Author: Joy Hurt

Once upon a time, not so long ago, I had a really wonderful husband that I happened to adore. He felt the same. We were a team of two that could conquer anything we decided to accomplish. We never started out in a quest to amass an empire. Our goals were short term in nature that nourished healthy habits leading to long term success. We had plenty of missteps along the way, learning from them, and trying to avoid them in the future. Our main success was making each moment the best it could be.

VST was a man on a mission. After working 8-5 at his professional job, he would race to be home for dinner at 6 pm sharp. Every night. Those moments were filled with dinner table chatter about all the day held for kids and us. If you have a family, you know, those days are in the moment of crazy-times. So many things planned and done because they must be. VST embraced his moments shared with the kids, because he saw them as fleeting, which they were and did. No matter how many hours of tractor work were waiting, he always had time to share with us. No matter how many hours he had worked all day, he would wait up until the last child was home and in bed. Everyone accounted for in those quiet moments, he could finally rest.

We had the rare treat of having his parents live on the ranch across the drive from us. One really scary moment arrived when we needed to be present fully. VST’s dad was given 6 months to live shortly after we bought the ranch. He was in the hospital, as we held our breaths while his heart was stopped for some very long moments and restarted to regain rhythym.

At that moment in time, VST and I wanted to buy a respectable vehicle in which to cart the kids around. It was embarrassing to drive our young girl to Jr. High in a red and white VW bus from the 1900’s. She insisted her dad would drop her off down the street. We had found a brand new Suburban that was gorgeous right before J got sick. We were working on financing it when we got the news.

Across the drive from our farm house, there was a large, empty 1/2 acre space. VST and I discussed the possibility of putting a home there for J and J. It was perfect. While others were at J’s bedside at the hospital, we went to look at mobile homes. VST had measured every room in his mom’s house to make sure she would have the same or more space, and we found the perfect home. It happened to be exactly the price of the Suburban. This was not even a question in that moment in time. The suburban could wait.

We asked if they would move on the ranch with us. They gleefully accepted. J & J were the best in-laws I could have wished for, being equal parts of VST from the generation before. Wise and hysterically funny. Spiritually grounded in God. We would stop our busy lives for a few minutes every evening for Porch Therapy at their house. The four of us spent the next 12 years coaching, supporting, cheering, and badgering each other on that porch. We were the perfect neighbors for each other, and wouldn’t have chosen it to be any other way. For those moments in time, we were really living the good life. Right then. Right there.

So many moments in our lives were frozen in gold. Moments when boys turned to the USAF finest. Moments when marriages were formed. Moments when new grandchildren filled our arms. Moments when we lost our shirts farming, and those when we did okay. Moments when we held each other and cried at the horror death brought robbing us of J and J. Moments when we found each other as we crisscrossed the United States being wild and crazy.

The past is a beautiful birthplace of all the comforting moments, that together, are a tapestry for each life here on earth. The future is a fertile bed of rich soil, ripe with possibilities for growth and success. But, there is nothing tangible in either place. The claws of the past and future can dig into our souls and paralyze us, holding us from moving forward in the present. Living in either one can bring fear, sadness, regret, remorse, lonliness, guilt, and so many other harsh feelings. Moving through them to make a quick retrieval or appraisal is not to be confused with putting an airmattress in the middle of either and camping out there for days or weeks.

Living in the moment is making choices that shape the memories you will hold dear, while walking towards the future you want to build by creating healthy habits that become life’s successes. Honor your loved one by really embracing life this very moment. This moment is life’s gift to us. Use it wisely.

Two nights at the lake await me this morning. As I pack up the last things, I am so proud that I have not forgotten to do things that bring me happiness. Traveling has been a huge part our lives since we both retired in 2017. So, heading to the Sierra’s for rest and relaxation is perfect for me.

Adventures remembered bring a smile to my heart. I fell in love with the Eastern Sierra’s over twenty years ago. VST was the man who introduced me to places like Mammoth Mountain, June Lake, Twin Lakes, Bridgeport, Bishop, Mono Lake and Lee Vining. Many times, we ran to these places when life got to be too much. Always, we found comfort when we visited. I feel closer to him when I return to them.

Oliver will spend two nights at puppy camp. I will sleep in, blog later in the morning, eat too much, and enjoy the view. I plan to shop, walk, drive around the lake, and be a normal tourist. I am learning to be the travel buddy I would most like to be with. Awkward and forced for now, I am hoping that it will be as natural as breathing as the months pass.

The last time I tried this in August, the California fires were raging. I went on my first planned outing to celebrate the word for Month 5, Adventure. With Covid still having its grips on tourism at the lake and the smoke choking everyone while eliminating any view of the lake or mountains, my Adventure was anything but. Today, I plan to set that right, and have a wonderful time while spreading Aloha, the Word for Month 7.

If it has been awhile since you have been out of the house on an adventure, don’t wait any longer. Plan something that is just right for you. Something new and exciting. The world is rich with possibilities in our own back yards. Even a walk at a different time of day can provide new people to meet and things to see. Pamper yourself with kind thoughts and words from your heart to your brain. Wave at the neighbors. Practice smiling again. Live in the moment. Expect something wonderful is just about to happen. You won’t be disappointed.

Throughout my blogs, I have been referring to people and places by letters. It just dawned on me that some of you may not be familiar with the area in which I live, and hoping you will be with me for awhile, I will explain a bit about Virginia City. As far as people go, I will stick with the letters of their first names for now.

Virginia City is quite the place to visit, even more so to live. I had never even heard of the place, not being a history buff. From this point on, I will refer to her as VC. I do refer to her as a woman, because she can be beguiling, manipulative, seductive, cruel, heartless, apologetic, and forgiving in her ways. And VC has ways, let me tell you.

In January 2014, VST and I were at the doorstep of retirement and looking for a new place to call home. At that time, there was a glut of housing on the market in the form of reposessions. We were hot on the trail to find our next best investment in the form of a flip. As retirees, every penny is important. We were both sick to death of California, which was sad because we were both natives. The state had changed so much and we were ready to join the exodus and head East.

So, for two months, we spent each weekend over the border, looking in Northern Nevada for a nice place to land. We logged miles and miles looking north and south of the Reno area, always investigating repossessed properties listed on a site called Homepath. Every house we chose was not right for one reason or another. Most were in pretty bad shape. Each weekend, we left disappointed, but not defeated, intending to return the next weekend for another try. Just to put our determination and desperation in perspective, each way was a 5.5 – 6 hour drive. That was if there were not wrecks or bad weather to detour our trip. We were on a mission.

I had seen the VC house online. Majestic is the word that comes to mind. While many in VC were built in 1875, ours was built in 2004. It sat on A Street above the town, with a view of over 100 miles from a huge deck that was suspended far about the ground below. Living at the VC house we were living in air, like birds in a nest. Wild horses would come and eat off our hill below. We were so close, we could see scars from battles or the new fuzz of a foal, their fluffy little tail whisking flies away. With the position of the house came a silence that was unusual. There could be thousands on the boardwalks of C Street, and we would hear only the breeze, the faint whistle of the steam train, or the chimes of St. Mary’s on the Mountain.

The problem with the VC house was the price. We wanted our next purchase to not only be our home, but a good investment opportunity. VC is located on the side of Mt. Davidson at 6,200 ft. This is the same elevation as Tahoe. Our water was piped from Lake Marlette above Lake Tahoe, through the valley and up to us. Soft and wonderful mountain water we enjoyed for 6 years. Another problem was that VC is a tourist destination. I have read that 2 million people visit VC annually. There is one street, a few blocks long where all the action occurs. C Street is also part of a state highway to add to the confusion. There are not day to day services in VC, like a grocery store or Walmart. These are found 15 miles away in either South Reno or Carson City. Miles add up when you live remotely.

The VC house was huge. Period. It had 6 bedrooms, 5 bathrooms, on two stories. I could see the V from my kitchen window. The house had windows everywhere. 33 to be exact, all placed to catch the most breathtaking views. It was built to withstand the highest winds, and we got them. Often in excess of 35 mph. The house was a victim of severe abuse. No one could know the disrespect it took from the former owners until living there. In 6 years, we loved it back to pristine condition, and it was the fabulous house it was destined to be.

But, back to the story. We had wanted the house from the moment we saw it, but it was still $60,000 over budget. But, through the weeks, the price dropped, there was a bidding war, and we won. Plan and simple. For 62 weekends, we moved our possessions with the help of one small, open trailer. Each weekend was a fantastic getaway after working with sick children and social services. We would decompress on the drive, snacking and wishing we were already there. Each Friday night, the darkness would fall while VST drove and I daydreamed of all the things we would do to the house that weekend. The roads up to VC were windy and treacherous in daytime. VST handled them safely, even having to watch for wild mustangs that might be crossing on a blind curve in the black night of VC wilds.

In August of 2015, we made our final trip home to VC, and she had won. We had been talking to a local one day and he asked from where we had moved. We told him we had chosen VC as our home. He laughed as he looked through us with piercing blue eyes.

“No, folks.”

Not understanding, we had puzzled looks on our faces.

Staring off into the distance, he stopped smiling.

“Virginia City chooses you.” Returning his gaze to us, his look was serious and a bit disturbing.

You may be thinking it is impossible for a town to choose its residents. Then, you, my dear reader, have never been to VC to spend time. This is not a normal town. This is VC. She will get under your skin and not let you go. So many times when we told friends where we were going, the far away look would come over them. No one ever said they had a terrible time there. There were wistful memories of bachelor parties, weddings, family trips, or trips alone. But always, fun was involved. Lots of fun. The hook was set, and forever, VC would be tugging at their hearts. This was especially true of men folk. VC is a manly man’s town.

VC was a great place to live, but never did I expect she would devour my husband and keep him to herself. Impossible? Yes, it was cancer that happened to kill him. But, it is not lost on me that he never left the mountain. His mountain, where he became the Bionic Cowboy, his crisp cowboy hat and huge, metal braces on an incredibly handsome man were a fixture on C Street for 6 years. She won.

It is also not lost on me that I was released to leave. Rather like losing my husband to another woman. Except, it was a place. The house sold so easily and I was shoo-ed away, like an unwanted fly at a picnic. VC had no use for me, nor I any for her any longer.

VST is a part of VC history now. I hope he is loving his long walks down the boardwalk, stopping to talk to visitors that need to know where to have breakfast. I hope he is having lots of time to tip his hat to those that wave. Visit the post office to check on the mail for me, VST. I can’t come to sit with you right now. The memories we shared there are too raw and jagged just yet. But, soon, I will come to sit by 4th Ward School with you to rest just a moment. I know where the secret bench is. I will find you. Until then, walk on.

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!!