget about the horrors of the day and just be.

Through the years, we became involved with a theater group offering melodramas to the mountain community. That involved night time drives up the hill to become people we weren’t. He always made friends so easily, and soon became the hero of the theater with his booming voice and handsome looks. He easily made every damsel swoon, on stage. In real life, I was lucky enough to be his leading lady.

When we moved to VC, the hill became a mountain. Mt. Davidson. Geigher Grade, a Nevada State Highway, was the mountain road we used to go to Reno. Many people avoid VC because of it, due to many possible hazards. Boulders, some the size of small horses, fall so often, the road crews groom it daily. Blinding snow in the winter often closes this route. Mustangs saunter across it in the winter, standing on the road in the middle of blind curves to lick the salt. Geigher Grade is not for the faint of heart.

Once we moved to VC, I stopped driving for six years. I can’t give you a reason why, except that VST was a wonderful driver and he loved it. I was a wonderful driver who hated it. So, he drove and I was wingman. This worked, until it didn’t. When cancer came knocking, I suddenly became the designated driver after never having driven in the snow. How I avoided this, I know not. But, avoid it I had.

VST had a doctor’s appointment in Reno, and by then, was too weak and sick to drive. So, just like that, I was now the driver. There was an added tension in the car, as snow was still falling in March. Not enough to close GG, but enough to create ice. Enough to engage the 4 wheel drive, which will help you navigate through snow, but not do much to mitigate a skid on ice. I didn’t mention that in many places, the plunge from GG, should you skid off, was 500 feet or more. Straight down. Unsurvivable. Eleven miles of switchbacks, and the most heavily used route to VC.

As we left for the doctor, VST in his patient way, had to explain, through pain and confusion, how to engage the 4WD, and when to slow down. He watched for ice and horses until he fell asleep, half way down the mountain. My first drive in snow was a total success, even earning a compliment from him, although he did mention I went over the yellow line twice, smiling at his critique.

Today, I remember that boy on the hill hurrying home from work to my arms for 32 years. You could set dinner on the table steaming and he would appear with a “Hey Darlin, it smells great in here. Let’s eat.” The house has stopped smelling great at 6 pm, because cooking for one just isn’t the same. Dinner time might be at 3pm or 8 pm now, because it isn’t planned around another, just me.

I am sure at some point, I will be again waiting for a special person, but, there are no hills where I live now. Just flat straight roads. There is little snow here, and the sense of danger is much less. I am slowly becoming the person that makes friends easily. My driving is safe and sound, and, even though I still don’t always love it, I am finding my way.

So, where in the heavens, can that boy be? I am sure he is driving up hills, laughing all the way. Making friends, and find new parts to play. Save the best part for me, VST. I will happily be your leading lady when I arrive someday.

To write is to breathe. To write your life is to listen to your inner soul and translate thoughts and feelings to paper or computerized characters. Such a quiet, unassuming activity to those watching from afar. All encompassing if done right, the writer is transported to another plane to heal, while giving memories life. I am a writer. I knew this early on.

I wouldn’t ever agree that my childhood existed on a REAL farm. A REAL farm would have at least three animals in excess of 1500 lbs., along with the smells and noises that go along with that. A REAL farm would have a barn with a loft full of hay. We had neither. We lived on a vineyard of 40 acres. Roughly 16,000 Thompson Seedless grape vines, most planted in the early 1950’s of a variety that is almost entirely extinct today.

There were animals on our farm. Hundreds at times. But, to me, they counted not. They didn’t whiny, neigh, or moo. They didn’t give milk. You couldn’t ride them on grand adventures. The only thing they did is provide meat. For a family of seven, that was everything. They were a great source of food, but little other value to a writer that needed visual confirmation of truths. My truth was, we lived in the country, not on a farm. We needed a horse.

One day at school, my wise teacher announced that she had read about a contest just right for me. It was a writing contest. My beloved teachers knew that I was a special writer even in grade school. Knowing my longings and my heart, in her most beautiful, calm way, she whispered, “Joy, the prize is a Morgan colt.” She had my full attention.

The Morgan Horse. Equus caballus, all traced back to a stallion named Figure born in 1789, suitable for beginners. Totally American. Everything about the Morgan horse became first hand knowledge to me by the time I returned home that afternoon. Racing into the house, I told my mother at once that I would be winning my own Morgan horse soon. That we needed to ready a corral of the correct proportions and build a big red barn, because it needed respite from the hot summers and our wet, dreary winter fog. We would need to go shopping for brushes, buckets, halters, leads, and everything a horsewoman would need. Because. I. Was. Winning. The. Horse. Period.

My mother was in her own world at the kitchen sink and didn’t lift her head to say Hello, or even hear me enter the house.

Education was key as I was growing up. There was always plenty of lined paper, pencils, erasers, and a dictionary too heavy to lift that we were required to use when we ran across a unknown word. I quickly grabbed everything I needed and got to work. Two hours later, my finished piece in hand, I ran to her for the first proofreading and suggestions. Her words killed my dreams.

“A what? What assignment is this? For what class? Where is your homework for tonight? Look at the time. Child, we have no room for a horse, nor are we getting a horse, nor will this writing win anything but a trip to the trash. What is that woman teaching you these days?”

In astonishment, I looked at her with wide, broken eyes, as my manuscript dropped flatly to the trash, unread. Dreams of my favorite scent, horse sweat, vanished. Someone else would win that colt to love and cherish until it died. I had already decided that colt was my real family, and would be until I was at least 40, becoming the oldest child in my dreams. Secretly retrieving it, I mailed off that very entry with a stolen envelope and stamp, uncorrected and genuine. I waited at the mailbox for weeks, often sitting at the drive for signs that a beautiful horse trailer would drive right around the corner with my horse inside. This added up to a lot of waiting in the wind for nothing.

My writing spirit didn’t die that day. It was born. In my darkest days, it was writing that has helped me survive life. Through the death of my boyfriend to cardiac arrest at just age 16, adventures in the Swiss Alps, college, a solitary life in Moldova, marriage, children, divorce, and life, key parts were memorialized with writing. Joni Mitchell, who is perhaps one of life’s all time BEST writers through lyrics, once wrote, “Laughing and Crying, it’s the same release”. I would concur. However, I would add writing to the laughing and crying.

VST was not patient or understanding of my literary needs. He was going, doing, and noisily planning projects years down the road. Being left handed, handwriting was a tedious, laborious task that he tried to avoid. Writing memorialized too many clues about personal feelings for others to find in years to come. It revealed too much of his very private heart. He was always silently curious about the fascination and love I had for writing. I always felt he was annoyed that the pencil was not something he could fully win against. He only mentioned one time in 32 years that he would love to know what I was writing in a personal journal, and I declined to share. The judgement would have taken me back to the sink and my mother so many years before. VST never fully appreciated that I am a writer. And a good one.

Now, open the floodgates and let the words roll. There is no one here to discount them as they fly out of my fingers onto the screen. No one to change a story that, in my memory, is correct and factual. No one to say, “You Can’t Write THAT!!!!” “You Shouldn’t Write THAT!!!!!” “A Nice Girl would never say THAT!!!!!” Or worst of all, “That is Terrible. You will NEVER publish anything”. No one except myself, and that voice is weakening every day.

I wrote a few days ago that I am a woman to be reckoned with. I embrace those words. Although the Morgan horse was never mine, I live among the mustangs now. We are free agents here on the high desert. Fat and sassy. On the move. Choosing our next steps with wise eyes and full hearts. We are Nevada. I wonder what stories they would write if they could. If I listen and watch carefully enough, I bet they will tell me.

Buy a journal. Write YOU!!!!!!

Halloween is nearly upon us, beginning the cycle of holidays over the next weeks and months. Hard to believe that Easter 2020 was the start new beginnings for me. As the months have marched on, only one dreaded anniversary has passed so far. I made a conscious choice to celebrate instead of mourn. I have those same intentions for the next three months, so my planning has already started.

In VC, Halloween was a major event. On C Street. Perfect place considering the ghostly inhabitants that are regulars in the town. In case you didn’t know, VC is full of spirits, liquids and the other type, too. For a time, there was a Zombie Run in which participants went overboard to dress up, choosing a type of character. Walking Dead or Victim. Each Victim had a flag. The Walking Dead were to steal the flags of the Undead. All of this in a town built in 1875. At the start of the race, the runners were trapped in shipping containers and released at certain intervals. Very Halloween-ish.

Local kids dressed up and participated in the parade down C Street, while the shop owners had candy for them. Up on A Street, it was silent. No doorbell rang. Nothing. Just another day in VC. I might mention Halloween is not the only holiday celebrated in my state. October 30th is Nevada Day, formerly known as Admission Day. There are huge parades and celebrations then, too. This is all very confusing and busy, with parades going everywhere. The two events compete with each other. Both get their share of attention.

VST and I only dressed up a few times for Halloween during our marriage. The most memorable time was when we were newly married. We were invited to a REAL adult Halloween party. The host was sparing no details and it was important that we looked just right. I sewed two full body costumes. VST went as a felt shark. I went as a cute fish. It was one of the most fun nights of my life, and the costumes were a hit.

My kids, who are not kids but fun loving adults, came to visit me just a few weeks ago. They helped me decorate the house with appropriate ghosts, spiders, and ghouls. Again, I find myself in a neighborhood in which I may have two resident Trick or Treat-ers, my favorite neighborhood brothers. I already bought them special treats.

For my Halloween plans, I intend to do the following. Black light cleaning of the bathroom. This is truly the scariest thing you will every do. Buy a black light at the pet store. It is meant to identify wayward kitty and puppy urine. When urine is present, it glows under the black light. If you want to see it in action, please go to YouTube and Look for “Gals in Grace-Black Light Cleaning”. I hope you find this as hilarious as I did. Black light cleaning is not for the faint at heart and a great way to spend Halloween morning. The upside is that during Covid, we cannot be clean enough. So, run to the store, get one, and try it out in your bathrooms.

I plan to watch scary movies all day. I’m going to make a special Tonic drink for the evening, and enjoy the magic of black lighting. The quinine, present in Tonic, glows, making a ghoulish concoction. I don’t drink alcohol, so my “drinks” are always virginal. But, this is a fun thing to do whether celebrating alone, or hosting a party. One year, the A Street neighbors were down and we all had ghoulish libations. Such a sweet memory.

The time is changing the day after Halloween. This is a small challenge, because Oliver and I get up every day to go to work writing very early. By 5, he is awake and wanting his breakfast. On November 1, we will all be wanting that extra hour of sleep, but, Oliver doesn’t wear a watch. It may take a few mornings for him to adjust his sleeping schedule. Maybe me, too. I love this time of year. The darkness gives permission for my early bedtime. Dinners of rich stews and casseroles. Bright star lit skies. A need for extra blankets on the bed. All delicious to me. VST hated this time of year. He was a Spring/Summer guy. To my Fall/Winter, he cringed, knowing the cold would bring extra pain and hours of darkness that he could not create things outside. On this we never found common ground, but were happy for our partner in their perfect time of year.

November 1 is the day I give myself permission to start decorating for Christmas. I love having the house fully decorated for Thanksgiving. So, the boxes will slowly come in. This year, I plan to go all out. I just purchased a large yard display that simply says “JOY”. I plan to enjoy Christmas music all season, and say Merry Christmas to people I meet. I plan to wrap myself in the meaning of the season. Love. Birth. Happiness. Wonder. Family. Memories. All of it.

On Thanksgiving, I have my day planned. Oliver and I are quite thankful for each other. We are going to spend the day watching TV and cooking the best Thanksgiving dinner of my life. Complete with all the trimmings. We’re going to share cuddle time and be grateful for all the wonderful blessings we have, eating too much and going into a turkey coma together. If others can come, there will be plenty, but, Ollie and I will be enough, by ourselves.

I am planning to have an afternoon Meet and Greet holiday party for those on my “New” street on my birthday. I haven’t met many of the people that live here, and this will be an opportunity to have a party with my New Friends . Of course, the little boys down the street will be invited, as well as the neighbor next door that is one of the “Gals in Grace”. I plan to invite old friends from my life in VC, as well. Any of you that know me know I don’t celebrate my birthday, ever. It’s on December 16th. Just the worst time of year for a birthday. This year, that day is going down as the BEST day, and I plan to enjoy every minute.

A Holiday letter will be to everyone that helped me get through 2020, another tradition that is new to me. I have a long list and will enjoy sending cards out to my cherished angel friends. It will be another way to tell everyone how much they are loved and appreciated. It will reaffirm how much I needed them to get through this year.

My main point here, is all of these things are conscious choices. I have been DREADING the holidays. In the past, they were not always happy times for me. Silly. Always a lot of extra drama, being a blended family. Birthday blues. Empty nest. All in all, some were pretty miserable. Enough already. I now KNOW reasons it would be okay for me to be miserable. I am CHOOSING not to be.

I was watching “The King and I” last night, after a phone call left me Sleepless in Fernley. In the beginning, Anna and her son sang a song that made me smile. “Make believe you’re brave and the trick will get you far. You may be as brave as you make believe you are.” So, bring on the holidays. I will be writing about every messy little bit of it.

Dear Readers,

Please share Grievinggardener.com with anyone you think would benefit. In the first month, I now have 733 separate hits from 184 log ins. I am grateful to my loyal readers. Thank you so much.

Being a new widow is incredibly lonely, we can all agree. When widow’s fog starts lifting, the wilderness is quite stark. In my case, I have given you a view into my very rich life with VST. All that is categorized in memories now, leaving me to chart a new course. I miss having a friend to hang out with, just to enjoy day to day things.

I am a healthy woman. At 64, I am on zero medications. My last cold was three years ago. I do not suffer from arthritis, lumbago, vertigo, spontaneous combustion, projectile vomiting, or hives. Nothing. I’m healthy. I do not question this, but thank God for giving me such an amazing body in which to live. I know my limitations, wishing I could hike the Pacific Crest Trail just once in my life, but, that isn’t possible. I refer to myself as a normal 64 year old woman.

So, being normal in this age of Covid, and being left to what choices remained, I decided to try my hand at internet dating. One morning, being very cautious, as VST led me to be, I found myself at WalMart buying a $100, non traceable credit card to make my purchase of PREMIUM Services. Without PREMIUM services, some sites don’t even let you see pictures of gents you might SMILE at. At the Rounder with a million choices, I knew every person in Walmart was looking and thinking, “OHHHHHH, the Widow Ho(WH) is going to go online now.” Funny, our minds can sabotage so many things. Far from any WH, terrified, and queasy from the experience, I paid for the card and raced home.

I did a Consumer Report’s comparison of sites and picked “The #1 Choice With Singles Over 50.” Wouldn’t you?

Now, if you have ever gone online just to pass time, there is a different kind of website you might go to, as I have. More relaxing and just as good a chance of finding a real date, (wait for explanation of what that is in a bit). Explore.org. Wonderful, beautiful site with lots of choices for visual entertainment. The one that is the best comparison to internet dating is the African Watering Hole. As I watch this very moment, the comparisons are astounding.

First, I notice the birds chirping in the background. This would be comparable to the profiles everyone writes about themselves. Everyone who internet dates is the following. An outdoor expert who skis, kayaks, snowshoes, snowboards, hikes 500 mile weekends while carrying all necessary camping gear and a telescope for star gazing. They pack along 5 Star meals that they have cooked on their very own Wolf brand camping stove. Their BMI is under 5. They are a perfect 6’1″ with children and grandchildren that are all beautiful. They want only those to answer that align with their astrological sign, political views, knowledge of DYI projects, and gardening skills. On their down time, they review wines and travel extensively to Italy to help with grape selection for the next year’s award winning vintage.

I notice the beautiful setting at the African pond. Now, many people think it prudent to post the following in their photo gallery. Pictures of sunsets. Their new mani/pedi. Their pets. The ceiling. Their boat, motorcycle, garden tools, or cars. They post pictures of themselves on the Great Wall of China which from the year 2000. And the list goes on. All pictures are as beautiful as the African watering hole I am looking at, except when they are not. Men without their hair combed. Beards. Lots of beards. Combed and uncombed. Muscle shirts. No shirts. EWWWWWWWWW. All respectable and approved by the site. All telling individual stories without saying a word.

My African watering hole is often void of any animals, another comparison I have made. There are days that no new individuals view my profile. Days and days go by. The same individuals “stop by” to view my profile with not even a smiley face. Just an alert from the Internet site that these gents viewed my profile. Hmmmm. Okay. This becomes tiresome, but, also, these guys have become like brothers. They check on me in the morning. They check on me in the evening. Just checking to see if my profile is alive and well. Nothing more. Not a message sent. Not a word exchange. Like window shopping, really. Drive by Internet profile visits.

The types of animals I am seeing on Explore.Org as I write this today are elephants and Mud Ducks. The elephants are sunning themselves, after wallowing in mud. They all are practicing social distancing, staying exactly the same distance from each other. They are quiet and slow. They all seem a little irritated with each other and this Social Distancing thing. The Mud Ducks are another story. They are on high alert. Although also enjoying the venue, they are ready to spook and fly away at the slightest alarm. I am the Mud Duck in this scenario. I am watching for alligators, unseen. Hippo eyes bulging just above the water line ready to charge. I am watching the irritated elephants trumpeting, but keeping social distance. I am also alert and listening for predators lurking in the grass.

A giraffe just wondered in. His human counterpart are those of us that have stuck our necks way out in this endeavor, only to find out it is very complicated to get close enough to the pond to get a drink. Our legs and neck are way to long to drink and watch for all the lurking dangers out there. We just stand around thirsty, most days.

The comparisons are endless, but there is one thing I must share that I have learned through this experience. BEWARE OF SNAKES IN THE GRASS.

Now, we all know the internet is a dangerous place. Until you have really vetted a person out by meeting friends, family, and the dog, you know them not. If you are not invited into their real life, beware. If they do not share even one name of a close friend, pay attention to that. If they only contact you at certain times of the day, they may be on a milk run for their baby mama and five children at home. But, there is a bigger danger.

Beware the Male Lion of Prime Age. Mane glistening. Demanding control of the pond, so to speak. His photo is a thing of beauty. A perfect 6′, always. Educated. A world traveling, fit and fun Romeo who is looking for the love of his life to share the pristine beaches of Key West with, while on your first world tour of many. Your heart stops when THIS guy views your profile. You nearly faint when he sends you…………..A HEART!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You nearly SWOON when he sends you a long email about how you are the most beautiful creature he has ever seen. You are the one that he is longing to know all about. Every detail, and spare none, because he will sit and read every one. ON AND ON AND ON……BLAHBLAHBLAH.

If you listen to no other advice listen up here. This guy does not exist. He is to be blocked, before you become an internet victim of that LION. Period.

Here are a few ways to identify them, and these predators are prevalent. A picture that is too perfect. A profile that has odd mistakes in grammar. A profile written with horrible punctuation. A profile that talks a lot about finding their perfect life long love. Writing describing a PERFECT individual who understands perfection doesn’t exist. Red Flags should be popping up when you see these things.

They will insist that you tell them all about yourself. If you turn the question around, they disappear into the countryside. Give them NO information. In fact, give NO ONE any personal information until you have spent time “talking” to them online. These LIONS will also immediately try to cut you from the heard to enjoy sharing more, if only they could talk to you on YOUR email address. They will send you their phone number so you can talk more. Always decline politely, until you have enough information about them to know they are not a cloud based boyfriend. The smallest grammatical error can identify them. So read carefully.

The bottom line is this. For me. I am a normal 64 year old woman. I’m not going to attract the likes of a movie star. Not even present day Tom Selleck or Harrison Ford. Not even. 65 year old seniors, men or women, are Old Goats. Period. Some have fared better than others. But, look in the mirror. Turn profile visits into real meetings very carefully.

I have met five men for either coffee, breakfast, or ice cream. All men were very sweet. Truly. Just not a match for a future meeting at the watering hole. I spent a long time talking to each one online, then a longer time talking to each one on the phone. We met at very public places and I watched my rear view mirror when I left to make sure they didn’t follow me home. I have been stood up once. I met one special gent that quite possibly saved my life for real, over dinner, involving an ambulance ride on our first date. We may both be Mud Ducks, that remains to be seen. For now, we are Geographically Unacceptable (G U) friends.

As promised, the definition of a REAL DATE is the following. One person asks the other if they would like to accompany them on the date. Dating parameters are agreed upon, as is the time. At agreed time, the door bell rings, and one person arrives to pick up other person and escort them to agreed venue. Pleasantries are exchanged during date. One person returns the other person in same condition they were in when they were taken from their home. This concept has been lost on many people.

Internet dating is a great place to start a list of what it is you are even looking for in a FRIEND. Period. If you would not be friends in life, such as the lion and the gazelle, what hope is there for you in the future? Also, make sure if you live near the African Watering Hole, you don’t accept profile visits from someone living in Katmai Alaska with the bears. This is GU. GU relationships seldom work, are cumbersome, and a nearly impossible to really get to know someone. Only date within a distance that you are capable and willing to drive.

I hope this information has been helpful to those of you that are thinking about Internet “Dating”. Be careful and smart. Always tell at least two people the entire name of the person you are meeting, the type of car they will be driving, where you are going and when you will be back. Always meet in a public place and look your very best. If possible, give the waitress a “Head”s Up” that this is your first meeting. Just share that when they come to ask for your drink order. Park within view of windows of businesses. Watch your back when you leave. Never give your address out until you have information about the person you are just meeting. Make sure a close neighbor knows you are entertaining someone you don’t know well. My neighbor and I have a code word that only we know. If I call her and say the word, she will come ready to Ninja Kick unwanted person out.

I will be sharing any new updates about my experiences in the future. Just remember, Internet Dating and the African Watering Hole are so alike. For now, I am learning a lot about myself through this experience. I am hoping that somewhere out there, there’s another Mud Duck wanting to meet.

Flying miles above the high clouds sipping club soda between Fresno and Los Angeles, VST and I would begin to unwind for our journey from LA to Honolulu. Snuggling close, we whispered about all the touristy things we would do upon arrival, compared notes on expected weather, and took turns sharing the latest restaurant reviews. Hawaii was our safe place. Sometimes, I would tell coworkers we were just vacationing at the beach, a little embarrassed we went to the islands so often. It never got old, or boring, or disappointing. The biggest reason was because VST was with me, his Hula Girl, and I was with my VST.

As a child, the thought of flying was never frightening to me. I remember going to the airport when any family member was traveling somewhere. We could walk right out on the tarmac to hug Goodbye. With propellers whirling, the plane holding our beloved would taxi to the runway and take off within minutes. We would strain to watch them for as long as we could, cheering and waving way after they couldn’t see us anymore.

My first major flight was with my mom and dad to Hawaii to visit a sister living there. I was in high school and remember getting up hours before we needed to leave to prepare as if it was for Sunday morning church service. Bathed, hair beautiful, new outfit chosen just for the trip, we left for the airport. No one would have thought of comfort first. It was style all the way. Our meals were served on real plates during the flight, with glasses, cups, and silverware. The stewardesses spoiled us rotten and we were old friends by the time we landed. Now, THAT was flying.

For me, the payoff of adventure far outweighed any worries of possible disaster awaiting. I avoided focusing on “What ifs?” longing to see new and exciting places. The actual plane rides were part of the excitement and a treat I was always happy to experience. From watching styles of uniforms change over the years, to watching airline attendants become more abused and jaded about their work, flying commercial has always been a fascination of mine.

Even after 9-11, the thought of flying to a special destination with VST was thrilling. I had traveled more than he had, living in Switzerland and Moldova before we married. He had expressed some interest in visiting Europe one day, but as the years marched towards retirement, VST’s health was declining. Suffering from arthritis, he could no long sit comfortably for even the five hour flight from California to Honolulu. We would travel to Hawaii for our final Aloha in 2013.

VST could, however, still drive. And drive he did. Well over a million miles in our time together. For 30 years, we chose to live in remote areas without the luxury of city life. Many extra miles we shared running to town for a variety of things. Traveling to Costco, Lowe’s, Home Depot, Macy’s, and other big stores made our odometer spin. But, it gave us time to share thoughts and feelings, happenings during our work days, and dreams about what we would do next.

Driving made us value time more. Destinations were carefully chosen with consideration of scenery and points of interest in mind. It made us truly appreciate the vast prairies and endless plains of our beautiful country. We saw first hand the power of vicious storms popping up out of nowhere. We found rare treats like the Terry Bison Ranch outside of Laramie where we sat out a tornado warning, or the sweetness of locals, like the owner of the Crazy Women Campground in Gillette. Driving let us change our minds and reverse course if needed, just because there was a sign that said a meteor site was 25 miles to the south.

Now, when I drive, I feel closest to VST. I think of the Wyoming plains, Custer, South Dakota, or the 1,000 lakes of Minnesota. There is something wild and rich that is missed every time one flies 10,000 feet above it all. Details like the spooked look of a startled mustang, the switching tail of an agitated bison, or two lonely seagulls spiraling together against big blue sky over a bluer lake.

I have discovered that a car trip alone to Lake Tahoe is the best trip for me now. Walking down the morning sidewalk just yesterday, nothing was lost through propeller and engine noise. I smiled at strangers and we exchanged Hello’s. I felt the breeze against my cheek and watched it ruffle the golden leaves of the aspen trees. My feet carried me at the proper speed for reflecting on what is important in my life. People? Pets? Family? Love? The truth (even when it means another goodbye)?

Laughing at myself for chasing silly dreams propelled by illusionary sound bytes, I realized I am happily grounded. Grounded all by myself for today, knowing again, I am enough. That I am choosing the right path for me, at just the right speed. Distractions of cruel words from onlookers don’t need my attention, for I am laser-focused on what I need to do right here and now. I know myself the best, and I am a force to be reckoned with.

Today, I’m driving myself to retrieve Oliver from his Puppy Camp Extravaganza. We will drive through miles of high desert, wandering with the mustangs in search of our next patch of Nevada peacefulness, always on the move. My Jeep and I are one, driving down the highway of life towards today’s adventure. Grounded, without need for flight, I am the happiest I have been in a very long time.