Author: Joy Hurt

Navigating as a new widow, I find I am constantly being confronted with “Should/Shouldn’t” (S/S) information. The worst offender is my own brain. Having been the other half for so many years, decisions of the S/S kind were made together with thought and conversation. There were no judgmental rules for us to follow, but rather pragmatic discussions and decisions. In the last year of VST’s life, with cancer silently robbing me of him, “Maybe’s” were no longer considered. Many things that were, were no longer. “Wouldn’ts” were the norm. Our life was a black and white landscape of the KNOWN and SAFE.

VST was a cautious man. Thankfully, he was, because it has left me in a safe situation now. Without his planning, willpower, and Stay-The-Course attitude, never would I have been financially solvent and safe. I was always the one veering to the right or left, wanting to take the unmarked path to see what wonders were around the bend. VST, on the other hand, used Google maps and Garmin to be sure he was following the Right road to a Certain destination. Safe and sound we would arrive ahead of schedule, leaving me to wonder what really cool things we missed along the way.

Safety was always comforting to me. VST kept me safe through fires and my own medical issues. He always knew what we SHOULD do in any situation and why we Shouldn’t do anything other than that. He internalized his own conversations of WHY NOT and I was left with the final answer of how things would be best handled. My input was always factored in, and the whimsical thoughts of a fantastical writer were an amusement, but in the end, the practical side always won out with him. He ALWAYS knew just what to do, or at the very least, did a fine job faking it until things worked out.

On April 8th, my Garmin following Captain left on HIS new adventure, leaving me to stop and think about all the S/S decisions that faced me. In the middle of two complicated real estate transactions, while awaiting my husband’s cremation, I freaked out for a minute. The new home we had selected together was in another town, small and not much bigger than a truck stop. The town had no hospital. No major box stores except WalMart. It was on 1/2 acre with an RV barn. All more than I needed to think about in April. I began to question whether I SHOULD buy the house at all or choose another more sensible one closer to services.

After a frantic call to my realtor, and one more look at a golf-course home, small and safe on the fairway, I knew what I had to do. I had considered my first solo “Why Not/Maybe” and made a truly important decision for myself, on my own. The house we selected together would be mine. My roots were bound and waiting to sink into the lush green lawn and take hold. This little town was the right size for me to build a new life on the high desert. The Russian Sage and Rabbit Brush called my name, promising me their fragrance as I healed. The fruit trees would be in bloom soon, and I needed a season of growth and wonder more than I ever had in my entire life. I named my new home Winterpast, from the Song of Solomon 2:10-14.

“My beloved responded and said to me, Arise my darling, my beautiful one, and come along. For behold, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers have already appeared on the land; the time has arrived for pruning the vines, and the voice of the turtledove has been heard in our land. The fig tree had ripened its figs, and the vines in blossom have given forth their fragrance. Arise my darling, my beautiful one, And come along!”

In the last six months, this has been a comfort, because on more days than not, I am finding, indeed, my winter has past.

A hard and fast commonly accepted SHOULD NOT is that a newly widowed person should make NO big decisions in the first year. I blew that out of the water. With a major move involving the upheaval of my entire life to a new town, major financial decisions consolidating the estate, making choices of people that would become my new Old Friends, and making all this work while grieving became the WHY NOT? YES. I didn’t perish. In fact, I became the best version of myself that I have been in a very long time.

Grieving along the way, the S/S crowd weighed in on many issues, again, the inner me yelling the loudest. But, so far, I have listened to my rational side, and relied on the stability and friendship of our kids who have helped guide me through the worst nightmare I could have imagined. They console me, laugh about funny memories, and are rock solid in their support of me when I really needed to investigate a situation more. Their opinions create a soft place in which I can retreat and accept their ideas as my own. However, as I heal I need to forge many things and decide my own route, taking turns onto those unmarked paths to see what I missed along the way. They wait nervously, not unlike new parents watching children do things for the first time, as I take my first steps on this autumnal journey of mine.

I am in the land of MAYBE/WHY NOT at ever turn these days. I am finding that I am more cautious than I would have believed. But, the inquisitive and curious woman is awakening. That part of me has been dormant for decades and it is now time for me to play in the leaves while the breeze catches my hair just so. My days are shortening as morning retains its chill later and later. I need to live the best life of my own choosing. VST would expect no less from me, and I honor our life together by choosing happiness and life every day. I need this time to truly become the best version of myself. Freedom from the chains of SHOULD/SHOULDN’T will allow me to find the path just right for me.

Today, just for a little while, allow your mind to wander into the meadows of WHYNOT/MAYBE. Rest there for a time and dream of what might be around the corner. The new and untested experiences that await you. Although your spouse died, don’t let yourself become a casualty as well. No one really expects a widow in 2020 to sit under a black shroud for an eternity. If they do, it is only because they cannot fully understand our unique place called WIDOW’S GRIEF, which is entirely different for each of us. Merely rest here until you feel a need to grow, and then carry on, because God has amazing things planned for you just around the bend.

Writing is life. Period. A student of mine, only 10 years old, wrote that on an assignment. It was her opening paragraph. She got an “A”. Without kind words, life would be in chaos and ruin. Hearts would never find each other. Miscommunications would flare and healing would never occur. How many new love stories are never written because one or the other involved couldn’t find the words to express their feelings? I am, of course, focusing on the positive aspects of words and writing, but, anyone who has known me more than five minutes knows optimism is a core character trait of mine.

When I found myself at the birth of my widowhood, there was nothing to hold onto anymore. Certainly not VST. Covid had robbed me of the chance to be with other newly widowed. All Grief support groups were cancelled. Friends were sheltered in place, holding onto each other for dear life. I was on A Street left to fend for myself, and so, I came up with a way words would help me heal. They became counselor, best friend, confidant, and voice, having been my life since I first learned to talk.

As I child, I raised myself. I have my own feelings about these things and how they happen. In some way, I chose that childhood because I was independent. Having farm freedoms let my brain develop in a little richer way. I spent long hours learning how to entertain myself. Learning how to soak into nature and communicate with the animals I loved so much. I learned what it is like to mud bathe in the middle of a 40 acre vineyard, the long tendrils surrounding me in the most heavenly way. When I was hungry, I could go out into the depths of the farm and find whatever snack I wanted. Nectarines, apples, grapes, bell peppers, cherry tomatoes, plums all ready for one “funny looking blondie”, as Dad called me, to pick. Dad was famous for his Elbow Peaches, so named because the juice would always run down our elbows as we slurped up every bite, fuzz and all, straight from the tree.

During those years of freedom, I found that no matter what happened around me, in words I found the ultimate comfort, and in that my voice. When loneliness spiked, I could write about it and suddenly gain a better understand myself. That has never changed for me.

In this new phase of my life, it came to me that I needed a focal point, just as I had in my Lamaze birthing classes. When the pain because too intense, I needed an anchor to get me through, and so, The Word Method became mine. Not any tested method, this one. I can only say, it helped me heal quicker than I might have. Without words, I surely would have faded away to nothing.

In this method, I decided that each month, one word would be selected to represent our marriage. During that month, when the grief gripped my very core threatening to disembowel me, I focused on that one word with a vengeance. Exactly as in birth, for me, the waves of grief were that. Unexpected and intense. Treacherous seas. I could be packing, organizing, arranging and, BAM, there it was. Grief with a vengeance. Changing my focus willfully to the word, I would start thinking of every way it represented us. I might cry a little more at some memories, but usually, I smiled, or even laughed. I was comforted by the multitude of ways it represented us, and I would feel better. I never ran out of examples. There were thousands for each.

There was a second component. VST and I never shared traditions. We are Christians and love Christmas, but as a couple, we never exchanged gifts. We found that as well as we knew each other, we would choose the wrong things, and end up standing in frustrating return lines. So, on the morning of Christmas Eve we would go select our presents together. Secretly, I longed for VST to have a hidden present somewhere, wrapped the way a husband would, maybe in purple birthday wrap with a wonky bow. But, that was never to be.

So , VST has been tricky and every month since his death, there is a Christmas present to me, wrapped with messages on the paper, and more importantly, representing the word of the month. Okay, for some of you, I need to spell this out. I have not lost my mind. Yes. I have purchased the presents for myself after VST’s death. Some are personalized and I have not yet seen them. They sit in my office reminding me that I love myself. A notice that there will be a first Widow Christmas that I’m dreading. I have now created the beginnings of a new tradition to honor our marriage.

Each month, along with the word and present, I’ll create an ornament for my tree representing the special word for that month. It doesn’t have to be museum quality. Just something that would be a message that 32 years of life with VST did happen. It was rich and wonderful, reflected by the relationship we created. Perfect???? No such thing. A perfect example of an honest union of the two of us? You betcha.

The ornaments have been a snag, because to me, they will be the tangible proof that I am ready to memorialize that month and put a period on those memories. Those days will always be cherished, but not dwelt upon. I have given myself until December 16th, my birthday, to finish them. I will be creating a keepsake box for them, and plan to continue this personal tradition until I die, with notes to the kids of why each design was chosen. Because there are thousands of words and memories, I will never be at a loss for stories, smiles, and laughs for the most beautiful time in my life. And for that, I cherish VST even more.

Think of the words that hold meaning for you. You already know my first three were Food. Shelter. Clothing. from my first blog. Month 2 was FRIENDSHIP. Month 3 was LOVE-EVERLASTING. Month 4 was ADVENTURE. Month 5 was FAITH. And Month 6 is HAPPINESS. You will have words that fit your love story, I’m sure. When grief is overwhelming, take a break. Use your words. They are powerful and uplifting.

Today, spend time with memories in a different way. Choose happiness. It is a choice that you can make. Take just a moment to let out one smile as you think about the special moments that took your breath away. Soak in the loveliness that brought you excitement and tenderness. Be grateful for the love you shared. Use your words to stay afloat. Pretty soon, those same words will help you soar, if only for a moment at a time.

April 10th, the house woke me with its deafening silence. Every creak, moan, and spring wind blown comprised a cacophonous sound mourning VST’s passing. For the house had responded to his every touch, just as I had. Physical beauty surrounded me. His taste in domestic design and improvements was surpassed by no one. Standing as a testament to his skills, the house and I grieved in unison while she surrounded me like a warm hug.

By the time I got my coffee that morning, VST would have been on the move, walking the streets of VC. His power walk always started the same. He suffered from crippling arthritis, which made it necessary for him to wear heavy knee braces. Those in place, next came his white cowboy hat, jacket, and cane. VST was known throughout the town as the guy with the braces, walking on through heat, bitter cold, rain, hail, or snow. The Bionic Cowboy of Virginia City.

VST held a demanding presence with his striking good looks, debonair southern drawl, deep voice, as smooth as a fine cognac, and dimpled smile. At 6’1″, he drew looks from the ladies wherever he went. But, those looks were not returned, for I was his Forever Darlin. Plain and Simple. His friendly nature often lengthened his walks down the C Street Boardwalk. His best days involved meeting the Sheriff, after which he would come home and remind me that if I had been with him, I would have been that lucky, too.

VST was legally disabled and had been declared so for the last three years of his life. Yet, he walked four miles each and every day until a few weeks before he died. At 65, I never could consider him disabled, because of all the activities he enjoyed. But, x-ray images and doctor’s reports, and a paralyzed hand don’t lie. He powered on when others would have been on crutches recovering from knee surgery. He had no time for anything like that. He was already down the road. He was just like that. Stubborn. Tougher than nails. Tenacious. Weathered. Rock Solid. And now, gone.

The night before, I had sat stunned in his worn, leather recliner, contemplating what my future would hold. Rather like a deer, startled while grazing, I sat motionless, listening to my own heartbeat. Feeling the oddity of tears streaming down my face, I was silently grieving, staring at the wall instead of our panoramic vista. A poster girl for all the symptoms of severe shock. It was then that one of many miracles took place. Huddled in my favorite blanket, embracing tears and feelings, I realized it had been some time since I checked my emails. My pad glowed to life, showing a list of mail I would rather not open after 5pm. Medical test results from the Monday past, when I still had VST. Death related questions from the Mortuary. Condolences from people just hearing the unthinkable. All those could wait until morning.

But, there in the queue, was one email that caught my eye. It was from my teacher-friends from so long ago, when I was a younger, vibrant person, loving a healthy career and farming. Our own children growing towards adulthood. VST and I sharing all the sparks, fire, intensity, and love that our relationship held from the first HELLO. There it was , begging to be opened. The email from my Old Friends. With heart racing, I tried to digest what it said. “April 10th at 4PM, join us for a ZOOM meeting. It has been too long. We all need to touch base. Please come. Just like that, I reconnected with something concrete and all mine. They had no idea VST had passed. It had been at ten years since we had been together. A happy accident of the most serendipitous type.

The morning of the 10th was full of chores, big and small. Conquering the laundry. Emptying medicine cabinets. Packing boxes. Crying. Wiping tears. Driving back and forth to the storage area. Checking numerous emails from realtors on both sides of my life. The sale of the VC house, the purchase of the New House. Sending emails to those that didn’t know he had gone so quietly, and receiving emails from those that just found out he did. I just stayed the course. I wrote goals in my planner. Completed them. Chose three more and continued. I took time for a nap.

Finally, it was 4pm. The computer screen slowly filled up with boxes holding images of cherished teaching buddies. One by one, they clicked to life. Everyone excited and chatting at once. All looking older, but just the same. Their shock and sadness reflected from the screen, for VST and I were the couple that had it all, often excluding others to get everything done. How many times I had to forego fun outings with these friends because I had to irrigate, fix dinner for seven, or shake raisins. They never knew how many days I came to school after a rain, having been up all night crying because our crop might have been ruined by the very rainstorms they were celebrating. They couldn’t know at what a price VST and I bartered for our privileged life. It didn’t matter anyway.

They were cyber beauties. For an hour, we laughed. We adjusted our cameras to the right angle and light, maximizing our best attributes. We laughed more. We shared moments of silence. It was magical. I had a glimpse of a regular Friday afternoon with friends that had known me for decades of my adult life. How they sent that email at exactly the right time will be a puzzlement to me forever. Happenings like this I refer to as “God Things”.

“God Things” are around everyone. It depends on whether people choose to recognize them. For me, I know that God carried me through the fires of those first hours, days, weeks, and months, making sure I wasn’t burned. Not even. He gave me strength and protected my back from injury even when I knew the boxes I hoisted were way too heavy under the state of exhaustion I was in. He kept those who would have taken advantage away from my door. He brought me those friends that were the best comfort to me. Through my faith in God, I became stronger than the grief consuming me.

As you are grieving, remember to look for the beauty and miracles that surround you even in the darkest hours, asking God to carry you through the fire. He will. He will bring you peace and allow sleep to come, as he wraps you with the wings of millions of angels. I know he will, because, he did this for me.

Grief. Truly, I had never given grieving a single thought before VST passed. Sure, I had lost my parents, a sister, family, and friends throughout my life, but never did I consider the impact that grief has on a spouse. This is different in every respect I can think of. At least, it has been for me.

VST and I had the kind of marriage that might drive some people mad. We really liked each other, and for the last three years of retirement, we were inseparable. We had purchased an investment property in VC, and spent 6 years renovating and decorating this 3,300 sq.ft. home. This involved time shopping for supplies, grabbing occasional meals while doing this, visiting in the car for the 30 minute ride each way, planning, executing plans, and collaborating, all while loving and respecting one another.

We met in 1970 in high school choir. He was the handsome football jock that would come in after his PE shower, his hair slightly curled and still damp. He had dimples of the most adorable kind and a bass voice that was needed in any musical setting. Everyone loved VST. His team mates. The other students. And me, in a very innocent, friendly way. We were friends for 2.5 years and then went our separate ways.

In 1987, we met again at our highschool reunion. 14 years for me, 15 years for him. Neither of us were anything other than irritated at being there. We had both decided we would be single forever, owning our own homes and cars, and having our own children. No need to complicate anything. About three weeks after that meeting, he found himself proposing. I found myself saying yes. And from them on, VST&Joy was almost one word.

We had a life that was beautiful and overflowing with blessings. You can tell by my pictures and posts. It was a lovely marriage with the right balance. You often don’t hear of those types of marriages. Maybe you were lucky enough to have had that, too. So, when I lost VST, the oxygen was sucked out of my world and the first two months were filled with shock. Along with shock, I was extremely isolated due to Covid.

Covid. I missed all the impending doom provided by the daily news reports. When VST fell the slightest bit ill, the first 90 deaths were reported. The day he died, the death toll had reach 20,000. I had missed all information about Covid while caring for VST and still find it hard to believe that the pandemic hit and I missed every major news story regarding those first horrifying and scary days.

I hope that psychologists study Grief in the time of Covid. I refer to mine as Grief on Steroids. Being retired, I was already alone. Living in VC, away from the kids and old friends, suddenly, for the first time in my life, I was living alone. Truly alone. Grieving was a 24/7 ordeal, non-stop and brutal.

Another huge complication had been put into play some weeks before VST died. In January, he was still feeling okay. A little under the weather, but certainly nothing we viewed as shattering at that time. It had been getting tougher for him to navigate stairs, due to crippling arthritis, so, we decided it was time to sell our home and buy something off the mountain. We had looked everywhere, and found our new home 50 miles East. Buyers made an offer we accepted and Seller accepted ours. During the nine weeks VST was dying, we were in the middle of two very complicated real estate transactions. It had also become necessary to update our Family Trust, Wills, Power of Attorney docs, and Medical directives. We did all that while dealing with medical care during Covid.

Professionals advise against major decisions after a death. In my case, there was no choice. Weeks before, things had been put in motion by the two of us. Together. We chose the new place with us in mind. We were packing. I packed the day after he died. And the next day and the next. Not that I chose to. There was no choice.

As I criedpackedcriedpacked, I felt like I was in a foggy bubble. I knew people outside the bubble were carrying on with the new-normal lives during Covid. I, on the other hand, was suspended on the side of my mountain, and cut off from the rest of the world. No casseroles came. No preacher came knocking. No neighbors to help walk the dog. No One At All. Just me. Covid removed all help I could have received. There were no grief groups offered. The Senior Center and restaurants closed, taking away any quick nutrition. Impossible to get an appointment with a doctor for counseling or medication. Stores were shuttered. Even the kennel to help with Oliver, my sweet puppy, was closed. And there I was, alone and grieving.

The first problem was that in only fifteen days, I would be moving. I needed to make a tough decision. Would I pay for all clothing to be moved or not? I knew the answer. Anything that was not necessary would not make the cut. And, through tears and grief I needed to do what had to be done. New jeans, still tagged, new shoes still in boxes, favorite old, torn pj’s that should have been thrown years before. Go-to clothes, and things not warn too often, were all reduced to weight and number of extra boxes for the movers. This was complicated by the fact that all thrift stores were shuttered. Which left only one option. Many excruciatingly sad trips to the landfill off the mountain and miles away.

In my grief, during those days, I needed to handle and make decisions on every single object that signified our 32 years together. Even the tiniest item brought tears, memories, and pain. But, everything had to be boxed. And, I accomplished that. In those 15 days, I managed to pack and move the balance of what would end of being 350 boxes. I moved them off the mountain to storage, which VST and I had rented in January before he got sick. Box after box went down the hill, while I cried each trip.

In my grief, I began talking to VST. A little at first, and then non-stop. I told him the littlest things, and major things, too. I listened for his advice and help. He was there. Oliver knew this, too. Through my one sided conversations, I felt a relief that even more of our lives were put right. Every marriage has rocky times. There are always things not owned or apologized for. Things one wishes they had one more chance to say. We were no different. I talked to him all day, every day. I asked him to tuck his angel wings around Ollie and I at night so we could sleep better. I know he was there to comfort me. Thanks to Covid, it was quiet enough for me to experience that.

People suggest one should journal. It was all I could do during that first month to jot things on my daily planner. People suggest one should sleep enough. It was a blessing that I slept well in the arms of God. People suggest one should learn the stages of grief and embrace them. For me, it was more important that I listened to my inner self, which helped guide me in the ways I needed. I was my own wise voice that listened to my grief, acknowledged it, and accepted it as my truth then. Not a reality forever.

It also helped that I lived in the moment and felt everything that was happening to my body and soul right then. I prayed often. When I needed to cry, I did. When I needed to laugh, I did that too. Memories were a double edged sword. Sometimes comforting. Sometimes cutting so deep that I thought my entrails would surely tumble onto the floor. I ate when I was the least bit hungry, and didn’t eat when my stomach was upset. All this in a Covid Shroud. For me, I preferred it that way, as no one had to see the carnage left by VST’s death. Just Oliver, me, VST, and God.

In your grief today, hug yourself. In quiet moments, reassure yourself that YOU are enough and okay. You’ve got this, it just SEEMS impossible. Hug yourself. Talk to your loved one. Smile, even if it is just a little, at first. Each day will be better than the last on this journey you are taking through grief.

We were so busy living, it was easy enough to ignore all the warning signs. There were so many. Few of us really believe that death could be at our door. So many times, we have all ignored symptoms believing they held no significance. We did just that. Boy, were we wrong. After a nine week battle, I was left the lone survivor on a spring Wednesday between Palm Sunday and MaundyThursday.

VST was attacked by Cholangiocarcinoma, a rare type of cancer that forms in the bile ducts. It was aggressive, lethal, and quick. It stole his energy, strength, resolve, and finally, his brain. In the age of Covid, in my town anyway, medical treatments were being authorized by a panel of docs at the hospital. Each test needed to be approved, wasting valuable days as VST got sicker and sicker. Being the lone caretaker and hospice attendant, I found myself nursing my husband, while trying to wrap my head around the fact that he wouldn’t share another Easter meal with me.

The idea of hospice service is romantic and wonderful. The company we used was made of a group of earth angels, with a few limitations. It was a wonderful place to get all kinds of helpful drugs. Morphine, Lorazapam, Haldol, and others. Marvelous place to get supplies like diapers, wipes, syringes, gloves, and swabs for dry, cracked lips. Because we were living in a remote area, actual physical help wasn’t available. In reality, we didn’t want strangers interrupting our last and most intimate hours together. So, we went through it alone. VST didn’t make it until Easter, but left me shortly before. Bereft, Deprived. Cut off. Dispossessed. Forlorn. Wanting. Stripped. I began my grieving process.

VST died on a Wednesday morning at 10:30. His death certificate states he died at 11:15. It lies. I was there, alone. I was the one that watched him take his last breath and slowly slip away, while our beloved kids were out on some errands. I assure you, it was 10:30. The sounds my body made that morning were shocking to me. Rather like those that a woman might make during the last stages of labor. Primal and shriek-ish. Raw and from a place I didn’t know existed in me. I was so glad the kids were out of the house. Even though it is known that a loved one is going to die, no one is ready for the moment they really do. At least, I wasn’t.

In our small county, with no coroner, the Sheriff was needed to pronounce VST deceased. Moments after his death, I phoned their office to ask if the real Sheriff would come, instead of a deputy. VST had made friends with him over our six year stay, and it would be a huge comfort to me. I was told he was in a meeting, but a deputy would be dispatched. But, in eight minutes, the Sheriff arrived with hugs and a listening ear. He visited VST one last time, and comforted me in my very first hour of grief, for which I was so grateful.

A long list of players filled out my first day as a widow. A hospice nurse to neutralize the drugs. The Sheriff. The Deputy Sheriff. The Mortuary Assistants. The kids. The medical equipment personal. Until finally, evening arrived. The house was quiet. The kids and I were in shock. Our bedroom, where VST had requested his hospital bed be placed only seven days before, was returned to normal without any signs of the nightmare the last week held. Without a trace of him, of us. Just a pretty room with all furniture put back in perfect order.

In the cold void of death, the kids left the next morning, needing to get back to their lives six hours away. I was alone of the first real day of widowhood. Alone at 6,200 feet, on Mt. Davidson, suspended above Virginia City, looking out into the nothingness of my 100 mile view. The vista, once magical and romantic, was now daunting for a wife that had been so intertwined with her other half that she knew not where he stopped and she began.

It came to me that I needed to have an immediate life raft, and so I turned to the consistently comforting thing that had been there through my entire life. Words. I chose three to symbolize the first month.

Food. Shelter. Clothing.

Those words would get me to focus through Month One. For, if I focused on Food. Shelter. Clothing. I wouldn’t die in the cold, starving because I had forgotten to eat and gone out to get the mail naked. I took myself in my own arms and gave prayers for the woman I lost that day. I rocked the remaining shell and held her in the gentlest way, listening to the wails and sobs late into that first night of widowhood.

This is my story. Everyone reading here has a story just as grueling, exasperating, and horrifying. As widows, we enter a wilderness that no one has really explained or mapped for us. Each person sees the landscape differently, and must find a way through that is hers and hers alone. I found that, at first, I kept a daily planner, where I could jot down the simplest things I did. I made sure I completed three tasks a day, writing them down. I rely on that now to remember how strong I was in those early days. You are just as strong.

It is a comfort to know that I didn’t starve in the nighttime cold of Virginia City, while walking hungry and naked to get the mail. It is only by the grace of God that I didn’t, I assure you.