Author: Joy Hurt

As the dust is settling with my move, all my pictures are miraculously clean and hung. The closet has been sorted multiple times. My drawers are all in order. The lawn is manicured within a milometer of perfect. Not a weed dares to grow in my yard. Halloween decorations are glowing at night. Even my floors are mopped. Do you get the picture? I am bored out of my mind, and hoping I will not become BORING!!!!

Needing new and worthy ways to spend my retired widow days, I have been looking for an organization that would be interesting, but also give back to my community, and on a larger scale, humanity. It was with that endeavor, a friend mentioned that I should check into Nevada Veterans Coalition, based here in my town. This group is responsible for the huge task of delivering Wreaths Across America to the fallen heroes in our very own National Cemetery here in Northern Nevada.

I had visited the cemetery on several occasions to look around, but also to visit a dear friend that left us almost two months ago. The first thing I noticed was that it had the potential to be the grandest of them all. But, I also noticed that it needs some major volunteer work on the grounds. Dead rose heads dropped on majestic plants that should have been fertilized and groomed in winter. The grounds needed a few volunteers around to answer questions. All in all, things looked good, but could be better. That fact didn’t go unnoticed on my prior visits.

One sad day earlier in the week, I made the call to Nevada Veterans Coalition and left a message. That evening, RR, a very nice man with a floral last name, called me. He spoke about the mission of the group, which was divided into two parts. Indeed, the Wreaths Across America was one side. But, the other side was the Honor Guard. This is a group of men and women who provide internment services at the Northern Nevada Veterans Memorial Cemetery (NNVMC). After explaining the details, he asked if I would like to attend the service for one of their founding members the next day at 11:00 am. I accepted the invitation.

Yesterday was an exceptionally beautiful autumn day. The cottonwood trees at the cemetery were changing colors. The lawn was deep green and lush. All the roses seemed to have bloomed in unison for the fallen hero, Charles. The grounds are expansive, providing a quiet and respectful atmosphere which will be the final resting place for 10,000 American heroes. The temperature was a perfect 70 degrees with a warming sunshine blanketing everyone.

The members of the honor guard were assembling in preparation. They had all made a special effort for this service. Charles was their dear friend for decades. Their matching black uniforms were adorned with medals from their years of military service. Their shoes were shined to blinding brilliance. Their white gloves were clean. They talked among themselves in the nervous way people do before something as solemn as a funeral is about to occur. I found RR. He was happy I had come and asked if we could talk after. I agreed and then, found a seat and began to observe the details of the moment.

It was obvious Charles was an adored and respected old goat. His friends lovingly gave that impression. With a group of 50 waiting for the service to begin, it was obvious that he was a special guy. Born in Minneapolis in 1937. Served in the United States Air Force. Fought in the Korean War and other places. Came home. Raised beautiful kids, who were raising beautiful kids. This man had earned respect throughout his life and in his later years, demanded it. It was lovingly given by family and friends.

Two officers, white gloved with heads covered, walked to the pavilion solemnly and with purpose. One carried the American flag, folded as you so often see, triangle shaped. The other carried a small black box. The cremains of Charles. At the front of the pavillion, there was a podium on which sat a black container marked with the symbol of the US Air Force. Gently, the black box was put inside, and covered with the lid. The flag was lovingly placed in front of the box.

His widow was wheeled to her place of honor under the three sided pavilion in which she would publicly say her final Goodbye. I thought of her as I watched silently from the back. A widow like me, but different. Charles had been sick for years. Gone for years, as some would say during the service. Her goodbyes had been tedious and slow, I am assuming through the gauntlet of cruelty dementia produces for all that love the victim. She sat spent as the honor guard and friends came to her to share their sorrow. Seats filled and soon it was time to begin.

I was not prepared. Drifting towards us was the sad wail of a trumpet playing The U. S. Air Force Song. My own boys, now grown men with boys of their own, had left home at 18 to join the USAF, serving after 9-11 changed our country forever. I had cried buckets when they played the song at their graduations from boot camp in San Antonio. Now, I smiled, thinking of my own Air Force heroes. As the song played, the colors were presented and placed, as everyone stood. Every Veteran saluted. I placed my hand over my heart. So many people forget to do that these days.

We all sat and the ceremony began. The woman in charge did a beautiful job saying Goodbye to Charles. Another man talked about him. Prayers were given. Beautiful prayers. A gorgeous poem read by a man covered in medals. He made it to the end, and then broke down sobbing. A tribute to the man Charles was and the memories of friendship and loyalty he left.

From the back of the pavilion, an Honor Guard member sang, Amazing Grace, a capella. The same song my beautiful grandson sang for VST in July at his memorial.

The report from a volley of gunshots ricocheted off the back of the pavilion, sounding harsh and brittle. A 21 gun salute, all in silence except for the tinkling sound of shells hitting cement after each of three rounds.

Two HG Members came forward to retrieve the flag. They lovingly unfolded it completely while keeping it taut, and then showed it to the widow. Two more HG Members then joined on either side of the flag to refold it perfectly for her while it was explained to the group what each fold meant. There are 13 folds in the flag. Even the tuck at the end means something very special. Three spent shell casings were secreted inside for the widow. The flag was presented to her with the utmost care. Each HG friend knelt and told her how sorry they were for her loss.

It was explained that Charles Loved, Loved Loved doughnuts. When they served them at meetings, he took two. Always. It was explained that as we walked up the hill to his final resting place, the HG members were each carrying a box of doughnuts in his memory. When the final prayers were said and the crypt was sealed in front of God and all of us, we would all have a doughnut in honor of Charles. And, that is exactly how the service ended.

I didn’t speak to Charles widow, as I didn’t know her nor she me. How could I explain that I came to witness the best presentation of a military service because it had been for one of their own? We exchanged glances, and somehow, I think she already knew we had something in common. Sadness is easily seen through the eyes. I tried to keep my dark glasses on, not wanting to distract from this beautiful moment in any way.

Throughout this service, I felt a peace flow over me. This would be the group that I would like to spend time with. These men and women would become my friends. I would be happy to help make final services a moment of respect for REAL American heroes and their families.

After the service, RR had asked me to stay and talk for a minute. I met some of the members and it was explained to me that I could be trained to help with any part of the service I would choose, even the shooting. That I didn’t need to have served in the military to be a member of the Honor Guard. That my help would be welcomed in any way, whether it was with the Wreaths Across America project or the Honor Guard. I was welcomed to join them.

The meeting will be November 12. I’m sure I will share more about my time helping this group. By experiencing something so moving and meaningful, another part of me is awakening. I want to find my place to give back, even if just a little bit.

Please check into Wreaths Across America, a non-profit organization. They need our support to make sure every fallen American hero is honored with a wreath in 2020.

VST and I loved our morning routine. If we were ballroom dancers, the trophy would have been ours. Onetwothree, onetwothree, coffee in cups, pellet stove lighted, onetwothree, onetwothree, two in their chairs, Oliver delighted, onetwothree onetwothree, news a-blaring, nobody glaring, onetwothree onetwothree, day in the planning, eternitity spanning. Take a bow.

Every morning, there was a plan created as we sipped our coffee and took a little time to play video games, while simultaneously cursing the latest news, whatever it might be. Those precious minutes together were one of the times I miss the most. Because, although one can certainly dance alone, it isn’t the same as dancing with someone you have loved for decades.

With just a glance, so many things were gauged at the moment we woke up. Mood, physical well being, and quality of sleep. As farmers, we both embraced the crazy internal time clocks we needed for so many years. Morning people are wired a little differently. My creative time is dark:30, every day. Can’t be changed. My eyes fly open, and although crabby until I get my coffee, I am ready to tell the story of the day. The words can’t fly out of my fingers fast enough. With VST, it was beautiful projects stored in that big old head of his. Together, we were the embodied version of the Merengue, a Puerto Rican and Domican dance. A lot of turning, hammering, hands on hips with one leg extended, and clapping. Our days always included both of us dancing our hearts out.

My first days of dancing solo were a hot mess. There was no more routine. I had lost it. When VST got sick, there were 90 deaths from something called Corono Virus. Just 90 that had occurred in Washington State. At that point, our world fell into the nightmare of Cancer, which engulfed us, consuming every moment of our lives, be it awake or asleep. Cable stayed on soft music that was meant to soothe Oliver when we would leave him. The kids referred to it as Funeral Parlor music. The truth is, it soothed VST and me, too.

The first morning after VST’s abrupt exit, I tried our dance alone. Onetwothree……..Coffee is hot, brain is not, Onetwo…….heart is broken, not one word spoken…….one……….Television on, 20,000 gone. Shocked. “20,000 and ONE”, I sent my lonely scream towards the TV. My VST. Although not a Covid Statistic, it mattered not to me. He was gone.

Through the days, I found that I needed to create a new dance step for myself. I kept my planner current, putting the daily steps on paper and checking them off when I accomplished them. I taught myself to dance alone. It was messy and wrong at first. Anyone who knows me knows I can, and do, trip myself, having the largest feet ever. They must have been hard for VST to avoid all those years, as he skillfully led our dance routines. Step on my toes he did, but, only when they needed it. In the dance of life, we twirled and tilted, dipped, and looked soulfully into each others eyes. Necks snapped, and heads turned away as eyes flared when appropriately angry. We were flamboyant, and on time with the rhythm. Dancing alone was different.

Looking on to Month 7, there are now days I forget to write accomplished activities in my planner. I try not to, as I know in Month 14, I will still be amazed at all the things I am accomplishing. Each day, Oliver gets his breakfast while I pour my coffee. I blog. Morning news has been replaced with 70’s music. My days now include a brisk walk outside, but not always at the same time. Interesting how the neighborhood dances differently at different points of the day. My routine includes internet time, but not video games for now. Interpersonal games are far more frustrating, and intriguing. I try not to spend too much time fretting about the latest hit on my internet dating site. Cyber dating is still a new and unfamiliar dance.

I am finding the things I really enjoyed before and adding a few of those things in every week. I have GIRLFRIENDS that might talk for an hour on the phone with me, laughing and gasping at the outrageous nature of life. I take unplanned breaks to soak in the awe inspiring beauty of my surroundings, being so grateful that VST and I chose right when we bought this little piece of paradise. I am dancing a dance of happiness now, with fewer bouts of dramatic loneliness and grief. I am dancing an original piece, and it’s up to me to find the tune and move with it.

There are new activities that are unfolding. I have joined a group of women that meet often, supporting our community with activities new and fun to me. Yesterday, I decided to join a group that provides wreaths for the graves of fallen heroes at our National Cemetery here in town. This holiday activity will help me get through my first Christmas waltz without VST.

I am planning ahead in three month blocks, knowing that our 33rd wedding anniversary looms out there in the wilderness of emotional landmines. I have a choice. I can dread it every day until it comes, or dance in the moment and know that when that day arrives, I will save a very sweet and special dance for VST, my Dr. H, because my special dance partner he will forever be.

Thank you for your support. Your continued interest is helping me grow as a writer. I squeal with delight when I see the increase in readership steadily climbing!!! Please share my link with your friends and family and keep reading. I would love to hear from you. Good thoughts go out to you as we travel along in this wilderness called Grief.

Once, 44 years ago, I was 20. Beautiful, naive, nice, naughty, and quite plainly, a very stupid girl. I ran with a boy of which I had nothing in common. A dangerous young man more worldly than I. Not someone that I loved in the right way. Being foolish, I chose foolishly those that I would spend time with. He may have been the worst choice of my life.

We had decided to run away to a high, deserted Sierra lake for a few days in autumn. In the olden days of the 1900’s, that was still possible to do. This lake was pristine and deserted. We drove to a camping spot, and, indeed were the only couple on the lake. We set up a tiny little tent for two. Very nice, except, the boy was still the same person, and no matter the setting, wrong for me.

Twilight was not far off, after a day of arguing about the particulars of our camping experience, and I needed a walk. Being mad enough, I stormed off towards the water’s edge and clapped back that I would return in a bit, before dark. Being a hot head, I walked downhill toward the water, which was peaking through the trees, as steam trailed out my ears. I made a small miscalculation. In my anger, I didn’t take note of my surroundings. I just walked toward the water.

It had been an extreme summer, and the rains had not yet started. Halloween was in a week, but I already felt like Dracula’s bride. Ready to go for the jugular. Leave no survivor at the campsite. I knew this relationship would end that way, and thinking of the next two days with this person had soured my thoughts. Walk I did, right to the water’s edge.

The sun was going down over the granite peaks towering around the tiny lake. It was a beautiful setting as the colors were changing from daytime brilliance to twighlight shades of purples and blues. I walked a distance throwing rocks into the lake. Not skipping them. Having no brothers, I never learned that skill. Just throwing them with great passion, envisioning his head as my target. One after another. Stop. Bend over. Pick up Rock. Throw it like crazy. Walk. Repeat. Each splash echoed, the sound hanging in the air for just the tiniest bit. Silence would return. The kind in which you can really hear yourself think.

I don’t know how long this went on, but, when I had cooled off, the sun had gone down. A tiny bit of light still helped me to avoid the piece of barbed wire fencing I had stepped over earlier. The boulders by the shore were still visible, but the light was fading fast. Canis lantrans were in the area, as I heard a plaintive wail in the distance, answered by another on the other side of the lake. It was then I realized the error of my ways.

The level of the lake was at autumn’s low. There was a band of land, 50 yards and rather steep up to a dense wall of trees, in which we were camping. Somewhere. This band of land was decomposed granite over granite slabs. All the way up to the forest. I had no idea how far I had walked, or where I had emerged from the trees. I had no flashlight. No whistle. I tripped on another piece of barbed wire, and now, I was sufficiently freaking out. It was night fall.

I searched for any sign of our camp. A small glow of light. A little smoke. A noise or voice calling for me. Nothing. Another plaintive wail, closer, but still not close. A reply. And silence.

I started calling to the camping mate. Just calling at first. Within a few minutes yelling my head off. The echos across the lake were distracting. The wails were a bit closer. My pounding heart pumped adrenaline with each beat as I called over and over for help. I fell on a boulder I didn’t see. Prostrate, the sand stuck to my tears. At this point I was helpless and alone in a place so dark I could only see the black outline of the trees against the starry sky . I laid there and cried. Exhausted.

Finally, way down the water’s edge, I saw him walking towards me. Even though he was the reason I had left camp, I called to him, so glad that he was the one to find me. He had marked the trail back to camp and helped me clean and bandage a nasty scratch on my leg, advising me that it was prudent to mark a return trail when one was camping in dense forest. I never hated/loved anyone so much as I hated/loved him at at that very moment in time.

I relate that story to you, because that is like the grief I find myself working now. In the daytime of grieving, there are beautiful lakes full of possibilities. I can kayak, swim, or just lay in the sun. They can feed me delicious trout. Their beauty soothes my soul. The softest winds rustle tall, protective trees. The colors dance and change throughout the day with the foundation of granite keeping my world in balance.

Without warning, night can come, and things are not as I remember them. There are boulders to trip on, or the sharp edges of memories that cut me until I bleed tears. Storms come, bringing waves to my calm lakes, demanding that I regroup and protect myself from lightning that can surely strike me dead. My heart races at the thoughts of storms that may come tomorrow, next week, or even in the winter. I lay prostrate, with sandy tears of grief. There is no one to call to. No light in the distance, because, I find myself camping alone in this wilderness.

Just as quickly, my own voice reassures me that for this moment in time, everything is as it should be. I am getting stronger every day, learning about the resilience I hold inside. My friends and family come out of the woods with phone calls and cards, checking on me to make sure the sun still shines on my world. Oliver stays close with puppy hugs and kisses. My campsite is well lit, and the path marked with the way back to safety.

As I am making my way through this wilderness, I am finding larger stretches of meadows and light. Sweet grasses on which to lay provide rest in the sunshine. But, I am very away that a patch of woods can stop me in my tracks at any moment. I have a great internal compass and God will show me the way. When the going gets tough, God will carry me to camp. I know this because he has, many times already.

If you find yourself in the dark, call for friends and family. They are right there, sitting around the campsite waiting for you with hugs and bandaids of love. Try not to leave camp angry and remember to mark your trail.

Once upon a time, I shopped like a lady at a beautiful department store and bought things I couldn’t afford. Indulging myself as a young mom, I would find myself in the lingerie department, which was ever so enticing. Slips, lacey undies, the softest wisps of fabric skillfully assembled to create a vision. And, bras from heaven at devilish prices.

At that time, I was a mere irrigator on the ranch, while maintaining my role as domestic goddess and mom.

Irrigation occured the first of every month, our antique system being in use since the beginning of time (1940’s). We were part of an irrigation network. Water flowed through a huge canal across the street from our house. Not like Venice, with gondoliers and lovers floating by in canoes. This canal was a functional canal. 15-20 feet across and at least 15 feet deep. The water ran dangerously fast and demanded respect. From there , pipelines branched off under roads and fed each vineyard.

On the first of each month from March to July, the dance would begin with me closing off the neighbors pipeline and opening ours. This was done in measurements of quarter-turns of a very big wheel. All this was decided decades before by menfolk before me. I had no time to experiment with whether or not the instructions were the most efficient. I was given directions and the number of quarter-turns needed to start the process. That was the easy and fast part.

Once the water was filling the pipeline, I needed to slowly ride the John Deere Gator (think green quad) down the west end of the ranch, while noting how the water was filling the 1/8 mile rows. This was jotted down in hieroglyphics known only to me. (Code — 0- no water seen…..X..Done…–Look again at noon ) This was done when the morning sun was just rising or the evening sun setting, creating blinding glare. I often thought of Dad and how many years he did this without benefit of sunglasses, wondering how.

After checking the progress of the water, I would then need to drive the buggy to the East end of the ranch and adjust the valves. The system was antique. Water came up through cement pipes and bubble through adjustable gates. It was during this time that I would find broken pipes, hit by tractor work done at midnight after a full day at a professional job. Or drop the little antique metal plate that was part of the adjustment situation into the standpipe, in which there lived plenty of black widow spiders. It would be then, I am quite sure I grew a pair, reaching into the darkness to retrieve the metal gate and replace it.

Always, this procedure could not be cheated for time. There was no bargaining with the irrigation. It was my job and for four days, I was racing with the clock. Wiping mud off my ear as the school bell rang and my 3rd graders came pouring into the room. Or, returning to the house in the later afternoon knowing for sure that the Fresno sun had cooked half of my brain cells. At least I had the other half needed to prepare dinner, help with homework, and grade papers while VST was out working. Some days, this was a nice place to think. But, on days when it was 4:30 am, knowing I would be late to my classroom, it was frustrating.

This was farm life, and I miss it like hell some days. Not the work. Just the pace of so many things accomplished in such a healthy, beautiful environment. Through it all, VST and I were everything to each other, because no one else could really understand what was on the line. Not even the kids. We were working in two full time professional careers to support the little farm that devoured our paychecks like a certain widow gobbles Whoppers out of the Halloween candy bag.

One day, I got a card in the mail from the store that holds the Parade in New York every year. You know the one. I had been selected to join their exclusive “Bra and Panty Club”. Elation filled my heart. If I bought five the sixth was free. Even better. The thought was in my brain, waiting for the 5th of the month. No, not the day of B & P sale. Irrigation occured from the 1-4th. So, the 5th was a special day in our life. The ranch was under irrigation water. To wet to disc, furrow, or in any way touch. The 5th and 6th were our days of rest. In the entire month. Two days, which were most likely on a week day, in which we were working our real jobs. Get the picture?

VST and I had planned to meet at the mall with my boys for dinner. They were at the age of easy embarrassment, the three of them. VST and I hated shopping for different reasons. I found it tedious and still do. VST, even then, couldn’t stand very long without having back issues. The boys were just adorable lanky, goofy pre-teens that were happy to go anywhere. We were all Fresno tanned. The boys had golden buzz cuts and manners grown on the farm. Good ones you don’t often see today.

After dinner I announced that I wanted to go to the afore mentioned store and they agreed. Marching straight to the escalator, I sensed no hesitation in my group. They followed willingly. At the top of the escalator, I made a right, and sensed that I was suddenly alone, with my tribe frozen a few feet behind me. I was at the Lingerie department and the three male types with me were mortified.

I moved on little cat feet to the most beautiful bras I had ever seen. The finest lace in deliciously soft and feminine colors. Every part of these were a work of art. I had only read about the comfort I would experience when wearing one. The lace was from Italy. The hooks were painted and delicate. All of it screamed GIRL!!!!! After discovering a perfect fit on my young and svelte 30-something body, I bought two. One pink and one pinker.

Smiling ear to ear, I summoned the man of the group to come forward. As a farmer, I didn’t prefer to carry a purse. I had no time or need for the things most women carry in them. VST had a marvelous devise called a wallet, in which he held everything I needed for payment. It worked beautifully for us. Except, in this case, the cashier was a ravishing beauty, and this was the Bra and Panty Department. The boys hid behind his legs, red as little beets.

“Sir, are you a member our exclusive Bra and Panty Club?”

Forever will this moment be one that makes me laugh at the memory.

“Uhhhh.” Before he could speak, the little card that had been waiting in my jeans pocket was thrust past VST towards the minx-y cashier. “YES!” I blurted out! And right then, I lost the three of them. They were beyond saving, being mortified and slain by the mother. The beautiful woman said the words BRA AND PANTY. There was a CLUB for this?????? Silence as the exquisite purchase lay waiting for payment.

We paid as much for those two bras as we did for a gallon of farm grade Roundup. This was not lost on VST as the sideways glances of “We Will Be Talking Budget” were shooting my way. I smiled. I was a card carrying member of the EXCLUSIVE BRA AND PANTY CLUB, and I knew he wouldn’t deny me. I was right.

A few weeks ago, I had my first real shopping trip with a girlfriend. I can honestly say it has been decades since I lunched with one gal pal, gossiped, laughed, and walked the mall. Foreign territory and so much fun. She had to keep guiding me on the Covid-arrowed path, as we walked toward the afore mentioned store, modern and different, and yet exactly the same as all those years ago. We went upstairs, just like before, to the lingerie department specifically because I was planning to buy THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BRA in the store. Italian lace, the finest hooks, delicate, and exquisite.

I went to the section selling the same brand I had purchased when in THE CLUB. After looking at every single style, I took two to the dressing room. I noticed the fabric was of cheap quality. The lace polyester and computer generated. The hooks were grey metal. Plastic was involved in the construction. I sighed thinking of how things had changed, even in the bra world.

Upon trying them on, I realized a lot had changed in my world, too. And not in a good way. The mirror in the dressing room didn’t lie. Farming had been great exercise, but, any 30-something farmer girl can put on any bra and look stunning. I was stunned, but for entirely different reasons.

My bras today come from Walmart. They are 100% cotton. They cover what they need to cover and keep their shape when washed with the towels and my jeans. One bra costs what the tax would have been on the expensive one. They are new and beautiful, because I can afford to discard them the moment they aren’t. They are functional and absorbent. Durable and trustworthy. I don’t need to belong to a club to run into Walmart and buy them. Their label sends me a shout out to the farmer girl in me still, as the word FRUIT is on them somewhere.

In the heavens, VST is shaking his head, wishing I had some common sense that day so long ago, when I was a card carrying member of the EXCLUSIVE BRA AND PANTY CLUB.

Today was the most beautiful day I have experienced in weeks. The smoke from the California fires was almost gone, and the unique beauty of the high desert mountains was all around me. I am a desert rat. Period. I love the wind. The sharp, stark peaks of the mountains here. Natural hues blending into a real life watercolor, the palette rich with the mountain browns and the bluest of skies. Landscape dabbed with bright yellow Rabbit Brush. White puffy clouds streaking the sky. The breeze ruffling the golden leaves on the cottonwoods. Life is beautiful.

I have been yearning to drive to Bridgeport, California for weeks now. VST loved Highway 395. It’s been a year since we traveled this road, and I longed to follow the path we took. I started out at 7:15 this morning, the air crisp with a real autumn chill. An hour’s drive to Carson City, I was traveling on the loneliest road in America, Highway 50.

The wild mustangs are everywhere now. The mountaintops no longer provide them with food or water. They are now down in the lowlands with us, visiting my neighborhood in search of lawns and a drink. Strange to walk outside to get the mail and find a 2,000 lb. pony in your front yard. Or six of them. These are not the starving horses you hear about on the news. They are healthy, procreating, families of horses with nothing else to do but eat and poop.

As I traveled on 50, the air was so crisp and clear, I saw the V on our Mt. Davidson in VC clearly and from miles away. Each small town has a letter above it, made of huge rocks and easily seen from long distances. On our return RV trips, VST and I would strain our eyes to see who could see the V first. I wished he was by my side today, I would have let him win.

During the move, I had placed 350 boxes in storage in a small town just off the mountain. I made many trips from my new town to get loads of boxes. Each time I located the V, high above, I would cry the ugly cry. I would talk to VST on the way there and back about all kinds of things, wishing he were there to reply. Today, with nothing but blue skies, I sang along with the radio, knowing that VST was laughing at my singing voice. He was MY wingman today, instead of me being his. Today, I loved driving.

Once I reached Carson City, I got on Highway 395 and traveled through Gardnerville and Minden. Memories were flooding back to me of all the towns we considered before buying our home in VC. These little towns, nestled on the eastern side of the Sierras are a little reflection of heaven. Today, the green pastures were filled with Black Angus cattle, registered pedigrees and with sassy calves. Bald or Golden Eagles soar over these pastures. There were RV’s everywhere today, making me wish we were leaving on another trip to anywhere. With VST, it never mattered the destination, just that he was in the driver’s seat telling me about songs on Willie’s Roadhouse or asking for his next snack.

As I started up the hill and went through Holbrock Junction I thought of our Shriner friends that lived close. Lake Topaz Lodge had been OUR favorite for Steak and Egg goodness with a view. I thought of cuddling through a cold night when we camped there in our new trailer almost 4 years ago. Just past the lodge, I was waved through the Produce Inspection Station and found myself across the border in California. The sky was still as brilliant. California natives, we had grown into the people we were when we exchanged vows and began our lives together. Now, it was the California I would never choose to return to after experiencing Nevada. I wish we had known desert secrets decades before, when we were so young and full of dreams.

In Coleville, we had shared a cozy night in our RV camping with the Karavaners at MeadowCliffs . Along the Walker River, VST and I had stopped to enjoy the beauty of the gorge on so many trips. Road work that delayed us last year was finished. With little traffic, my Jeep made the twists and turns of the canyon as the music played on. I wished VST would speak up. I am sure I heard him commenting on my driving, and not in a good way.

At the turn to Highway 108 to Sonora, I smiled and remembered the wife that forgot her purse back at The Westin at Mammoth Lakes and didn’t discover it was missing until Toulomne Meadows in Yosemite. It was Labor Day, and we had left the hotel extra early to avoid horrendous traffic. He had insisted that I had to have it somewhere in the car, but no, I remembered right where it was. He drove all the way back to Mammoth, and upon retracing our steps decided that the Sonora route would be the preferred route at noon. It was miles further in holiday traffic. So patient and kind he was to me. Even though, I am sure it was not our finest moment, being way after dark when we finally got home. How I wished to return to that awkward and tense moment, if it meant we could have those quiet hours in the car just once more.

I traveled on, until I arrived in Bridgeport. The beauty and majesty of the mountains there takes my breath away every time. I think of the time VST gave in and drove me all the way into Bodie, a deserted ghost town, left to an arrested state of decay. I had only dreamed of going there. As we traveled the last three miles of washboard roads, each bounce was torture on his back. The desolate road was not something he felt comfortable or confidant on, but, he drove on for me. That day plays in my mind like yesterday. I wish I would have driven for him, just a little bit, so that he could have rested his shoulders. But, VST wasn’t like that. He loved driving so much, or hated mine more.

In Bridgeport, the trees were brilliant. The cows were statuesque and fat as ticks. The fence by the picnic tables was a combination of metal posts and limbs from trees. Artistic and functional, something only a farm girl might take note of. The tourists going in and out of the mini mart were speaking a variety of languages reminding me that this beautiful place is loved by millions. It made me think of my own traveling experiences to Switzerland, and the lovely places visited. None rivaled what I saw today. My heart was full of wishes that VST was there to hold my hand and drink in the view.

I had made this trip to meet someone new. A cyber friend. Someone that I had talked to over the past few days. The meeting time had been carefully choreographed, with my texts sent at prearranged times. Waiting in the sunshine, I smiled at the possibility of the day, fresh and new. Waiting. I wished for the minutes to race along until he came. Waiting. I stretched my legs and adjusted my sweater. Waiting. Minutes rolling on, until I finally understood the outcome. I realize now, he was just another stranger on his own schedule. I wished VST was there, because, he would NEVER abandon me on an outing. Not in a million years.

At that moment, I wished I was not this stupid, lonely, old woman.

Suddenly, WonderWoman burst into my soul and slapped me around a bit. There was nothing stupid about wishing for a new friend. Nothing wrong with hoping for a fun day, after the horrible year it had been. I was anything but stupid. And, I was waiting not one second longer out of respect for myself.

Right then, I wished to be on my way home through the short cuts of Yerington, which were and will always be my favorite way home. I wished B, D, VST and I were picnic-ing again along the river at the rest stop. I wished VST and I were prepping for a trip at Weed Heights RV Park.

But, most of all, I wished that I was not a widow. That for a tiny window of time, I could be someone’s date on a really cool outing. Not defined by how many months gone, how many months here. Just a pretty woman meeting a nice man for a picnic. I wished.
But, we all know. If wishes were horses, then beggers would ride.

So, for now, I will date myself. No one loves me better, or respects me more. I know exactly what suits me. I have beautiful drives to make and wonderful things to see. I will never leave myself stranded, wanting more. I will never abuse the privilege of being in my own company.

Today, smiling all the way home, I wished VST could see me and know, I am enough all by myself. He didn’t leave a half-person to wail at the moon, throwing her own pity party. He left a beautiful, capable, smart woman who can stand on her own two feet and do just fine. With that said, the songs on the way home were fantastic. Radio blaring and the windows down, I sang my heart out while smiling. VST, you will forever be my wingman. I love the high desert, driving, and you.

If you have ever moved, you know that the first shopping trip is a doozy. Magnify that by 100x as a brand new widow. Although not my first outing alone, it was the first in my new town, stocking the refrigerator/freezer. I was still shrouded in widow’s fog, a very real malady. Others would refer to it as shock. We would both be correct.

VST and I had always done the shopping together. We would glide through our Wal Mart hitting every department. As the years passed and his arthritis worsened, it became harder and harder for him to walk. His most comfortable position was leaning on the basket as he pushed it along. When done, we would look for a human checker, but, if they were taken, we use self check out. We would take turns emptying the basket, scanning, and bagging. It took us both.

On this first visit alone, so many things raced through my mind. I missed my husband. I missed discussing our shopping needs as we walked the aisles. I missed running into old friends, as we often did, stopping to visit for a minute. Everything was new and overwhelming as I dug out the list and began.

After a full hour, my basket was brimming. At this Walmart, the only choice was self scan. For a single person, this was difficult, even without the added problem of widow’s fog. I needed to put a few things on the belt, scan, bag and repeat, while feeling totally self conscious and overwhelmed. The bagged items were overflowing in the bagged item area, while I was only half finished with the basket. There was no place to put the bags and continue because my basket was still full.

To add to the fun, the scanner kept timing out. The associate working the area needed to come help me repeatedly. Each time, we talked a little more. She, too, was a widow of two years. She understood the stressful nature of the situation and understood the timing out was making it worse. Her kindness was overwhelming, as in this town, I knew no one. Not even her.

M was a beautiful older woman who obviously took very good care herself. Her golden blonde hair was beautiful coifed in a short, curly style. She was trim and energetic, wearing a sweet smile as she helped everyone, including me. She loved her job. You could tell.

When I finished, after a good 30 minute ordeal, she smiled kindly and said so sweetly, “Maybe sometime we can get together for coffee.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I mumbled “Thanks.”

Wheeling the basket out of the way, I took a minute. I then did something so out of character, it still gives me chills. Promise me, no matter how low you are, you will never do this. I took out a pen and paper and wrote down my name, address, and phone number. As a lost soul, I went back to her and handed her the paper with tears rolling down my face. It was the Three week anniversary of VST’s death. I handed it to her and she understood everything as our eyes locked.

Driving home, I cursed, hit the steering wheel a few times, and screamed at myself for being so stupid and vulnerable. Who was this sweet woman? I knew her not in the least. I deserved to be robbed, mutilated, and left for dead. The damage was done. UNBELIEVABLY STUPID was I.

The next few days, I hoped she would call to arrange a coffee date, but she didn’t. I then changed my internal conversation to this, “Loser, loser, loser!!!!!! Not even a friend from Wal Mart would call me.” Dark days.

About ten days later, I was in the kitchen when my phone rang. The kindest voice was on the other end. It was my new friend M, asking if I had time to talk. I did. And boy did we, discussing so many things. We were both born in the same California town. We both had sisters. We were both widowed and held each husband’s Celebration of Life on our late husband’s birthdays. We laughed and cried on the phone that day. Just like that, I found a sweet friend.

On my first Dinner date at her home, she gave me a stern lecture on the stupidity of my ways. By this time, we laughed and laughed as we played Chinese Checkers and Uno. Since then, we have enjoyed shopping trips, meals, tears, and gardening plans. M helped with VST’s celebration of life. She brought me the sweetest gift. An antique handkerchief to hold my tears on that day. Only another widow would understand and know that gift would be so special.

I treasure the story of how I met my first friend in a new town where I knew no one. I took a chance on someone that felt so familiar and warm. Her heart reached for my heart and held it in her eyes when she found I was a new widow. She has known how to help me and when to give me space. She has listened when I might have been running towards the future a bit too fast. But, she didn’t judge.

Look for new friends in odd places. Be CAREFUL, but OPEN to kindness from others. When you find kindness, return it gently and see what can grow. It may surprise you that wonderful “strangers waiting to be new friends” are already helping you every day. Just say “Hello”.

VST was not a dog person which was one of our troubling differences. Raised on a farm, being a 4-H member, and majoring in Zoology in college, he should have known my love for dogs would never die. Through the years, he always kept me in furry friends, keeping them at a distance from his own heart. Being busy with so many different things, he never discovered what I had known since one bit my nose off at two years old. Dogs are the coolest friends you can ever have. Period.

Settled in VC, totally retired and RVing, I would pine by the dog parks across the country. I would accidentally take the trash out at just the right time to beg a caress from a newly groomed poodle, or win a big old slurpy kiss from a retriever. If missing, he would find me talking with the owners at the dog park wishing I had my own puppy to throw into the mix of wagging tails. I would make not so subtle observations that traveling with the right dog might be fun. He would remind me that our RV was brand new. Did I want the leather seats chewed? Did I want poop on the floor? Did I want to chance loosing the dog at a truck stop? Did we NEED the complications of a dog? Really????

For months, I pined. Really, really pined. I created a virtual dog to dream of. The perfect pet. No messes. No chewed leather. No muss no fuss. I was constantly on the internet looking for a puppy, but I found not THE ONE. Finally, November of 2018, VST woke a changed man. Just like that.

“Darlin, we have been traveling awhile now. Do you still want that dog? Maybe it IS time that we could look.”

I was in shock. Who was this man? Was there a trick here? What was the end game? A dog? I might get a dog??? I MIGHT GET A DOG!!!!!!!!!!!!!

With laser-like focus, through every town traveled, there was a visit to the animal shelter. Nothing. No one there that was even close. We looked at every Craig’s List. Cuties, but none for us. We looked online. Sold out. Sold out. Sold out. And so, the weeks went by. Nothing. Secret relief was his, and I was waiting for the reasons to emerge on how this was a cosmic answer to my longing. I would never have another dog. Period.

My December birthday came and went. I hoped there was a hidden puppy somewhere. It would have the cutest bow on its neck, bigger than it. Hallmark moment 101. To my surprise, I did get a dog gift from him. A Christmas doggie sweater. Long and small, it was adorable. But, very flat and empty. Not puppy filled, squirmy and delightfully kissy. Nope. No dog anywhere. I must admit, I was a little depressed, and almost accepting the fact that it was a cosmic answer.

Until December 23rd.

Just like every other day, I had been in heavy pursuit on the internet. I am a Dachshund girl. Period. I have had several, the very first being when I was six. Fritz. Fritz was a mini, red smooth haired Doxie. My parents got him for the farm, and Fritz lived his entire life outside. No problem with coyotes or wild dogs, Fritz was quite capable of taking care of himself. He lived a great life keeping our ranch free of any one or thing unwanted. He was a great watch dog and a wonderful friend to me as a child.

On December 23rd, I again googled Dachshund Puppy. The following picture emerged.

The add was a normal description of a very unusual dog. I am asked this often, so I will give you the complete description. He is a cream-based piebald, chocolate, wirehaired standard dachshund with green eyes that can look through your soul. VST would add, “Dropped into Area 51, because he is alien. And yes, he sheds. Alot.”

In my heart, the ad said the following.

“If you do not immediately call this breeder, you do not really want a dog at all. This is quite possibly the most adorable dog on the planet. Pick up the phone now, because this guy cannot exist and be available possessing this much swag and cuteness overload.”

He was a bargain puppy. No one had wanted him. He was 4 months old and ready for a new home, and that home was ours. Period. On Christmas Day, the breeder extraordinaire drove from Nevada City to Reno and we met in the snow covered parking lot of the Atlantis Casino. I had the option of not accepting him if he wasn’t the right puppy. Once in my arms, this puppy became Sir Oliver, Gentleman of Ashworth Hall, better known as Oliver or Ollie. (VST named him after a Grandfather, many generations removed). He snuggled toward my heart and stole it right there.

For a few days, I was in terror of what we had just taken on. I was up with him every two hours for months to insure proper potty training. He was neutered and I slept on the recliner with him for two nights. We listened to puppy complaints when he was unhappy and laughed so much as he delighted us with his adorable antics. And just like that, VST became a dog person.

Did he need a new toy? VST would be online finding out the right toys for a him. Was his food just right? Again, more research. As we traveled together in the rig, Oliver was always our first concern. Was he safe, happy, warm, well-fed, and enjoying himself? Oliver was happy as could be. He would see us preparing for a trip and remind us the entire time that he wanted to be included. He always was.

VST quickly learned that when they walked together, Oliver stole the show. People would stop their cars to ask us about him. Women requested pictures with him. I am referring to Oliver. Strangers would smile big, wide, happy smiles, all while Ollie just did this thing. Dignified and true to his blue blood name, he became a Gentleman.

For almost two years, Ollie and VST were walking buddies. I would smile as I stood on the deck and watched them trot off. Oliver kept his puppy waddle far past his first year. He would take on a new happiness when being with VST, one that he never had with me. Just a little free spirit walking with his man.

VST took his part in Ollie’s life serious, and one day, quietly decided to teach him a new trick. Not being a dog person, it would really irritate me when he would stare at dogs in the eye. I would remind him that in many cases, that is how people get bit in the face. He cared not. So, I would see VST and Ollie gazing at each other, but didn’t understand what was happening. VST silently taught Oliver to wink. There they were conversing through eye movements of the oddest kind. VST became a true dog whispering soul.

I have told others since that Oliver will wink at them if he feels like it. No one believes me until they wink at him and he winks back. You have to be a very special sort of person for him to interact with you in that way. He saves this for his very favorite people.

Since April 8, Oliver has taken on the role of my emotional support dog. He doesn’t wear or even need a vest. He has soft green eyes that look into my soul and know when I need a doggie hug. He knows when I get stressed and encourages me that it surely must be nap time. He senses when I need a laugh and does something adorable. He is good at knowing when I have had enough, and doesn’t try anything silly. He still steals my socks, and anything else he finds humorous. He watches our front door to keep out the unwanteds. And he is my writing buddy when I blog.

I picture myself at my first book signing someday soon. I will be dressed in appropriate writer clothing, picked out for the occasion. My makeup will be just right. Fresh haircut. A stack of pens, ready to go. Oliver will be himself. I can guarantee you, the line will form to the right to get pics with Ollie. I will sigh, and give him the limelight.

For a time, Ollie brought the beauty and love of a dog to one man that had never experienced it. He brought an old couple such happiness by just being himself. He may be my last dog, but he is definitely the one I will never get over.

Your dog is doing double time right now, grieving with you and for you. They deserve a little free time to be a dog. Take a walk. Play outside with a new toy. Just for a minute, delight in your dog and give a smile or laugh. They will be relieved that you are feeling better. And, feel better you will.

A huge thank you to Song Catcher Dachshunds in Nevada City, California. Breeding for over 30 years for soundness, personality, and beauty. Please mention that you met Oliver and he says Hi!!

Thursday last, I sat waiting as so many Seniors do. We wait for many sad, happy, frustrating, unexplainable, funny, terrifying, and peaceful things. I was waiting for my friend to arrive. A HEART FRIEND as a student once described special bonds that we form with very few in life. This kind of friend is of the deepest kind, covering you with love, protection and things you need when you need them. I am blessed with this kind of friend that was visiting on the 6 month anniversary of VST’s death.

I remember when we met. It could have ended badly. You see, we loved the same guy. VST loved her first and she had an 11 year jump on me in this situation. While my love was unfolding in new and exciting ways, hers was deep, steady, and rock solid. They shared a history of which I was not a part. It was up to me to honor that and find a way to create new memories we would cherish decades later. She had him at their first Hello on May 25, 1976. She was K to me, and oldest Daughter to VST.

The doorbell rang, and there she was, the best hugger and friend, knowing the day would be tough. Intuitive and gracious, she had cleared her schedule for the next few days to come hang out and remember our VST/DAD. We each owned separate memories of our man, that brought a more complex picture to light when shared. She was an hour earlier than I thought she would be, after a six hour drive. In a moment of highly energized happiness, the doorbell rang again. I really didn’t hear it, and in a gentle way, she said I should check.

As I opened the door, out popped T. This bulk of a man standing in my doorway completed the Momento Perfecto. T was K’s other half. A dear friend and rock to me since 1987. Smart, strong, problem solving T. When I met him, long ago, the connection we had was real and authentic. I never had to pretend around him, smiling and cheering his accomplishments, which were vast. His connection with VST was a bond that is as deep as time passed and eternity to come. He could have claimed VST as his own, meeting him first on May 25, 1976 as VST’s only biological son and K’s twin. He could have warned his SIS to steer clear of the new gal in Dad’s life, but, he didn’t. He had every right to, but he opened his heart to me and my boys, J and D. The Three Amigos were off and huddling at the first meeting. The seven of us rolling through happy in our red VW van. Here he was in my doorway, smiling and glad they got me good. K hadn’t mentioned they BOTH cleared their lives to come comfort ME.

Here I was, StepMom, but our steps had led me to Friends. How very beautiful and blessed it is to call them FRIENDS of the HEART kind.

When VST got sick, we had been feral parents, holding hands and running towards life. Illness slowed that to a standstill. We hadn’t known how serious things would become, but, T and K were on it. They came every weekend to visit. They made us calmer, happier, and less scared. They brought life of a vibrant kind to a very frightful enviorment and most importantly, they made VST/DAD’s heart smile. By coming, they brought FAMILY to our home, which healed and mended us all in ways we didn’t know needed fixing.

To me, they will always be my Kids. They are anything but kids or children.

Tim is a funny, logical, brilliant, and handsome knockoff of VST. He is a wonderful father to three beautiful kids that will someday ask him not to refer to them as kids anymore. He is driving every aspect of his own version of the red VW bus, making sure their familial path is on target. He loves is sweet M with all his strength for the beauty she is in and out. He grieves for the loss of his Dad deeply. He is a 6’6” softy to the core. When we are together, it is my hope just for a minute, he can put down his heavy load, and be our kiddo again. The freedom of childhood can be revisited while you still have a mom friend who calls you a kid.

Kim is an exquisitely beautiful and fierce woman not to taken lightly. She is funny, sensitive, kind, and thoughtful. To me, she is the Friend Daughter I didn’t raised from birth, but fell in love with, none the less. We chose the same career in teaching, but, SHE took it and ran faster and farther. Her students are blessed to be under her wing. Her own mothering abilities shine in the faces of her two man-children. Kim is wise and patient. She skillfully releases her boys to freedom and then reels them back in when needed. She cherishes her sweet husband, J, remembering when they met in grade school. K mourns the DAD that took her to the fair as a young girl one minute, and walked her down the aisle to her future the next. She remembers that, in his eyes, she was and will be his little girl for eternity.

In past posts I have referred to The Kids. That was wrong. They are not part of a pack or a rock group. They are T and K. The best parts of their dad reflecting his brilliance, grace, honestly, loyalty, and at times, funny looks or words. They hold his memory gently and share it with me. They are strong, beautiful adults that will need to forgive me if I call them kids. In my eyes, they are T and K. All things listed above and so much more, My kids, but more importantly, my HEART FRIENDS.

Today, hug your kids and hug them again. As parents, you already know. They may be bigger, but they will always be sweet, loveable kids to us.

Dreams have always been a personal comfort and place of wonder. My traveled dreamscapes are richly diverse, with beauty unexperienced on my wakeful side. Growing stories throughout my sleep-filled nights, I awaken before light, ready to harvest my thoughts, and serving them up in text. In my dreams, I am an athletic, svelte, tall, very blonde, ageless beauty. I can rollerblade, snow ski, skateboard, and backpack the Pacific Crest Trail from Canada to Mexico in a night. I see the tiniest details and make notes on how they will enrich my writing. All in the night, while peacefully I sleep.

The thing that has escaped me night after night has been one more visit with VST. Mornings have held disappointment as I slowly wake to remember there was no magical meeting the night before. No visit on A sun-kissed island, with azure seas surrounding us, or at our kitchen table at dawn. No last kiss of passion, regret, sadness, or goodbye. Not one more gaze into eyes that held my forever, while giving me a playful wink, or THAT look, which came in many varieties. Looks I learned to translate immediately, whether they drew me in, told me to straighten up and fly right, or ended a conversation. I would settle for just one more time having eye conversations, no matter the topic. I would awake refreshed and full or other dreams, but not the one I wanted so badly. Until a few weeks ago, that is.

I went to sleep after watching half a movie. Nothing new. Oliver was making sweet sleeping-puppy sounds in his crate while I floated off to dreamland, as usual. The next morning, my wish had been fulfilled. VST and I had shared the night before.

We were visiting outdoors in a beautiful place, natural and green. We smiled and talked for most of the dream, quietly savoring the moments we were able to share. He was his younger self, and without any signs of illness. Just my Dr. H. Most of our words remain muffled, shared celestially. Their essence cocooned my heart in peace. Cancer could not rob us of this quiet conversation of souls. Most was just beyond memory’s reach, but there was a portion clearly recalled.

“Darlin, the memorial was fine. Perfect. The words and songs you chose honored our life together, and me in ways that warmed my heart.”

At that moment, I felt a wave a relief that everything was done now.

“It’s great that you sent programs and notes to all the friends that couldn’t come. Nice touch that took extra effort. Thanks for doing that. It was all just beautiful.”

“However……”

However? What was coming next? But what, VST??????? Really????

“You screwed up on one part.”

I knew it. I knew it. Even from beyond the veil, one moment remained in which VST could have done things a bit different, and definitely better. I sighed, wishing so much that he was still here.

“Please explain yourself.”

“Everyone was remembered that needed to be, except for three. Pat, Steve, and Harry. Honey, you forgot to tell them. Please. Tomorrow. Hurry. Send them special notes that explain I have gone. Do it tomorrow. Please don’t forget.”

“I promise.”

That was the revelation I had awaited for months? The only thing I could remember? Not a final, ‘I will love you forever?’ or ‘I have a place saved for you?’ No. Just a reminder than three very important men in his life needed to know he died. A former doctoral classmate, boss, and close work friend? I knew the boss and workmate from our lives spanning 1988 through 2001. Although I had heard about the doctoral friend for 19 years, I had never met him. These three people would have never come to the forefront of my brain, only because I was not VST. His friends were precious to him as mine are to me, but personal to HIM.

In the morning, I retrieved “THE BOX” from the closet. If you’re widowed, I assume you have “A BOX”, as well. I have inherited “THE BOX” from Grandparents, and even though the items inside never held a great deal of meaning to me, disposing of something treasured for so many years couldn’t happen. Now I have my own. In VST’s box, there are extra programs, prayer cards, a guest book, and sympathy cards. Every one of them is precious to me, making the box sacred. Everything I needed to complete three last notices that their dear friend was gone.

I penned special notes to each of the three men. Sealed in silver envelopes with program and prayer card, I sent the three cards on their way with love. Mission accomplished VST. You just come back anytime to discuss the missing and loving me parts. This, I handled for you. I went on with my day.

Two weeks later, I heard the mail truck outside. For those of you that still have the luxury of a personal mail box at your drive, you know what a treat it can be. I love 11:30 when I hear the mail lady starting and stopping on her way to house after house, until I hear her engine pause at mine. I went to retrieve the mail and found inside a card addressed to me.

It was a handwritten card that had been sent snail mail. The return address identified it as being from Dr. Pat. The card had a picture of the American flag, something VST respected so much. I opened it to find an entire page filled with manly printing, created with pen and ink.

Dear Joy,

So sad….he was one of the most easy going, happy-go-lucky friends I have had the pleasure to know…..Know he is in heaven….you now have a guardian angel…way too young….lucky to have traveled together….Truly hearbreaking….Am a better person for having known him.

All the sweet things one would expect until I read further.

Will be 60 next July and can retire after 35 years on police force…. CANCER…..diagnosed with leukemia 5 years ago……..dealing with various treatments…..God willing…..

VST’s real life Superman had been hit with his own version of kryptonite. No kevlar vesting could protect him from Cancer’s bullet. After all his service protect millions of people during his 35 year career, he was fighting this alone, as every cancer patientdoes. VST knew. I understood now why THIS was the important thing I needed to remember,

I held the letter in disbelief. The handwriting on the paper spoke volumes from a man I had never met. To a friendship rare and dear formed over years in a doctoral program. A man that was sent a special shout out from the beautiful shadows of my dream. A man so special, VST made sure he was not forgotten.

You just never know what dreams may hold. Or the mail box on a sunny day in September. Reach out and remind Old Friends forgotten about your loved one. Send notes in the mail, taking time to hand write your memories of their importance in your life. Stamp them. Send them. They will brighten a day, possibly giving hope when it is waning. Embrace your dreams. You never know what they will hold.

Widowhood. Six months in. I am in awe of the oldish-new woman sitting here blogging. Strange. It appears that these are my Germanic fingers pecking at the keys. Quite sure Oliver recognizes me as the same person who has fed him his meals since he became mine. The neighbors all wave to the familiar woman down the street. Old Friends and family still ring me up to find out how I’m doing. But, no, I’m not the same woman of 6 months ago. That woman died with VST and was immediately replaced with another tougher version of myself.

Unless you are a widow, and even if you are, you can’t fully know the unique path my journey has taken. In the past Covid-wrecked months, I have been on a trek through a frightful wilderness worse than any high Sierra trail. It has been so lonely and cold at times, I surely wanted to lay my body down in the snow and allow grief to devour me like savage carnivores. Having my arms torn off by real Alaskan wolves would have been less painful. So desolate and invisibly vast, no matter how I have tried to hurry along, believing I’m out of the woods, I make a small turn to the right or left, and there I am again. The path is atrociously hideous at times, and yet, totally natural. There has been no quicker way to come, no short cut, nothing more than this path that I travel by myself, even when others are present.

My words have buoyed me beyond my wildest expectations. Food, Shelter, Clothing, Friendship, Everlasting Love, Faith, Adventure, and Happiness. Those words, my port in the storm, highlight the core of the power couple that was Dr. and Mrs. Hurt. It is odd that the time has arrived to pick a new word for Month Seven. Reflecting on the words that represented us over 32 years has filled me with the comfort that beautiful memories can bring. A meadowy retreat for respite from the ravages of grief.

I revisit the past 12 months in my mind. A year ago, we had just decided to visit Cayucos on the California coast again. VST was still taking Oliver on his daily walks. We had decided to stay in VC a while longer, and just named the house The Dunmovin House for that reason. There were subtle changes in VST that I internalized as frailties of my own or, even more scary and unthinkable, of our marriage. Even if we would have known the real causes for these changes earlier, the outcome would have been the same. The only difference would have been that we would have missed our last two RV trips which held sweet memories made.

I think of Christmas last. I was sick with a cold for a week, which I so graciously gifted to VST. As we took turns caring for one another, Christmas came and went in the midst of the snow flurries on our mountain. A white Christmas for our last earthly holiday together.

With spring’s arrival, projects completed, and the last nail driven, VST finished his job. He put down his tools, being proud of his life and accomplishments. He touched so many in profoundly wonderful ways. His strength carried others through their own struggles. He loved like no other. Fierce and true. He was a loyal and trustworthy man truly worthy of being a Knight Templar. He was also a man worthy of not only the title of FATHER, but more importantly, DAD. He was imperfectly perfect to those of us that loved him longest and best, and to those that were lucky enough to call him friend. He was my Dr. H.

Through Goodbyes to VST, this new woman has now stepped out of the far reaches of my soul. Helpful. Strong. Smart. Funny. Inquisitive. And SCARED AS HELL. She came from nowhere to flourish and thrive as she put down roots immediately after VST’s death in this new little town called HOME. She is the new me. I own those attributes now, as I always did. I must admit, in recent years, I chose to rest complaisantly as a wife allowing life to pass. Along the way, I lost focus, passion, and ambition. I became a passenger in my own life story, doing that all on my own. It wasn’t especially fair to VST, although he never complained. I don’t have that option anymore. I don’t want that ME anymore. She died with VST.

Today, I choose Happiness. Faith. Strength. Perseverance. God. I am finding my way forwards. I choose not to sit and rest too long. I move onward towards positive goals for the future, creating as I continue through the wilderness of my first year of widowhood. I’m quite positive there are treacherous rivers yet to cross, with crags and crannies that could feel like they might devour my soul. But, I also know I am strong enough to stay on the path. It’s going to be okay. God and I have this, together.

As a married woman, I could have never imagined taking my wedding ring off for a minute. I’ve never been one to wear jewelry of any kind, let alone pricey stones in garish designs. My wedding band was so perfect. Simple. Comfortable. Golden. Like VST and me. Scratched through our 32 years, but still a circle. A comfort to me when VST passed, it was a reminder than the three decades shared had not been a dream, but real.

One day, in late summer, I awoke to a new feeling. I could wear this ring no longer for OUR vows were not tethered to something as earthly as a bit of gold. My ring couldn’t begin to contain something so precious, vast, and unending similar to the heavens in which my new guardian angel rested. It was band of gold that was constricting my finger and just a piece of jewelry now. I was no longer a wife, but a widow. I could wear it not a second longer. When removed, I was left with a temporarily deformed ring finger, morbidly pale and chronically constricted. The nerves were sensitive to anything that brushed across that spot on my finger screaming their protests at being exposed to widowhood. A strange sensation I was not expecting.

Six months gone, six months here, I find myself with an interest in finding friends again. I laugh with them on the phone, making plans for adventures new and foreign to me. I’m taking an interest in dressing the new woman that I am becoming. I speak in a gentler, kinder way to myself, encouraging thoughts and actions that are creating the best version of myself. I cheer for me when I am hitting things out of the park. I smile from my heart and like it. My winter has past on most days. My 65th Autumn is here, and I find myself hoping it lasts for a couple of decades, at least.

One of the last things that VST said to me in weak and quiet words was, “I want to go back to the ocean.” I think about the day I will travel to San Simeon to release him to the wind. With the final page of our story written, we’ll go their together together sharing our last and final earthly Goodbye. Today, Month Six finished, the thought is immediately shelved and encased behind glassy, tearful eyes. There is plenty of time for healing on this the first widowed year of mine.

As you read this, please cheer for me in your own way. Then, cheer for yourself and all your journey has taught you. Celebrate the love you share with important people in your life. Call them. Hug them. Laugh. Cherish the life you shared with the one you lost and travel through the wilderness of widowhood with me. Love surrounds us and we are not alone in this. We WILL come out into the clearing, and be much stronger for the journey.