Author: Joy Hurt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kim is an exquisitely beautiful and fierce woman not to be taken lightly. She is funny, sensitive, kind, and thoughtful. To me, she is the Friend Daughter I didn’t raise from birth, but fell in love with, nonetheless. We chose the same career in teaching, but SHE took it and ran faster and farther. Her students are blessed to be under her wing. Her own mothering abilities shine in the faces of her two man-children. Kim is wise and patient. She skillfully sets her boys free and then reels them back in when needed. She cherishes her sweet husband, J, remembering when they met in grade school. K mourns the DAD who took her to the fair as a young girl one minute and walked her down the aisle to her future the next. She remembers that, in his eyes, she was and will be his little girl for eternity.

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

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

Dreams have always been a personal comfort and a place of wonder. My traveled dreamscapes are richly diverse, filled with beauty I have never experienced in waking life. Stories grow through my sleep-filled nights, and I often awaken before light, ready to harvest those thoughts and serve them up in words.

In my dreams, I am an athletic, svelte, tall, very blonde, ageless beauty. I rollerblade, snow ski, skateboard, and even backpack the Pacific Crest Trail from Canada to Mexico in a single night. I notice the tiniest details, quietly storing them away, knowing they will someday enrich my writing. All of this happens peacefully, while I sleep.

But the one thing that escaped me night after night was just one more visit with VST. Each morning held a quiet disappointment as I slowly woke and realized there had been no magical meeting the night before. No sun-kissed island with azure seas surrounding us, no quiet moment at our kitchen table at dawn. No final kiss filled with passion, regret, sadness, or goodbye. Not one more gaze into the eyes that once held my forever, accompanied by that familiar playful wink—or that look, the one that came in so many varieties. The look that could draw me in, correct me, or gently end a conversation. I would have settled for just one more silent exchange of glances, no matter the topic. I would wake refreshed from other dreams, but never from the one I wanted most. Until a few weeks ago.

That night was ordinary. I fell asleep halfway through a movie, with Oliver making soft, sweet puppy sounds in his crate as I drifted off, just as I always do. But the next morning was anything but ordinary. My wish had been fulfilled. VST and I had spent the night together.

We were outdoors in a beautiful, natural, green place. We smiled and talked, quietly savoring the time we had been given. He was his younger self, without any sign of illness—just my Dr. H again. Most of what we said remains just beyond memory’s reach, shared in a way that felt almost celestial. But the feeling remained, wrapping my heart in peace. Cancer had not taken this from us. It had not stolen our ability to connect.

There was one part, however, that I remember clearly.

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

In that moment, a wave of relief washed over me. Everything had been done right.

“It was thoughtful of you to send programs and notes to those who couldn’t come. That meant a lot. It was all just beautiful.”

Then he paused.

“However…”

However? What more could there be?

“You missed one part.”

Even in the dream, I knew it. There was always that one moment—something that could have been done just a little differently.

“Please explain,” I said.

“Everyone who needed to be remembered was… except for three. Pat, Steve, and Harry. Honey, you forgot to tell them. Please, tomorrow, send them notes. Let them know I’m gone. Don’t forget.”

“I promise.”

That was it. Not a grand declaration of eternal love or a glimpse into what comes next. Just a simple, urgent reminder that three important men in his life needed to know.

A doctoral classmate, a boss, and a close work friend. People who had been part of his life in ways that were his alone. Important to him, just as my friends are to me, but not naturally at the forefront of my mind.

The next morning, I went to the closet and retrieved the box. If you are widowed, you probably have one too. Mine holds programs, prayer cards, the guest book, and sympathy notes. Every item inside feels sacred, filled with meaning and memory. In VST’s box, I found everything I needed.

I sat down and wrote three handwritten notes, each one personal and thoughtful. I placed them in silver envelopes along with a program and prayer card, sealed them, and sent them on their way with love. Mission accomplished, VST. The rest, we will talk about another time. I went on with my day.

Two weeks later, I heard the familiar sound of the mail truck outside. There is something special about having a mailbox at the end of your drive—the rhythm of the truck stopping and starting, the quiet anticipation as it reaches your home. I stepped outside and found a handwritten card waiting for me.

The return address read: Dr. Pat.

Inside was a full page of careful handwriting, ink on paper, the old-fashioned way. He wrote of friendship, of laughter, and of the easy, joyful spirit that VST carried through life. His words were filled with kindness and memory, exactly what you would expect. But as I read further, the letter took on a deeper weight.

He shared that he had been diagnosed with leukemia five years earlier.

Cancer.

The same relentless enemy.

VST’s real-life Superman—a man who had served for 35 years in law enforcement, protecting others—was now fighting his own quiet battle. Alone, as so many cancer patients do.

In that moment, everything came together. I understood why the dream had come, why that message had mattered so much. It was never just about remembering names. It was about connection. It was about reaching someone who needed to be reached.

I held the letter in my hands, struck by the depth of a friendship I had never personally known, yet had somehow been called to honor. A man so important to VST that he found a way to remind me, even from beyond.

You just never know what dreams may hold, or what might arrive in your mailbox on an ordinary day. There are people in our lives—and in the lives of those we love—who matter more than we realize. Sometimes all it takes is a simple note, a memory shared, a reminder that they are not forgotten.

Take the time to write it. Handwrite it if you can. Stamp it. Send it.

You may never fully know the difference it makes, but it may arrive at just the right moment, carrying comfort, connection, and even a bit of hope.

And as for dreams, embrace them. They are more than fleeting images in the night. Sometimes, they carry meaning. Sometimes, they carry love.

And sometimes, they find their way exactly where they are needed most.

Widowhood. Six months in. I sit here in quiet awe of the woman at the keyboard, fingers moving across the keys as if they still belong to the life I once knew. They look like mine—these same hands that have always prepared meals, cared for Oliver, waved to neighbors, and answered the phone when friends and family call to check in. From the outside, everything appears familiar. But the truth is, I am not the same woman I was six months ago. That woman died with VST, and in her place stands someone new—stronger, harder, and still trying to understand who she is becoming.

Unless you are a widow—and even then—no one can fully understand the path I have walked. In these months shaped by both loss and a world slowed by COVID, I have traveled through a wilderness more daunting than any high Sierra trail. There were moments so cold and lonely I thought I might simply lie down and let grief consume me. The pain felt relentless, as though no matter how far I walked, one small turn would lead me right back into the darkness. This journey has no shortcuts. No map. It is a path I must walk alone, even when surrounded by others.

And yet, words have carried me. Words like Food, Shelter, Clothing, Friendship, Everlasting Love, Faith, Adventure, and Happiness have become my anchor—my port in the storm. They represent the life we built together, the foundation of the power couple that was Dr. and Mrs. Hurt. Now, as I stand at the threshold of Month Seven, it feels both strange and necessary to choose a new word, a new focus. Looking back on the words that defined our 32 years together brings a deep and quiet comfort—like stepping into a meadow where grief loosens its grip, if only for a moment.

A year ago, life was still unfolding as we expected. We had just decided to return to Cayucos along the California coast. VST was still walking Oliver each day. We chose to stay a little longer in Virginia City, even naming our home The Dunmovin House to reflect that choice. There were subtle changes in him then—things I quietly questioned but never fully understood. Even if we had known the truth sooner, the ending would have been the same. The only difference is that we might have missed those final RV trips, those last sweet memories that now mean everything.

I think of our final Christmas together. I was sick with a cold and, as often happens, passed it along to him. We took turns caring for one another as snow fell gently outside. It was a white Christmas on our mountain—quiet, simple, and, though we didn’t know it then, our last one together.

When spring arrived, VST finished what he had always done so well—he completed the work before him. Projects were wrapped up, the last nail driven. He set down his tools with pride in a life well lived. He touched so many people in meaningful ways, carrying others through their struggles with strength and love. He loved fiercely and faithfully. He was loyal, trustworthy, and worthy of every title he held—Father, Dad, friend, and, to me, my Dr. H. Imperfectly perfect, just as the best of us are.

Somewhere in the midst of saying goodbye, this new version of me emerged. She came quietly at first—helpful, strong, smart, even a little funny—and scared beyond words. But she stayed. She planted her feet in this new place called Home and began to grow. I realize now that these qualities were always within me. Somewhere along the way, I had set them aside, becoming a passenger in my own life. That version of me is gone now, and I don’t wish to call her back.

Today, I choose something different. I choose happiness. Faith. Strength. Perseverance. I choose God. I am learning to move forward, step by step, through this first year of widowhood. I know there are still rivers to cross and terrain that will challenge me in ways I cannot yet imagine. But I also know this—I am strong enough to stay on the path. It will be okay. God and I will walk it together.

There came a day, sometime in late summer, when I woke with a quiet knowing. I could no longer wear my wedding ring. For 32 years, it had been a symbol of something sacred—simple, golden, enduring. But what it represented could not be contained within a circle of gold. Our love was far greater than that. Removing it was harder than I expected. My finger, pale and marked by years of wear, felt exposed and strangely vulnerable, as if even my body was learning this new truth. I was no longer a wife. I was a widow.

And yet, here I am—six months gone, six months here—beginning to reach outward again. I find myself laughing with friends, making plans, stepping into small adventures that feel both new and unfamiliar. I am learning how to care for this woman I am becoming—how to speak kindly to her, how to celebrate her small victories, how to recognize her strength. I smile now, and it feels real. The long winter of grief has begun to soften, and in its place, I sense something like autumn—steady, golden, and full of quiet promise. I hope it lingers for many years to come.

One of the last things VST said to me, in a voice soft and fading, was that he wanted to return to the ocean. I hold that close. One day, I will go to San Simeon and release him to the wind. That moment will come when I am ready to turn the final page of our earthly story together. But not yet. For now, I place that thought gently aside, tucked safely behind tearful eyes. There is still healing to be done in this first year.

If you are reading this, I ask only this—cheer for me in your own quiet way. And then, cheer for yourself. For all that you have endured. For all that you have loved. Reach out to those who matter. Call them. Hold them close. Laugh when you can. And if you, too, are walking through loss, know this—you are not alone. Love still surrounds us. And one day, we will step out of this wilderness into the clearing, stronger for having made the journey.

“Hawaii-philes.” A phrase coined to describe VST and me. Over 32 years, we became absolutely addicted to the islands and all that Aloha brings. It started with two young lovers taking a second honeymoon in their first year of marriage. What began as a fascination with paradise slowly grew into something much deeper over time.

It all started in 1988, when we were still adorable kids. Married six months, reality was beginning to settle in. The monumental task of parenting a blended family of five was, at times, overwhelming. It is one thing to fall in love with a soulmate; it is quite another to fall in love with someone who already has young children. We had to learn to navigate the schedules and personalities of five kids, ages seven to twelve, all while trying not to offend grandparents and extended family who were watching closely, holding their breath, and hoping for the best. Some had even given up counting to nine, convinced we married so quickly because a sixth child was on the way. Believe me, we sorted that out on the first date—five was plenty.

One evening, after an especially stressful day, VST came home with a brochure he’d received from a coworker’s wife. “Pleasant Hawaiian Vacations. Dream the Dream. Live the Aloha Spirit.” The blue waters on the cover were irresistible. There was a twinkle in his eye as he asked if I would run away with him, even if just for a week. This, while children played in the background and dinner simmered on the stove. What’s a girl to do? Of course.

Our first trip cost $450 per person, including airfare from Fresno—money we truly did not have. But it was worth every penny. Six nights, seven days on Oahu. Six glorious days of being adults together. Sleeping in. Breakfast overlooking the beach. Catamaran rides. All the wonderfully cheesy things first-time visitors do to capture memories they will treasure forever. We were that young couple, and older couples smiled at us knowingly. I understand now—they were remembering what new felt like. We were glowing, tanned, alive. That week, we got to know each other more deeply, celebrating the anniversary of our reunion—when two independent people realized their lives were meant to be shared.

Over the years, we visited Hawaii thirty times. In hindsight, we probably should have bought a place. Every time I stepped off the plane, I felt the same thing—I was home. The air, soft and alive, seemed to revive my Central Valley lungs. No matter the weather, it felt like a return to something essential. Back home, life was full—farming, two careers, college courses, parenting, and still being parented. The weight of it all was real. But in Hawaii, when a warm rainstorm caught us walking, we could stop and kiss in it—rather than worry about crops laid out in endless vineyard rows.

At first, our trips were annual. We searched endlessly for deals, stretching every dollar to get closer to the ocean. Eventually, those trips became biannual as flight miles added up and discounts improved. Each visit got better.

And always, the rhythm was the same. We talked. About everything. Without the daily pressures, our minds could wander freely. We dreamed up business ideas, solved vineyard problems, marveled at our children’s growth, and laughed—deep, belly laughter. Sometimes we said nothing at all, sitting side by side under a cabana, and somehow, that silence said everything.

On the five-hour flights, I began to notice something. We were the couple talking, holding hands, laughing quietly, sharing music through headphones, and nudging each other with a grin. The rest of the plane seemed to disappear. We were in our own world. And yet, I couldn’t help but notice how many couples sat side by side like strangers—one buried in a book, the other lost in a screen. I promised myself we would never become that. It would take effort, but we would protect what we had.

One of our best trips was taking the kids when they were older. With a rented condo and a great deal of patience, we created something unforgettable. We watched them experience flight for the first time, saw them relax into the spirit of Aloha, and made memories that remain frozen in time. We celebrated our unique family—complete with arguments, laughter, a brief missing-child incident that ended at the police station, and moments of quiet chaos. It was imperfect, magical, and entirely ours.

For years, I thought that if anything ever happened to VST, I would return to Oahu and stay. There was a woman we always saw near Waikiki—“Cannie Annie,” we called her. She sat cross-legged each day, crushing cans, smiling as she worked. I imagined I might become some version of her—simple, quiet, breathing in the healing air, letting the Menehunes guide me. I believed that without VST, my world would stop.

Then Covid came, and that possibility vanished overnight. Paradise closed. The one place I thought might hold my memories was suddenly out of reach. Maybe the islands needed rest. Maybe they had given enough.

So, in month five, Oliver and I took a different kind of trip—a Covid trip. Aloha in the living room. Don Ho played as if just for us. I served fresh pineapple while Elvis sang in Blue Hawaii. I pulled out memory books and returned, in my heart, to that moonlit beach where we once stood alone, wrapped in the kind of love that feels endless. It was a beautiful trip. No quarantine. No travel worries. Just memories—rich enough to carry me.

I like to think Oliver noticed the Menehunes nearby, quietly discussing that my world had not, in fact, ended, and that perhaps their guidance wouldn’t be needed after all.

So grab your own Mai Tai and find your own Aloha. As the State of Hawaii defines it, “Aloha is the coordination of mind and heart within each person. It brings each person to the self. Each person must think and feel good toward others.” The world needs each of us to live Aloha today. Remember your moment under the moonlight and hold onto it—not as something lost, but as something that still lives within you.

 

The Appliance Counter (Not Home Depot… Just Sayin’)

Saturday morning, April 25, the eve of my move off the mountain, just seventeen days after VST left. There we stood, three grieving amigos, at the appliance counter of a major chain hardware store (not Home Depot… just sayin’). Along with everything else pressing in on me, my new home, Winterpast, needed appliances.

Fridge, range, dishwasher, washer, dryer. VST and I had already made that decision together. Everything would be replaced before I moved in, and I intended to carry that through.

I knew exactly what I wanted. My VC range had been heavenly, so I chose that same model again. The refrigerator needed a bottom freezer with French doors. The dishwasher must have a food grinder and a heated dry cycle. The washer and dryer needed to be full-size—and, if I’m honest, pretty. Stainless in the kitchen. White in the laundry.

As we stood waiting for help, I made my selections within minutes. The kids wandered, wondering how I could decide so quickly. What they didn’t know was that I had already made these decisions long before we walked in. What I wanted most was to get back to VC and be ready for the movers the next morning.

But I had already been through Round One with this store.

A few days earlier, buried in paperwork and to-do lists, I made what I thought was the responsible decision. I called to cancel VST’s credit card.

We had loved remodeling together. It was our happy place. He could see what something could become, and I could describe what I imagined. Somewhere between the two, we built beautiful things. Not without a little bantering and a few stalemates, but always something we were proud of.

The kitchen in VC was one of those dreams. I worked those first two years with a purpose—to pay for it myself. Every cabinet, every handle, every inch of that space came from my paycheck. The store card helped us along the way, giving us just enough room to build what we envisioned. We never paid a cent of interest which ws one of VST’s golden rules.

So when I called to cancel the card, I thought I understood what would happen. I didn’t.

After navigating what felt like an endless maze of prompts, I finally reached someone. I explained gently—my husband had passed, I needed to close the account and open a new one in my name. The response was immediate.

“His account is now closed. The closing bill will arrive in 5–7 business days.”

Just like that. No pause. No bridge. No understanding of what I was actually asking.

I sat there, staring at the phone. Our account was simply gone.

So I went online and applied for a new one, assuming my history, my income, and our years of use would somehow carry over. The screen refreshed, and my new limit appeared.

$500.

That wouldn’t even cover the washer.

I called again, explained again, listened again. The answer didn’t change. “Perhaps the store manager can help you when you come in. Sorry for your loss. Goodbye.”

And so, back to Saturday morning.

Selections made. Total tallied. I handed over my brand-new card, still holding onto a thread of hope. The associate glanced at it and quietly told me it would only cover $500. I asked for the manager, explained again, and was transferred once more. The final answer came back, calm and unyielding: at this time, your credit limit is $500.

And then something unexpected happened.

I smiled. Not a big smile, just a quiet one, because in that moment something shifted inside me. I reached into my purse while the kids watched, unsure of what I was about to do, and pulled out my Platinum Visa. Financial solvency does have its rewards. I had wanted to replace that original card—to carry something forward in honor of VST—but this would do just fine.

We completed the purchase, thanked the young associate, and walked out. I imagine she wondered how that slightly worn, widowed woman in jeans and a t-shirt managed to pull that off at the appliance counter on a Saturday morning. The truth is, I wasn’t entirely sure myself—but I did.

And that’s the lesson I carried home with me.

When you begin untangling a life built together, especially after loss, things change quickly. Systems close, doors shut, and answers become final. It can feel abrupt and impersonal at a time when everything already feels uncertain. But if you find yourself in that place, take a breath before you begin. Give yourself a moment to think through what needs to be done, gather what you can, and ask the questions you didn’t know you needed to ask.

It helps to remember that the people on the other end of the phone are simply doing their jobs. They didn’t write the rules, and they may not fully understand them either. Offering patience in those moments doesn’t make the process easier, but it does make it a little more human.

Most importantly, hold onto this truth: there is always another way forward. The path may not look like the one you planned, and it may not come easily, but it is there. With determination, a little creativity, and a willingness to keep going, you will find it. There are many ways to reach the same destination, and somehow, step by step, you will find your way to yours.

Prone to decision weariness when overwhelmed, I find myself marveling at all I decided in those first six months of widowhood. There was no choice in the matter. From what I fed myself out of my Winter-Covid stocked cabinets and freezer, to whether I would live on a golf course or in a neighborhood, the decisions came at me relentlessly—life-altering, heart-wrenching, and far-reaching.

I grieved the absence of VST. Which funeral home? Cremation? An urn? A service? An obituary? Pictures chosen with care? A proper eulogy? How many death certificates? Where to begin financially? Who to call? Countless details swirled in that first week. Friends reminded me to practice self-care, but in truth, it was all I could do to keep my daily planner close—documenting even the smallest things like breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Even then, ten pounds slipped away without notice. Mechanical and deliberate, I became an automaton, making decision after decision.

The move was one VST and I had chosen together before life shattered. Still, new decisions emerged. Which movers? What budget? Logistics? Should I rent the new house early? When should I clean the old one? Which internet service? Where do I return the AT&T equipment? Insurance changes? Who would drive the rig to the new RV barn? These would have been overwhelming as a couple. Now, it was just me, alone in the wilderness of grief during Covid silence, choosing as quickly as I could.

Our beautiful, strong, funny, grieving, blended adult children became my comrades. Just when my ability to make one more decision began to fade, they would call. How did they always know? Their voices were exactly what I needed. Always reminding me—we were in this together. In a blended family, I knew VST and I had chosen each other, but the children had not chosen us. And yet, over 32 years, we became something whole. In this moment, with me standing alone, they stood stronger than I ever imagined—together, for all of us.

My closest friends grew even closer. They came—six hours one way—again and again. To hold my hand. To find laughter. To celebrate VST’s 66th birthday when so many could not gather. They came with masks dropped and arms open, embracing an emotionally spent widow who needed them more than ever. They knew what to say… even when saying nothing at all.

And then, one simple decision carried me through the loneliest days.

I chose gratitude.

In the early morning darkness, before my feet touched the floor, I would pray. For VST and for me. For the kids. For Oliver. For small goodness to find its way into my life. I searched for something—anything—to be grateful for in each moment.

And then… I chose happiness.

At first, I faked it. Of course I did. But I made myself find one thing—morning, noon, and night—that brought even the smallest flicker of joy. Slowly, I began to turn on the radio. I sang a little. I turned off the draining pull of the news. I spoke to VST every day, sharing my moments of happiness as I rearranged my old life into the beginnings of something new.

It was a deliberate choice.

Because grief… grief has a way of knocking you to your knees over the smallest things. A pair of frayed jockey briefs. An empty pen. A photograph that pulls you instantly back to a moment in time—the conversation, the laughter, the love. Tools he once used to fix everything with a simple, “It’s nothing, darlin’. Fixed and done. What next?” An empty RV that once carried 50,000 miles of exploring, laughing, arguing, planning, and dreaming.

And yet, behind the grief… were those same 50,000 miles of joy.

As the months unfolded, it began to feel strange not to live in happiness. I found myself smiling—a lot—even when no one was looking. I sang when no one could hear. I danced in his shirt with my wonderfully awkward 70’s moves, knowing he was somewhere laughing at me. I laughed with Oliver and saw his relief—his old/new mom finding her way back. I found delight in my autumn garden. Memories returned, no longer bitter, but warm… comforting… welcome.

A dear friend gave me a housewarming gift that now hangs above my kitchen table:

“Choose Happiness.”

It became my mission statement.

Choose happiness in this moment. Feel it. Hold it. Let it fill you like a warm, rich, caramel sundae feeding your soul. Then call it back again… and again… until it becomes as natural as breathing.

Do people and events drain that happiness? Of course they do. Every day. But we can choose how we meet them. We can step back. We can protect that space. Because in the beginning, happiness felt foreign—almost as if I were betraying VST.

How wrong that was.

A dear friend once reminded me that VST was one of the most joyful men he knew. After all, his theme song was always:

“Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”

Country music lover that he was, that song never left him—and now, it hasn’t left me either.

So today… do something small.

Smile.
Snicker.
Better yet—laugh out loud.

Dance in his shirt. Watch something silly. Let yourself feel even a moment of light.

Because in this wilderness of grief, we all need a North Star—hope, perseverance, gratitude…

…and just above it all,

a quiet, steady rainbow of happiness.

Willie’s Roadhouse was all new to me in the summer of 2017. While RVing with VST, I became a new fan of country western music. He’d grown up at Grandpa Arch Dell’s knee listening to Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys. With satellite radio in our rig, the driver could choose from stations. Willie’s Roadhouse would play for long stretches through plains and prairies. I learned to love the songs. A lot. When the driving was treacherous, we would both belt out “Big Balls in Cowtown” in unison, laughing until we almost cried, because some places VST drove us took big balls, and not of the dancing kind.

Recently, I was unpacking boxes and listening to a country western station when I heard, for the first time, “You Can’t Make Old Friends”, a duet by Dolly and Kenny. A trip to Dollywood had been on our list of destinations before it might be too late to see her perform live. We were quite sure the problem would be on Dolly’s end, not ours. Boy, were we wrong. The song was about their special friendship over the years, being the OLD FRIENDS they sang about.

Stopping to reflect on the message in the lyrics, I thought of the experiences I was having in an unfamiliar town while meeting new friends. Neighbors on my block were still strangers. Their houses stood like unopened presents on Christmas morning. Some were going to be just what you wanted more than anything else in the world, and others were going to hold no fascination. New connections? No connections? New service providers. The Mail Lady. Gardener. All mysterious.

Having lost VST, who would now set me straight when I needed it the most? Who would share truths a best friend would spit like darts, because they would know just what you needed to hear. Who would interrupt my crazy stories if embellished just a little too much? Who would add the tiniest detail forgotten that would make the whole story so much better? Who would drive me nuts finishing my sentences, or in later years, color my thoughts? I have lost the best friend I relied on through my adult years. The one that saved my butt so many times. VST.

Beginning a new song, my men friends would appear at the appropriate time for me. Ready to take me to coffee? Ice cream? Dinner? Each situation ripe with the appropriate expectations of conversation while prospecting for possible links, not yet knowing about the core belief and value parts of me that needed knowing for an OLD FRIENDSHIP to thrive.

I meet new friends every day. I say “HI” in a hopeful, upbeat way. I flash a smile and try to sneak a furtive peek into their eyes. Their gaze usually shifts quickly when mine is spotted. I am left to wait, hoping real friendship will develop slowly, while looking for validation that doesn’t come in ways comfortable and shared for decades.

The song goes on to discuss harmonizing with someone. My initial thoughts race back to high school choir, when VST and I would join others on key. Our voices, soprano and bass, would blend together back then to form a recognizable and enjoyable song. Two YOUNG FRIENDS. Little did we know our voices would create so many harmonies throughout the years. Hello’s. Promises. Vows. Dreams. Songs. Agreements. Arguments. Apologies. Sweet night sounds. Support. Defense against enemies. Coos to grandchildren. Prayers to God. Defeat cancer. In the end, our harmony was silenced. I miss that we could pick up a tune in the middle and go with it. Or that we always knew what to say at the right time, in the right way, even when that was really hard to do.

The stage is mine for now, and I find I’m fumbling with the words and tune. Finding the right pitch of a person who could be an Old Friend, who might know just a little of the song and join in. So far, I find myself humming alone. Everything needs explanation. The tempo, timbre, texture, and structure of my wants and needs in life. I, too, need to listen carefully for the notes and rhythm of theirs. Exhausting. Without VST, the silence helps me appreciate how blessed I was to have enjoyed my Old Friend for the lifetime we shared. It also makes me want that experience one more time in my life, because having Old Friends like that makes life rich and worth living.

I pray each day that somewhere out there, there is an Old Friend having the same longings. That a duet waits. Hearts can indeed learn new musical genres and songs. VST always reminded me, “You can’t go nowhere on yesterday’s train”. Our song ended. Abruptly. Final notes harsh. Shrill. Quite final. New Old Friends will come around, maybe just to listen to the music for a while.

God has me in the palm of his hand now, and someday, sooner than I would expect, I will be on my way to heaven’s gate. I know all my Old Friends will be waiting there for me. But, in my prayers, I ask that VST will be front and center, because he is the Old Friend lost that I miss the most. We will be young again, not the way we had recently been, but the same Old Friends.

Today, call an Old Friend of yours. Really appreciate what an amazing thing friendship is. Tell them how much you love and cherish them in your life. Because, your voice is just what they long to hear more than anything else.

Bull riding is my favorite sport. There is nothing feminine about it—snorting, slobbering bulls, fearless cowboys, and animals at the height of their power. There’s danger, suspense, twists and turns, and breathtaking moments where everything hangs in the balance. Dealing with two complicated real estate transactions closing hours apart felt just like that. I just wish the ride had lasted eight seconds.

VST and I decided in early January 2020 that it was time to sell our Virginia City home—3,300 square feet of something we had lovingly restored. When we bought it, it had been an abused repossession, purchased at a bargain price with a vision to bring it back to life. Over six years, we did exactly that. Every detail in the house had been perfected for us—really, for anyone. By the time we decided to sell, only two projects remained: a proper laundry room and a bedroom closet. In January, VST completed both in just two weeks. They were flawless, just like everything he touched. If you hadn’t been told, you would have believed they were original to the home. He was that good.

The house was barely listed before it sold. In fact, we had only just decided to sell while driving home from lunch after looking at a few properties with a realtor. We had found two homes we liked, and on the drive home, we talked through the pros and cons of leaving the mountain. By the time we reached home, we had made the decision—it was time. The realtor we had been with that morning would be our agent. Within five minutes, my phone rang. Another realtor we knew had buyers who loved our home. Could they come see it the next day? We listed. They came. They fell in love. They offered. We accepted. All within hours of deciding to leave. Just like that.

At the same time, life continued as it always had. VST was driving, worrying about taxes, fixing things, calling me Darlin, and kissing me goodnight. We hadn’t yet found a new home, and at the end of January, we even took the RV on a seven-hour trip to explore options. We spent an entire day walking through ten homes. He was himself, just tired and noticeably swollen by the end of the day. He still drove the rig there and back, enjoying Willie’s Roadhouse and the open road. He promised we would see the doctor about the swelling when we got home.

Eventually, we found the house. One hour from Virginia City, a single-story ranch on half an acre of beauty. The property was fully landscaped with paths winding through mature fruit and shade trees. There was a lush green lawn outside my kitchen window, birdhouses scattered throughout, and birds already raising families. There was an RV barn with finished interior walls, a four-car garage, and a home that promised simpler maintenance and more freedom to travel. Three bedrooms, two baths, 1,907 square feet—it felt like peace. We both knew immediately. We made an offer. It was accepted.

That’s when everything began to spin.

We now had two realtors, a buyer, a seller, ourselves, and more paperwork than seemed possible. Our Virginia City home had never been placed into our family trust, which needed to be domesticated in Nevada. That added an attorney and another stack of documents to the growing pile. And so, the ride began. Two weeks in, cancer entered the arena. We held on with both hands as life began to buck beneath us.

There were inspections, repairs, re-inspections, and endless requests from title companies, realtors, buyers, sellers, and escrow officers. There were attorney appointments, document signings that seemed to multiply endlessly, cleaning, walk-throughs, moving plans, canceling old services, and starting new ones. We hired movers and chose a closing date.

All while VST grew sicker.

And sicker.

And sicker.

Until, in nine short weeks, he was gone—from a word I could barely pronounce when it first entered our lives: cholangiocarcinoma. Cancer of the bile ducts.

We entered those transactions as husband and wife—joint tenancy, partners in everything. I completed them as a single woman. That reality carried its own weight.

My realtors, both experienced and steady, had never encountered anything like it. A healthy man overtaken so quickly. A client lost in the middle of a closing. We all walked through those two months together, holding each other—and our breath. There were constant twists, changes in direction, and moments where everything felt like it might collapse. COVID added uncertainty to an already impossible situation.

They carried more than contracts. They helped when my computer refused to cooperate. They handled details I am sure I am better off not knowing. They made the impossible happen. They talked me down on days when I was ready to walk away from everything. They listened, advised, and somehow gave me both space and support at exactly the right moments. In the early days of COVID, they risked their own health to show our home to buyers and to help me into my new one. They stayed on that ride with me and made sure both transactions closed within 24 hours of each other.

When VST died, I was alone. I had just checked on him—he was still there, quiet and comfortable. I stepped out of the room for five minutes. When I came back, he was gone.

The phone rang. I answered in a way I can only describe as broken—words tumbling, Grief pouring out, nothing making sense. On the other end was my sweet realtor, the first voice to reach me in that moment.

“Calm down,” she said gently. “I am so sorry. How can I help?”

There was no help.

We had lost our balance.

The bull had won.

Later, I began to notice something. In the smallest, most unexpected places, there were people—angels in ordinary clothing—who said those same words. At the post office. At the doctor’s office. A neighbor. Even the man making my sandwich at Subway. They had no idea what they were offering, but it mattered more than they could know.

I made a list of those moments and wrote thank-you notes. Not for grand gestures, but for simple kindness—for showing up, for steadying me, even for a moment. It became part of my healing.

Do the same.

Take time to acknowledge those who stand quietly in the background, cheering, holding their breath, helping you rise again. They are part of your story, too.

And when the ride feels too wild, too unpredictable—hold on.

Use both hands.

This is a tough bull to ride.

---

Dear readers,
However you found your way here—from across the world or just down the road—thank you.
This little life at Winterpast is richer because you’re part of it.
I’ll be here, with more to share.
—J

Looking back at my planner for the week of April 20, I still marvel at how many loose ends needed tying—selling, buying, packing, moving. Life didn’t pause for grief. And with Covid weighing heavily on everyone’s mind, there were no casseroles left quietly on the porch, no flowers behind a ringing doorbell. There was just me—a brand new widow, pulling on her boots every morning and doing what had to be done. And that’s exactly what I did.

VST and I had a standing joke—more mine than his. I always believed I would go first. During miles in the RV debating it, we turned it into competitive banter. I had my reasons—those inconvenient vaso vagal episodes that sent me to the emergency room at the worst times. VST, on the other hand, had quieter struggles, like the slow creep of arthritis. In my mind, he would be the widower.

So naturally, I counseled him—not about Grief, but about casseroles.

My first bit of advice was simple: watch the container. Some casseroles arrive in disposable pans—bless those people. Practical, thoughtful souls who know you won’t have the energy to wash and return anything. These are the friends who truly understand.

Then there are the others—the ones who arrive with their finest stoneware. Now that’s a different story. I told him to take note. How are they dressed? How are they speaking? Are they brushing lint off your three-day-old shirt? Is there… cleavage involved? Because that dish isn’t just a dish. It’s a placeholder. A reason to come back. And if there’s a phone number written on the bottom—with a heart—well… that should not go unnoticed.

We would laugh, always circling back to the same name. “Don’t answer the door, VST,” I’d say. “Please. Pretend you’ve come down with something highly contagious. Hide.” Because once that door opens… It’s like bedbugs. Hard to undo.

Twelve days after VST passed, his urn—chosen so carefully, the perfect shade of blue with pewter accents—sat quietly in the bookcase. My days were packed with appointments, my mind spinning, when the phone rang.

On the other end were friends of the very best kind—gentle, thoughtful, and extraordinary cooks. “What’s your favorite meal?” they asked. “What can we bring you?”

I had been running up and down the mountain, every errand costing an hour round trip. COVID had shuttered restaurants and emptied shelves. I had food—but not that kind of food. Not the kind made with love.

“Spaghetti and meatballs,” I said.

Not even my favorite meal. But that morning, it was the one thing I wanted most.

Oliver had a noon vet appointment, so down the hill we went. Two hours later, I returned to find something waiting at my door. Next to a vase of pink tulips sat a worn, brown metal container—scuffed, vintage, and familiar, like something from childhood camping trips. My friends had come.

Inside was everything. Homemade sauce and meatballs. Spaghetti cooked just right. A crisp green salad. A soft ciabatta roll. Garlic butter, carefully wrapped. Fresh Parmesan.

It was more than a meal.

It was love, packed carefully and delivered quietly.

I stood in my kitchen and cried—one of those deep, unguarded cries—because I knew exactly what I was holding. This wasn’t just food. This was care. This was friendship. This was love in its most tangible form, given by people whose hearts were breaking right alongside mine.

With every bite, memories came flooding back—Italian dinners with kids and without, candlelight meals and paper plates, a busy ranch kitchen with five hungry children asking for seconds. I could almost hear him singing O Sole Mio in that booming bass voice of his.

To anyone watching, I was just a woman eating spaghetti through her tears.

But to me, it was a feast of memory.

Today, take inventory of those casserole dishes waiting to be returned. Think about the love that filled them when you needed it most—when even remembering to breathe felt like enough for one day. Look at the names written on the bottom. Call them.

The best ones will come, collect their dish, and sit with you awhile—long enough to remind you that you are not alone.

To my spaghetti-toting friends—you know who you are. Your kindness that day helped me stay afloat. Your friendship today is golden.

I love you both.

---

Dear readers,
However you found your way here—from across the world or just down the road—thank you.
This little life at Winterpast is richer because you’re part of it.
I’ll be here next week, with more to share.
—Joy

Hands connect us to one another in a unique and precious way. In VST’s last days, he chose to spend time on “the death couch” as he referred to it. He first recoiled at the thought of opening the hide-a-bed in the living room, but later, chose it often to rest next to me in the busy part of the house. He slept while I snapped this, or he would have protested that any part of our nightmare called cancer was documented in this way. Images have a way of returning us to captured moments. We were captured by the hell that is cancer.

My own hands are large, functional Germanic woman-hands. The kind that get things done. Size ten ring finger. Not a dainty, girly-girl digit in the bunch. They attempted to help me play piano when I was little, but constantly flew in directions not conducive to a beautiful melody. My mom was crushed. They also attempted to help me with guitar. They easily wrapped around the neck, depressing strings to make keys that hummed in a 1970’s kind of Glen Campbell way for a time.

Through the years, they held young lovers, wrote term papers, dialed phone numbers and twirled the cord late into the night. They pointed and shook at boys that needed to leave me alone, and beckoned those I wished didn’t. They raised Guide Dogs for the Blind, delivered brand new puppies into the world, trained dogs, and held their paws as they took their last breath. They irrigated grapes and helped shake them after they turned into raisins. They washed a squirmy grandson and splashed with him until we were showered with delightful fun in the bathroom. These days, they hold Oliver in the silent mornings when I wish VST was still here to share our morning coffee. They wipe my own tears and help me move on through this blog.

In the beginning of VST/Me, our hands were busy with life. Every aspect. Work, personal, spiritual, family, and educational growth. Through the years, VST used his massive mitts in the gentlest of ways. Holding a daughter’s precious hand at the country fair, leaving an imprint on her heart that warms her still today. His hands wielded wrenches, and twins, a boy and a girl, when he was 21. They held steering wheels, traveling millions of miles in his lifetime. They built houses, waterfalls, great walls, and our life together. They wrote his dissertation and earned him the loving title Doctor H. Later in life, they caused him intense and extreme pain with arthritis and paralysis.

When we were together, our hands were often intertwined. After decades of marriage, often on a trip to Lowe’s I would be in my own writer’s head. And there he would be, on a cold parking-lot morning at Lowe’s grabbing mine. People would smile at us in that way. How adorable, these two sage lovers. And that is what we were, even if we had just argued the whole way there about an insignificant topic of the day that found us at odds. I would feel his hand reach for mine, and I was home, wherever we found ourselves.

Hands held each other when he had no more strength to reach for me in the night. My hands helped him take morphine and other hideous drugs, less horrible than the cancer that robbed him from me. They wiped his brow when he was feverish. They helped him into the passenger side of the Jeep to travel to the doctor, when it was me that took the wheel while he slept. They put soft blankets around him when he suddenly found himself bone chillingly cold. And more than a few times, they shook at the heavens, questioning WHY.

Finally, in one last touch, it was my hand stroking his cheek that said Goodbye to him as he was making his final exit on that beautiful Virginia City morning. My hands cradled his urn and wondered how this all transpired in nine weeks.

Hands need to find each other and hold on. Touch is a precious sense that can speak louder than words at times. Caresses feed starved skin and comfort a bruised soul. Use your hands to produce acts of kindness. Wave. Open a door. Greet someone you haven’t seen for awhile in spite of Covid, or because of it. Clap for others. Journal your life. Connect with each other. Hold hands as you cross the street, and be so grateful that you have another’s hand, if only for a time.

Letting You Go

You saved me when I needed saving so badly.

You have been the one to hold me, to cheer me, to love me, to teach me.

You.

It was you from the first look.

It was you from the YES to your proposal.

And, it is you now.

I need to let you fly with the wind, with the angels, to the arms of God and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Please wait for me. Please be my guardian angel and help me across when my day comes.

Thank you, My Golden Friend, My Bold Lover.

My heart will beat to remind me I need to stay here a little while longer.

I will remember our sweet story, smile, and share it often.

Because you and I are, and always will be pure love. Period.

I say these things not knowing HOW I can let you go.

But

Knowing I must.

Take my love with you, and find me when I finish my time on earth.

I love you most…

Even though I know you love me more.

Your Darlin Forever, Mrs. H

JH April 6, 2020