Author: Joy Hurt

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

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

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

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

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

The inscription read…….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My beloved said to me,

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

For behold, the winter is past;

The rain is over and gone.

The flowers appear on the earth,

And the time of singing has come.

The voice of the turtledove is heard in our land.

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

They given forth fragrance.

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

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

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

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

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

Joni Mitchell wakes me on mornings when I use my alarm. Her’s the sweet voice singing about the Hissing of Summer Lawns has brought me back from slumber for years. Even VST, and his intense Country Western preference, found the song a pleasant way to awaken. July 15, 2020, I would have rather remained cocooned in sleep, but knew the hours would evaporate quickly to bring me to 10am and honors for my late husband.

Caffeine and a steamy shower cleared away dreamy cobwebs, as I remembered back in time. January 23, 1988. A beautiful bride to be, I had a morning full of bath bubbles and pampering. Matron of Honor, Mother, Sisters, God Mother, Aunts, and dear girlfriends brought their love and support to me and my jittery mood. Just as the last few months had held doubts from everyone we knew and loved, it brought pensive thoughts to VST and I, as well. On that day, our two young souls, (not realizing we were kids at the time), were betting everything we had on the future life planned but yet unwritten.

Now, shower fog cuddled me on this a day I needed to hold everything together. My life completed as VST’s wife would be honored today in the richest service family and friends could provide. I refused to be the weakest link in this beautiful chain of love.

As I stood blowing my hair dry, a vision of me gazed back that I would now need to embrace fully. A beautiful new Life Story would be written in which I reach my full potential, racing to the finish line on my own terms. I, quite normal in appearance, would become an embodiment of my destiny. With the focus my own choosing, it was now up to me.

DA Girl and CC were awake, talking and giggling while filling 66 birthday balloons with helium. Life and laughter filled the house as I joined them. Static electricity raised our hair with each balloon as we filled and tied them with long ribbons. Each balloon had it’s own peculiar shape and color, reminding me of the thousands of stories VST and I had lived throughout our lives together. A beautiful rainbow of experiences unique to us were left to comfort my broken heart as they slowly helped patch the cracks. Everyone agreed, it was a rare life we managed to create and nurture. Later today, those balloons would race to the heavens, released in tribute to the fleeting days of life’s song in the instantaneous dance of eternity.

Slowly, layer after layer completed my look for the day. Black on black, insecurity under a facade of “All Systems a Go, Full Steam Ahead.” No matter what occurred, a mural of memories would be the result of this beautiful day.

At 8:00am, with a knock on the door, Toni brought in more life in the form of gorgeous floral arrangements, corsages, and boutonnieres. Through tears I saw that she had captured the essence of the day in flowers, because, as we all know, PEOPLE NEED FLOWERS. Lovingly created for our family, the expression of her skills and love of profession were more than evident. I took her to the backyard to see rows of chairs, tent-shaded family facing South and patio-shaded guests facing North, everyone facing the blue urn between them.

We then visited the RV barn, luncheon ready and waiting for guests. She quietly touched a table cloth and commented on the creative way VST was remembered in this space. We hugged and cried together for the briefest moment in cavernous garage still so new to me. A place where just weeks before, a 2018 Winnebago Intent had been parked. Odometer — 30,200 miles. An RV, in which after such a loss, I could only spend short, painful moments before feeling strangled with grief.

All at once there were kids, grand kids, and friends everywhere. Subway sandwiches, chips, and cupcakes arrived. Bottled water was iced. Family chairs were wiped down, after being sprinkled because I had turned off the wrong controller. Helpful busy hands lovingly finished everything just in time.

When the guests started arriving, T’s adorable wife, M, greeted them with her million dollar smile and great hugs. Documented in the guest book, friends signed a photo mat that framed the most beautiful picture K had captured on the deck of VC. A stunning, cloud filled sunrise with VST’s cane and hat at the rail. At 10:00 am, everyone was in place. Family and friends were all waiting to celebrate this man who held a different role in all our lives. Husband, father, grandfather, and friend. Life mate, help mate, business partner, Masonic Brother, Child of God.

Our beautiful yard, my WINTERPAST, suddenly become a holy place in which the rays of sunshine reminded me that life is so beautiful. The sound of the rustling leaves, deep verdant green, were whispering, “You’ve got this. You go, Beautiful Woman.” Weeping organic tears, we all were there to say Good Bye in our own different ways.

And so, it began………

To Be Continued.

Tuesday was a day of arrivals. DA Girl came first, bringing her light, laughter, excitement, and energy. I have known her decades, sharing every detail of my life as we raised our kids and ourselves through the years. We would have long visits every five weeks, right on schedule. I would save up the most important events to tell her and she would remember, with that steel trap brain of hers, right where we left off. She is the sweetest and most genuine friend a girl could have, my DA.

CC and DA have become friends now, so, the three of us would be staying in the house together. The kids and grand kids would find bunking at the local hotel. It just worked that way with bed space and bathroom accommodations, and everyone was gracious and accepting of our plan.

After T and K arrived with their families, there came a whirlwind of final tasks being completed. The RV barn became a thing of beauty with light blue tables and manly-man centerpieces all ready for guests. On the rungs of an 8 ft. ladder, lay the educational achievements of VST, with his Doctoral Hood, Mortar Board, and gown hanging from the top. His portable table saw held family photos and mementos. Even the snow shovel from VC made the cut.

The walls of the RV barn were now a tapestry of my favorite pictures from the house. Our life was splattered on those high walls. The five kids and their Senior pictures. VST and I on our wedding day, and from that day on. Pictures chronicling our growth and the deepening of that young love that started on a prayer, and ended so cruelly at Cancer’s whim. The whole story was told on the walls.

In weeks prior, each day, I would find myself taking another thing out of the house and hanging it up in the barn. Assessing my progress, I wanted to be sure that every year together was remembered and shared on July 15th. The Sunday before, when I was alone in the barn, having made many trips carrying more and more memorabilia, I crumpled, like a wad of paper. As hiccuppy tears ran down the ugly cry face, it hit me. I was bringing more and more things to collectively represent what I lost when he left. I could cover the 20 x40 wall with every last picture I owned. VST was gone and not going to magically appear when I had just the right number. A cry I won’t ever forget, a widow’s moment so private and tortured, we will let it rest.

With family and friends now in place, and the biggest Round Table package I could order, everyone was eating, laughing, and enjoying each other. Gal in Grace came over to add to the fun. It was as if time had somehow gone back to happier days, with stories and memories overflowing. The grand kids were so perfectly beautiful, each one coming to hug me in just their own way, wide eyed and happy to help. I could feel VST’s pride as he watched this unfold.

Some of our were kids and grand kids were missing, stolen by Covid’s threat. Distance and travel requirements made their presence impossible, and they were deeply missed. We embraced those present and remembered those that were unable to attend, while filling our faces with the best pizza ever.

Finally, the moment I had been awaiting arrived. Through the years, we had collected pictures. Hundreds of them. I had prepared two packets of very special pictures for T and K. Here’s the deal. In a regular family, possessions and pictures are collected from the beginning. There’s no question of their dispersal when the time comes. Everything belongs to everyone. In a blended family, the rules are a bit different. VST and I joined after the kids were born. Some belongings that I cherished for 32 years were not mine to keep. They belonged to the kids. VST’s family heirlooms belonged to his children, not me.

The most precious of these were their baby pictures. Before another hour went by, those pictures would be in the hands of their rightful owners, safe and sound.

As packages were presented and opened, the scene became magical. Everyone clustered together looking at pictures never before seen. OOhhhhh’s and AAAhhh’s from the kids (who are not kids, but very grown-up adults), and grand kids (aged 10-19). Every age found something fascinating. The GK’s were wanting to know stories while the kids were happily sharing them. The love on the patio that summer evening was the most healing thing we all needed. At that point, VST was weeping softly, his heavenly tears felt in my heart. This was a moment from that week that is among the most precious we created. It comforts me on nights that sleep eludes me. It was the first time I saw with my own eyes, physical embodiment of the word FAMILY and the one we had created over the years against all odds. More precious than all the treasures VST left me to care for. This one is eternal.

That Tuesday night, we stood on the Threshold of Wednesday morning in a mass of hugs and tears. Ready or not, there was no turning back.

To Be Continued…………..

July 13th, 2020 arrived like any other high desert day, blue sky-ed sunny. It was going to be a beautiful week of perfect weather. In the back yard, the temperature stayed pleasant in the morning. With a 10:00am service, we would be in the shade of the RV barn by the time it became uncomfortably warm.

Details were checked off the master list. Tables and chairs were in the RV barn, with tablecloths and other essentials still packaged and awaiting placement. Plenty of nervous, helpful hands would arrive to set up the tables and chairs when the kids came the next evening. CC, my dear and beautiful life time friend would be arriving in the afternoon to help assess the progress and advise on what else needed to be finished.

Toni’s Floral was confirmed for a Wednesday 8am delivery. The guest picking up the sandwiches at 9am was on point. Cupcakes were ordered from the Raley’s. My normal Walmart run was full of the essentials needed for a house full of company. The kitchen was going to be used as little as possible until Thursday morning, when all this would be in the rear view mirror.

The centerpieces were a stroke of genius, the most fitting tribute to my Handy Man. VST LOVED his tools, as any guy does, and tools he had. Cabinet upon cabinet of them. Air tools. Hand tools. Plug in sanders. Vices. A Sawzall. Table saws. Hand saws. Saw Horses. The list was endless. For years, we owned multiple houses, with concurrent projects at each one, requiring the purchase of duplicate tools and devices. Hence, the garage was overflowing. His tools were VST’s favorite possession.

The oldest ones were from his days as a mechanic at the John Deere Dealership in Fresno. This was the home of his first career, starting at a young tender age as a field mechanic, and working his way up through the ranks to retirement as the store manager after 26 years of service. During this time, VST would engrave his initials on each Craftman’s wrench and anything else that might walk away. He always prided himself in not needing to buy extremely expensive tools, because a real knowledgeable technician would be able to fix things beautifully with less.

I LOVE these tools. They came to live with me when we married. I have watched, through project after project, as the need for a specialty item would arrive. It didn’t matter, be it automotive or construction, the reaction was the same. He would stop and think carefully. I could see him going through an inventory thousands of items long in that big old brain of his. He would stop and, always, in the same way, a clever smile would cross his face, and he would say, “Hang on, Darlin'”. He would dive into just a certain drawer or cabinet and come out with the exact thing needed. He saved every bolt, nut, and wire, because, in his words…..”You just never know……..” These tools are hard for me to look at some days. Other days, I go in the garage just to be near them again. For me, tools are extremely sexy. Knowing how to use them skillfully, even more so.

Over the weekend, I had found the wrench drawer, packed full with set upon set of wrenches, varying in signs of use. From the tiniest to the ones I needed two hands to lift, I filled a bucket with them and went into the kitchen. Lovingly, I washed each one with Dawn. It cuts the grease off anything, right? Sure did. Then, I filled my dishwasher with the fairly clean wrenches, one cycle leaving them gleaming.

For Centerpieces, each table had a combination of wrenches, sockets, a measuring tape, and a few pliers and other miscellaneous tools. On the tables were snack size bags of Peanut M&M’s, his favorite food to munch on when figuring out his next project. There were also individual bags of almonds, his next favorite food. The centerpieces sat on baby blue tablecloths, bringing a smile to anyone that really knew VST. This captured memories of the beauty he brought into the world with his projects, lovingly designed and expertly crafted.

Monday afternoon, the party began with my bestie, CC arriving first. After such a long drive, we got takeout and enjoyed a terrific visit. It was a special evening for just us two. So many things to talk about and remember, we chatted into the night. CC had been there at the very beginning, she and I being partners in crime since our children were babies.

One of the funniest memories was something that occurred right after VST and I had moved into our first new home in December of 1987. A doctor had built it for his wife in the 50’s and it was a step back in time, down to the blue and white tiled kitchen. One would expect June Cleaver to come around the corner, with every detail decade specific to mid-century modern decor. We had assumed the loan on the house, it being at the outside limit of our budget. With 5 children, ages 6, 8, 8, 11, and 11, the backyard Olympic size in-ground swimming pool complete with diving board was perfect for us.

The Master Bedroom was over the garage, with a set of stairs leading to it from the family room. Upstairs, the large bedroom had a spacious bathroom, also 50’s style. The louvered door going into the bathroom wasn’t sound proof. There were spaces between the slats through which something could be slipped.

With the quick engagement and wedding planned with the speed of light, many were counting on their fingers, sure that baby number 6 would be along shortly. Not to worry. I think that was one of the first 10 questions we covered. “Do you want another child?” The resounding and simultaneous “NOOOOOO!” was comforting to us both. The family we would blend were the exact children sent from God to our care. Our new family was perfect as it was. Five was a wonderful number.

CC had reservations, as did everyone. Two crazy 30-somethings meet at the class reunion, propose and accept marriage, and three months later are getting hitched and buying a house. The betting odds were definitely against us.

On the December day in question, I was upstairs using the bathroom. From the throne, there was a direct view of the closed louvered door. I was in a very intense conversation with CC when out of the corner of my eye, I saw the biggest Rambo Knife I had every seen sliding through a space between slats. Slowly. Deliberately. The knife I had never seen before was sinister. Evil. Grooves for blood letting. At least 18″ long, or so it seemed. Up and down, through the slat it moved without any sound.

“CC”, I whispered in the softest voice. “VST is pushing a huge knife through the door.”

“Whattttttt? Joy, how well do you know him? Are you okay? Do you need help?”

The conversation kept going, all heard by VST on the other side of the door, who was getting boyhood HaHa’s out of the entire situation. He finally ceased and went away. Boy, did he catch hell while he just looked at me. Laughing, he pulled me close, and gave me the best kiss to calm me down. That boy was a prankster, loving every bit of it.

Monday came to a quiet end. Tomorrow, DA Girl would arrive, along with T and K, and 5 of the grandchildren. It would be then everything would start to gel and become more real. There was no stopping this train. The thoughts and plans of the last three months were now visible and a reality. Chairs were in place. Everyone was ready. Was I?

To Be Continued…….

3 pm is neither time for lunch, nor dinner. In the cautionary world of Covid , it’s a respectable time to get a cup of coffee at a diner, bear-ly full of anyone. A quiet time for a cyber friend to materialize. A stranger, species unknown. Nothing much happens at 3 pm around home. Oliver is usually restless, knowing his 4pm dinner is right around the corner. By 3 pm, the day has become what will be documented in my personal journal. 3pm is neither time for lunch, nor dinner .

Waiting in the parking lot, so many thoughts swirled in my oceanic brain. Mental tides, ebbing back and forth over tide pools full of things needing to be done and undone. Wrongs. Rights. Truths that just needed accepting. Opportunities missing and missed. Full moon brain waves streaming, enhanced by 80’s songs on the radio, I watched cars flow East and West on Main Street. Everyone hurrying to squeeze the last little bit out of the day before nightfall. I sat waiting patiently, being one with a moment of thought.

There is a time for masks and a time to take them off in this Covid adventure in which we find ourselves. Arrival and introductory niceties finished and with the help of the sweetest waitress, we were guided to our table. The time, about 3:15pm. There, at that table, the beginning of a new moon cycle began. The topics flowed easily at our table by the window. In the beginning, sun wasn’t an issue until it was necessary to lower the blinds a bit, as it dropped in the Western horizon. Ebbing and flowing, the words never stopped. Back and forth. Coming forth, sharing information that took us back to important times in our separate lives. Talking and listening. Listening and talking. The moment took center stage.

The waitress deserves a huge tip. I plan to return today to add to that and hug her. I may even speak to her manager. Adorable as she was, she kept us in liquid and food. She smiled ever so sweetly sensing this table was just a little different. After the 4th or 5th attempt to take our order while getting nowhere, she simply told us to flag her down when we were ready.

I guess there was a 4pm and a 5pm yesterday. Pretty sure of it, because by 5:30, the blinds didn’t need to be down anymore. Darkness had settled. 6 pm? 7pm? By this time, I think I had eaten an egg, some bacon, and toast. Way too many cups of coffee were consumed. As late afternoon flowed into early evening, the hours ticked away. I found out so many interesting things about this person, his species seeming familiar. The waitress totally gave up on us, we, the couple that had taken over the table by the window. 8 pm? Still talking. Around 8:30 pm, or so, with reluctance, we needed to leave the table by the window, to sneak into the night and back to our own lives.

The time change has been very hard on me this year. Added hours of darkness have set me on edge, increasing my anxiety about the approaching depths of winter. Moonlight through a harmless apple tree plays like a Stephen King-ish movie through my bedroom blinds. Bitter winds have arrived, along with frigid loneliness. Affirmations of personal success and happiness fill the void and keep the jackals of despair at bay. Creating and attaining my unique dreamscape is now MY responsibility, and I am finding it is yet another skill I possess.

Around 8:30pm last night, a gentleman escorted me to my Jeep Wrangler, opening the door for me, after meeting for coffee at 3 pm. He stood well within my personal space and yet didn’t overstep any boundaries. With a brief and respectful hug, the night swept me back home. Hard to say how long we could have talked without revisiting stories of travels, life, family, and memories. We are two extremely interesting, well traveled people that enjoyed coffee and a late lunch/early dinner, at 3pm, when nothing much ever happens. I have identified his species as Friend. I, too, claim Friend as mine, because in life as I know it, there is nothing more important that that.

Some days a girl needs to get out in the fresh air. Yesterday was one of them. Some Mud Ducks hang around their distant watering hole and are quite content. Lounging about, whining about all the things that could be better but aren’t because it is too cold, or too wet, or just tooooooo. I find some Mud Ducks don’t yet have the concept of choosing happiness and growth, which makes my own first assessment of myself as a Mud Duck suspect. Yesterday, I became migratory fowl while looking at the brewing storm clouds amassing. I needed respite from my Christmasy nest.

New and interesting food sources in my little town don’t appear every day, especially during Covid. Slowly, I have tried and tired of each one, and yesterday, nothing sounded as if it would hit the spot. The the daily special at The Wig Wam, nor eating in a restaurant full of goofy bear decor, were right for yesterday lunch.

Braving the wind outside, I used my trusty new leaf blower to move leaves from the porch to the jet stream right that blew by my house. My 30 trees already know the routine. Leaf out, enjoy the summer, shed leaves and sleep. So, the shedding has almost finished and I am sure I hear many of them snoring. It is a mystery where all the dropped leaves have gone. I have cleaned up 4 trash barrels worth, but the wind has taken the rest far, far, away to lands unknown. For that I am thankful.

Oliver managed to get himself into trouble again, eating another path light, so, things in the house were quiet with him in Puppy Time Out, already asleep, while dreaming of how he will steal the next light. His one truly naughty side cannot be hidden. Oliver is a destructive chewer who never stops. Ever. Most toys are liver to him. He eats anything and everything plastic. Afflicted with a syndrome of some kind, plastic is his life force. I am am aware and careful as I can be. Yesterday, Puppy Time Out was a safe option for him, as I sat frustrated and cooped up.

Who better to jet away with than……The Wonderful And Most Entertaining Miss Firecracker!!!! For new readers, this wonderful woman and I became friends the minute we met while attending a Men’s Group Function in which our husbands were members. The four of us hit it off. She was a huge reason why we chose to move to our town, they having been here for 14 years. Never did we know 2020 and cancer would steal them both away, just months apart. Yes. Miss Firecracker!!!! Maybe, just maybe, she would be up for a trip to the desert home of Top Gun. I had been wanting to try a Sonic Burger, and there was just such a place right of 95.

Miss Firecracker, being just as cooped up and bored as I, jumped at the chance and in a few short minutes, we started on our journey 30 miles East. I was in my black and orange “Vaqueros” hoodie, jeans, and Ugg boots. A standard uniform these days, with winter almost here. She, on the other hand, was styling, as usual. In a darling black suede leather coat with fringe on the arms, her perky smile, sparkling eyes, and the most adorable macrame/crochet purse, her look was complete. We set out into the desert on our 30 minute ride east.

Traveling with a desert girl who knows things, it was fun to have her point out the mark on a huge mountain outside of town that looks like a primitive, hieroglyphic horse. Below that, a sheep’s head. There are more shortcuts to learn. More stories to share about two guys we loved so much. Traveling with her, we become fireworks, exploding across the horizon as we gasp and cover any range of subjects. Time stops and careens ahead at the same time when I am with her.

Rolling into the fringes of town, she mentioned she knew of an actual restaurant that we might try. With a turn off the main drag, we arrived at an adorable place called The Grid. It had something for everyone, and the parking lot was jammed with cars (less than 50 people, I am 100% sure) The outside was Nevada approved. You can’t judge Nevada with a mere drive-by. The most wonderful shops and stores are just through the door. Most exteriors look terrible, because they are sandblasted on most days by high, sandy winds. These are extremely hard on humans and buildings.

Miss Firecracker knew just where we should eat. A restaurant like something out of a Top Gun movie that I would envision. Polished cement floors, corrugated aluminum on the walls, exposed ducting instead of a ceiling. A place were things were discussed, hashed out, decided and agreed upon. A no-frills place where people go to chow down. On one side was a bar/eating area, complete with at least one pool table. The other side was the restaurant, which was considerably less busy. The place was industrially sexy, my favorite style of decor. Yes. Miss Firecracker elevated my mood with this suggestion.

On the way home, she full of Rueben and me of Hamburger, we hadn’t even touched the surface of all the topics we could easily share. The best Carpet Cleaner, past Shrine memories, whistful thoughts on our guys, topography of the high desert, shortcuts, and the wind. We chatted all the way back to her front door and the end of our luncheon date.

I am so grateful to have a friend like her. We share so many things. Her first hand knowledge of what it is like to go through this wilderness is such a comfort. I don’t need to explain if my eyes mist over at a sweet memory. Not needed is the background story to what VST was like as a man. She knew him. And I knew Mr. Motorcycle Jacket, her guy. Suave and well spoken. He came across like Bailey’s and Coffee, hold the whipped cream. He was smooth and sweet, with an added urgency of caffeine. He was a gentleman, first and foremost. An old curmudgeon to her at times, but they were the moon and the stars together. And now, the sky seems a little awkward without his presence.

Try going off your normal grid like we did yesterday. It was a mini-vacation to laughter and fun. Pick a new place to visit with an old friend. And, don’t forget to laugh. It feels great.

With details sorted out in my head for the memorial, Oliver was off to Puppy Camp for a week. So many oddities would occur all at once, leaving the perfect opportunity for Ollie to have a barking melt down during “Amazing Grace”, or a grand theft of Subway Sandwiches when no one was looking. These possibilities were more than I could deal with. Oliver and I discussed this, he assuring me that he understood. The Friday before, he and I drove to Carson City, where we had our first tearful goodbye ever.

The weekend was one for smoothing details, deciding on clothing, crying alone, and grieving. The house was quiet and the loneliest without my four-legged bestie following me around. The yard was groomed and in full bloom, sprinklers cycling on and off helping what should grow do just that.

I must speak a bit about the brilliance of my yard. I use My in a very temporary way, as we are all caretakers for the next occupants, honoring those that came before us. The creators and caretakers prior to me took CARE to CREATE beauty. The entire yard, not just a corner, but the ENTIRE thing is landscaped. All 1/2 acre of this yard is covered in landscape cloth. Then, covered with a variety of gravels or decomposed granite (DG). All plants are watered through two functioning and separate drip systems that are scheduled for varying times, giving proper water to each living thing in the yard. There are paths for walking and a patio of sitting. There is grass for feeling good under bare feet. There is decomposed granite for comfort where one should walk, and gravel over flower beds, not for walking. There are pathway lights, and up-lighting on the trees at night. This yard is my happy place.

The week before the house became mine, I have already spoken to the fact that I was freaking out. Yes. FREAKING OUT. 1/2 acre. Me. Alone. To care for this. 15 days a widow. Monumental. And for a few minutes, unthinkable. Well, the prior caretakers to this piece of heaven thought everything through for me, and it has been easy and fun to watch over WINTERPAST (for new readers, this is the name of the property since July 15th. Look up King Solomon 2: 10-14).

Thank goodness the jitters didn’t win. Slowly but surely, I had been moving my yard art into the right spots. The weekend before the Memorial, everything was waiting for company. I had figured out the arrangement for seating. Not Covid approved, the guests would be under the patio cover looking out into the yard. The family would sit on the lawn under two tents, looking back towards the house. Everyone would be shaded and seated. Although, NOT COVID APPROVED. By this point, I had long moved past worries of COVID. It had robbed me of seeing so many special guests, health compromised and unable to attend. It would NOT rob me of a special morning to say Good Bye.

Getting back to preparations. I made my way to the beauty shop to have my hair cut Saturday morning. My wonderful, amazing, beautiful realtor had given me a gift certificate. Maybe as a hint to my “Covid Non-Coif”, mournful and unattended, for sure. The beautician and I had met once before, she, a wonderful young mother, caring and sweet. We talked about the memorial and all the plans while she snipped and cut. A little bit here, a little bit there, in an hour she had me Memorial ready.

My next task was to decide on what to wear. How many times VST had delighted to look through bags of clothing I would bring home after a day of shopping. He loved it when I bought new clothes and wanted to see every last piece. On days that I didn’t find anything, he was as disappointed as me. He would drive me to any mall, any time, any where, if there was something I was looking for. The thing is, I hate shopping, so, he was usually off the hook.

Several years back, (like 10 or so), I had found an adorable dress online. Just a plan black dress. Empire style and loose fitting under the boobs, it would hide the 10-20 pounds that came and went like the seasons. 3/4 sleeves, it was made of a stretchy fabric that moved nicely when I walked, the dress was knee length. It revealed the slightest decolletage, of which mine, my 80 year old dermatologist once declared during my medical exam, was flawless. Just sayin. The dress came with a bulky pearl necklace. All for $14.95.

This dress had saved me on so many occasions when VST had a last minute invitation or function in which I had waited too long to buy something. It always fit just right. Skinny Joy. Plump Joy. This dress just fit. Through the years, it went to weddings and funerals. Parties and Meetings. Dinners. Hawaii. This dress had gone everywhere and done everything. It had danced in VST’s arms, safe and warm. It had pouted when VST was being a bull-headed man. It had seen Grandson’s sing, dance, and graduate. There wasn’t really a different choice that could be made. This dress would be the one in which I would eulogize my husband. Me, myself, and my little black dress.

Along with the black dress, I would wear black tights, last worn when VST and I went to dinner together for Valentine’s Day in Carson City. That was Valentine’s Day 2020, not another year or time. Just MONTHS before. My go-to shoes were, and still are, comfortable black flats. With everything the day would hold, flats were the best. In truth, I only wear flats and these happen to be my favorite. A mix of patent leather toe and flat black leather back, they hold a small bow on the top of each shoe. Stitching on the patent leather finishes such a cute look. They are my favorite, most comfortable shoes, and I wear them for special things. This would qualify.

No jewelry except my wedding ring and the gold cross VST bought me for Christmas 2019 would be worn. I don’t do jewelry. I’m not grown up enough to have patience for it. I don’t have pierced ears and I don’t wear a watch. Forgettabout diamonds for me. All of it is lost on me. It fascinates me to think I wore my beloved wedding ring for 32.5 years, every moment of my life. I took it off for very little, never finding it cumbersome or bothersome. It was part of my hand. Comfort Fit. When swimming off Waikiki Beach, VST always wore a little neck safe in which we would both put our rings for safe keeping. Other than that, we always wore our rings.

Until the heartbreaking day.

His fell off, VST having lost so much weight, it didn’t fit anymore. In truth, he didn’t have enough strength to deal with the added weight of a size 12 band of gold. Already so sick, he handed it to me. “Here. Put this away. It fell off.” My heart broke even more that day on the road to devastation.

No manicure/pedicure, or other fluffy, girly-type services were needed. On the day of, I would shower, blow-dry my hair, adorn large, black sun glasses and call it good. Makeup would be pointless. No explanation needed for that.

As I collected the clothing in one organized area on Sunday afternoon, it occurred to me that I would never wear this favorite dress again after July 15th. It would become kryptonite to my Super Hero soul. Repelling magnets, my favorite dress and I. I wouldn’t wash it ever again. Just like my beautiful wedding dress up on the shelf with the smudges and tears from the happiest day of my life, my little black dress would rest in the box, with her. The happiest and saddest clothing would need to nestle into forever, because I wouldn’t look at either again for a very long time, if ever.

Sunday, late afternoon, I walked around the yard picking a dead rose head here, a sprouting weed out of place there. The bird families had taken up residency in the little bird houses on stakes. When VST and I chose the house together in February, I had made note of them, thinking to myself that REAL birds don’t make nests in little wooden houses. These magic houses were on their second or third families already, the soft chirping of newly hatched finches adding to the sound of bird songs surrounding me. My lawn was lush and green, an inviting oasis in the high desert. Everything was the crispest green. The sky was the most beautiful shade of blue, as only someone who lives in the high desert can understand. Breathtaking. Big Sky. Big Dreams. Big Sorrow. Everything more pronounced when standing under the vast Nevada sky.

Sunday, I went to sleep with the setting sun, the moon rising to cradle me in her soft glow. A troubled widow found a more troubling sleep, as everything lay prepared for the new week. A week that would hold so much, more must wait. Every little detail needs to be written just so, because, THIS would be the week of the unthinkable. THIS would be the week I could no longer deny. I. AM. A. WIDOW.

Be Patient, dear readers. Time and The Memorial — Part 3 to come.

There is so much I love and appreciate about my new life, but one of the most special things is the special time I have found for writing. November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). This is a real movement made more wonderful by a Google-able website. In prior years, Write-Ins were held in San Francisco where authors of all levels would converge and have a giant weekend Write-A-Thon. I can only imagine how wonderful those weekends were for those lucky enough to attend.

Every October, NaNoWriMo emails arrive, encouraging writers to fluff their nest and get ready to write their novel in November. Every October, I would find the perfect coffee cup and imagine myself writing the days away in sheer bliss. In reality, VST and I were so busy living our full and exciting lives, that the new coffee cup would remain empty, and the nest would never hatch a novel, or anything more than a few chapters that went no where.

Throughout the year, NaNoWriMo sponsors activities, like Spring and Summer writing camps. During this time, you can cyber “bunk” with other writers and camp out in the vast wilds of the internet while writing from the safety and comfort of your own home. But, their biggest event is the entire month of November, when you are encouraged to write a novel.

A novel???? Yes. 50,000 words. It seems so impossible when I look at the number. And yet, every day, I am here writing at least 1,500. Which puts me on track for at least 50,000 words. In my old life, I was always hopeful there would be 30 days in a row to write. Each year, I would make it through a few days, or a few weeks, but never finish. My new life is so different, and now, I have the time, energy, creativity, and Oliver to help me meet my goals.

I mention Oliver because the first thing one needs to write consistently is a partner that understands and encourages. Please endulge me while I explain Oliver’s importance in my writing endeavors.

For new readers, Oliver is my 2 year old cream based, chocolate piebald wire-hairded, green eyed dachshund. He is afflicted with OCD, as I am beginning to believe I am, as well. His mornings must be the same every day and include the following peculiarities.

Oliver was raised in our RV as we traversed the country, traveling 50,000 miles in 3 years. He was our companion for the last 1.5. As a puppy, he learned to use pee pads. Now, for those of you dog owners that have tried to teach this method and failed, it wasn’t you at all. To teach Oliver to tend to bathroom issues on command has taken hundreds of hours, extreme patience, and consistency. But, at this point, there are no long walks waiting for nature’s call. Oliver is quicker than me with the morning duties, all in the warmth and safety of our bathroom on a pee pad. No snowy walks. No wet paws. No lost dog in the dark. Just us, as we take care of business in the morning.

Next, Oliver expects breakfast. 1/3 cup of dog kibble. Have you every looked at how small 1/3 cup is? Oliver gives me that lecture every morning. He eats so fast, I needed to resort to a puzzle bowl, which slows him down a bit. He then must have at least two treats. He counts, and will not avert his gaze or move a muscle until he has had at least two and I show him empty hands. Being stared down by a green eyed dachshund will make an honest person of you. I make sure there are at least two.

It is then my time to have coffee in my recliner and look at my iPad, while waking up a little more. I like to consider the blog choices I listed from the night before and see what I feel like writing about. I always have at least three written down, because you never know what a night of dreaming will do to creativity levels. For those of you waiting for “Time and The Memorial, Part 2”, please be patient. I want that piece to be a perfect reflection of a complicated and beautiful day. I MUST do it justice.

While I am having coffee, Oliver has taken up a new role as Writing Master. He sits with his bone in his mouth, staring at me, fully at attention. He waits. He moans. He wiggles a bit. He stares more. When he can take no more, he barks. All while wagging his most adorable tail just a little bit.

“Mom-oh”. Hurry up. Don’t you want to write? In the other room? The one with my other bed? I have my bone. I am good at waiting while you write. “Mom-oh”….. Hurry up. We need to work!

I mean, who can resist? Oliver knows so many words, but, the one he never misses is “WORK”. He grabs his bone and dashes to my studio. After a bit of gnawing on his favorite new bone, he snores ever so sweetly, with the clickity-clack of the keyboard under my chubby, Germanic fingers as his lullaby. He sleeps until he hears the computer turn off, and then, he is ready to continue our day.

Without Oliver, so many things in my life would be upside down. He keeps me on track and on time. In the early days of widowhood, I wished Oliver’s life was better. Everything was chaotic, and yet, so still all at once. He was the consistent life force that needed care. Oliver needed routine. He needed clean pee pads. He needed toys and comfort. He needed, so I looked past the Kleenex box to make sure he was okay. Oliver learned to give hugs and listen. He quickly gave up the inquisitive looks when I cried in the dark, and sat on my recliner with me, assuring me that everything would be okay.

Now, Oliver is the first to see this writer bloom. He would tell you that it is something to behold. “Mom-Oh” in her heart studded robe, and fleece pj’s. Hair in morning wonkiness, she is in “THE ZONE” as she concentrates on all the stories swirling in her brain. He sleeps, because he has realized there are no conversations to be had while she writes. He sleeps because “Mom-Oh” has found her HAPPY.

If you haven’t run out to buy a journal, or started to keep one online, please do so. Until you do, Oliver will make sure I continue to write for us all.

It had been a full day of deciding. Deciding to be happy, while fighting off tears. Deciding what things needed to be thrown away and what things needed buying. Deciding on who I needed to talk too and what moments would be silent. It was hot, and the heat made me decide that it was the perfect day for a hamburger, onion rings, and chocolate milkshake from the hot-pink roadway burger joint in town. It sat next to the U-haul place and across the street from T’s Flowers on Main Street.

The building is Milk of Magnesia Pink and has been for years. It screams that this place is worth the stop. Y is a spunky, funky tattooed woman who has a lot to say about everything. Her smile is contagious and happiness poofs out the “Order Here” window with whiffs of everything greasy and delicious. She is a young Norma Rae, “Sally Field” shapely, and fierce. She made it through the pandemic, and vows never to shut her doors again. Customers flock to her and today, I was one of many in line.

After ordering, a space opened up at the picnic table out front, and I took a seat, facing the road. My legs stretched out almost touching the broken sidewalk. Spotty grass, broken asphalt, and weeds made a mosaic in front of the restaurant. The building was new in the 50’s and had been one thing or another since then. Its plaster was cracked and weather beaten as many people and things are in my town. An old woman sat on the other end and side, facing the same way as I. We both gazed across Main, looking at T’s Flowers, and the unmarked house next door.

Without an introduction, she started a conversation.

“Do you know if the Book Store Lady opens very often? House next to T’s? You know? The used book store?”

I turned to look at her more closely. She was Nevada old. The high desert steals some things and she doesn’t give them back, ever. She steals moisture with intense sunshine, wind, and heat. She replaces soft, supple skin with leather, dried so long in the sun, it doesn’t burn anymore. Flowing hair is replaced with something resembling dry straw. Hopeful eyes dim. This woman was Nevada old. Petite, in her t-shirt and shorts, I had heard her order. Two “Y’s Bombs”, the biggest hamburger sold. Two of them for this tiny woman.

“Not sure, I just moved her in April. It hasn’t been open when I’ve been around. Was it a good place?”

“I used to go there all the time. I live up the road, East about 30 miles, myself. Just come here for the burgers.”

Her blue eyes shown out from hooded lids, and the wrinkles of time were gouged deeply in her face. I suppose she was sizing me up too, as we High Desert Ladies tend to do. Rattlesnakes and varmints need to be identified quickly in wild places when a woman is traveling alone.

With no conversation flowing, I offered up more information than I should.

“I’m a new widow. I haven’t taken the time to visit all the stores here. I’ll pay attention to the Book Store and check it out when she opens.”

“Probably dead. I’m a widow, too. 26 years. I miss him every day.” Her wedding ring, studded with diamonds, sparkled on her left hand as we both turned to look at it together. I hoped she hadn’t noticed. I was thinking about the woman and her drive of 30 miles to buy two huge burgers that would be cold by the time she got home. I thought of her widowhood of 26 years. Almost as long as I had been a wife. Was that what my life would become? Was this an omen? 26 years from now, would I be sitting in front of a hot pink hamburger shack, talking to a young woman of 64 about her new widowhood while waiting for my two “Y’s Bombs”? I was looking through a window into my future, which was hopeful and devastating all at once.

“Order 27. Mae. Your order’s up. 2 “Y’s Bombs” with everything.”

“That’s me. Gotta go.”

“Wait, I need to ask. How old are you? ” Not sure why I asked, but it was a question I had to know right then.

“90.”

And with that she was gone. My window closed. So many details about Mae I will remember forever. She was me, I was her. She looking back, I looking ahead, with 26 years meaning two very different things to two very different ladies.

So many questions were left unanswered that day. I would love to find her again and ask her to tell me about important way points to watch for on the way to 90. Some advice about what to avoid and what to embrace. Stories about the guy she loved so much that his absence still breaks her heart 26 years later. She was the friend that got away, floating back home through the dust of the high desert, 30 miles East, with two cooling “Y’s Bombs” on her front seat.

Oh, by the way. What is 64 years PLUS 26 years????????????? Yeah. Just another weird coincidence in this the wilderness of widowhood and the high desert, in which I find myself.