Author: Joy Hurt

If you’re ever in town, plan to join us at church on the second Sunday of the month to sit a while and share some of the finest food anywhere in the state. Church members plan their dishes for week to create a buffet of deliciousness. Yesterday’s menu didn’t disappoint.

Sadly, it was very different. Last month, we lost our dear friend Miss M. We can only wonder what she’s enjoying at the Sunday Potluck in heaven. As someone that loved to cook here on earth, she always brought interesting and delicious food for us to try. She is dearly missed and will be remembered for a very long time.

Our Pastor has vacationed for the last two weeks. Enjoying a much-needed visit with family and friends in Texas, he should have returned rested and happy. Instead, he came back with the dreaded virus we’ve all been plagued with this year. It’s taken him and his sweet wife down, leaving us to enjoy another week with the visiting pastor. The meal was a nice “Thank You” for a wonderful sermon on God’s grace and mercy.

Our church family is small but mighty with a core group that make things happen every week. There are the men who open the church and put out the flags. A sweet guy makes sure the inside of the chapel shine and the fountain bubbles with fresh water. Then, there are the church gardeners who are working to make the church gardens grow. (That would be HHH and me, with help from our friend, James).

As the vegetable garden thrives, it’s hardly recognizable. Starting with dry garden boxes filled with hundreds of volunteer marigolds, the new vegetables are growing by leaps and bounds. Tomatoes are caged, while extra marigolds sprout everywhere. Some even made their way to Winterpast to triple in size. Marigolds are such happy flowers.

With summer just around the corner, yard work has been great exercise. The Meditation Garden is now starting to bloom. The red Hollyhocks make me want to sit and make the blooms into little dolls like I did so many decades ago. Day Lillie’s are coming back to life after years of struggling without water.

An old fountain from Miss M’s house will be a new bath for the church birds. Many of them probably follow us to the church, knowing we’re doing something cool. Although we haven’t found any more adorable ducks, I can report that our favorite little friend found a new home. Living with other rescue ducks, she’s now officially called Lucky Duck. All’s well that ends well.

Spring is a season of hope, growth, and new beginnings. It’s a time to give thanks to God for the wonders of creation that stir our hearts with joy and gratitude. The flowers that blossom around us fell like little bursts of happiness, reminding us that sometimes, God laughs in color.

While all of us were working with this and that, the food began to arrive. Kentucky Fried Chicken and Port-Of-Subs topped off our meal. From tri-tip sandwiches to tiny cherry cheesecakes, the menu was delicious. Visitors enjoyed the meal with us, taking “To-Go” boxes, along with warm wishes for their safe travels and return.

After the meal was over, it was time to clean up. Many hands made the work light. In a very short time, everything was clean and back in order.

Our Pastor did stop by to get a box of food to go for he and his wife. Our prayers are with them for a speedy recovery and return back to health. As we all know, returning from a trip, sick with a virus isn’t anyone’s idea of a good time.

Whatever you do this week, if you don’t have a church, think about finding one. There, you will find your very own group of new friends. HHH and I attend one of the nicest churches in the country. A true blessing in this crazy world.

More tomorrow.

During the winter of 2024-2025, mice established themselves in our very clean garage where they found warmth and some food in the empty beehive. As we trapped and trapped and trapped some more, it became a war. It was them or us. With opposable thumbs, in the end, we would win.

Being young enough to battle the vermin, HHH and I are quick to identify signs mice are around. If you know of elderly shut-ins, check to make sure they aren’t living with a silent killer. Mice can chew through wires, contaminate food, and spread dangerous diseases, including Hantavirus Pulmonary Syndrome (HPS). This deadly virus is transmitted through rodent droppings, urine, or saliva. If you suspect a mouse infestation , cleaning it up quickly and safely is critical.

HPS is a rare but serious respiratory disease that humans can contract when they inhale particles contaminated with the virus. It killed Gene Hackman’s wife, while also killing three people in Mammoth Lakes, Ca. We’ve had several people become sick with this illness just 40 minutes to the west. HPS is very serious.

The virus can become airborne when contaminated materials like droppings, urine, or nesting materials are disturbed. Common exposure scenarios include when:

• Cleaning out barns, sheds, attics, or garages
• Opening cabins that have been closed for the winter
• Sweeping up rodent droppings

Symptoms usually appear 1–8 weeks after exposure. They can include:

• Fever, muscle aches, and fatigue
• Headaches, dizziness, chills
• Nausea, vomiting, and abdominal pain
• Shortness of breath (as the lungs fill with fluid in later stages)

There is no specific cure or vaccine for hantavirus, and the condition can be fatal. That’s why prevention and proper cleaning is critical.

Before you clean up, confirm if you’re dealing with an active or past infestation. Common signs include:

• Droppings (small, dark pellets)
• Sightings
• Gnawed food packages or wires
• Nesting materials like shredded paper or fabric
• Musty odors
• Scratching or squeaking sounds, especially at night

If you are experiencing a problem with mice, ventilate the area. Open windows and doors for at least 30 minutes before you begin. Leave the area during this time to let fresh air circulate.

Wear protective gear. Protect your hands with rubber or latex gloves. Protect your lungs with an N95 respirator mask and wear safety goggles.

Spray all droppings with a commercial disinfectant or a solution of 1 part bleach to 10 parts water. Saturate all droppings, urine stains, and nesting materials. Let it soak for at least 5 minutes.

Use paper towels to collect the waste. Place all contaminated materials in a plastic bag. Dispose of it with your outdoor trash.

Wipe down all affected surfaces with disinfectant. Wash hands thoroughly with soap and warm water after removing gloves.

If your health is impaired, ask someone else to come and do the cleaning.

For large infestations or heavily contaminated areas (like insulation), consider contacting professional pest control or biohazard cleanup services. Disturbing large amounts of contaminated materials can significantly increase the risk of airborne exposure.

To keep mice from coming back, seal entry points, eliminate their food source, and reduce nesting areas. After the initial cleanup, check for signs of return in the form of dropping, gnaw marks, or sounds. Set traps if needed.

Mice infestations aren’t just inconvenient, but a serious health hazard. With hantavirus a real risk, especially in rural or dusty environments, it’s crucial to clean thoroughly and carefully.

Always prioritize safety by wearing protective gear, using disinfectants, and never stirring up dust or droppings by sweeping or vacuuming. When in doubt, don’t hesitate to contact professionals.

Stay safe—and rodent-free!

June 3rd, 2025 — High Desert Plains of Northwestern Nevada.

The bees are humming.
The skies are blue.
The coffee’s hot.
The page is blank.
And so is my brain.

It’s the fifth day of June, and Winterpast is looking like she was handcrafted by a benevolent God in a particularly generous mood. The high desert plains of northwestern Nevada are glowing under a brilliantly blue sky begging to be written about. Poets would weep. Photographers would swoon. Yet, here I sit, fingers poised over the keyboard, mentally Googling “how to get struck by inspiration without also getting struck by lightning.”

Today there is nothing to write about. Which means, of course, it’s time to write about that.

Leaning into the emptiness like a literary chaise lounge, I’ll describe the void while making it dramatic. Make readers question their own productivity and whether maybe, just maybe, “not writing” is actually a high art form.

When you’re stuck, it helps to get poetic about your surroundings. Take Winterpast, for instance. The windchimes are creating a Zen-like experience imitating the ten Solfeggio frequencies. The bees are out there humming like tiny, winged jazz musicians. Somewhere, a lizard does a push-up while our mother Robin comes in with another beak full of worms for her babies. I wonder if the bees ever suffer through days in which nothing new is going on.

Thinking about it, “nothing to write about” is its own strange kind of abundance. Because even in the absence of narrative, there is still the presence of a day well-lived. A day where the wind hums, the sky sparkles, and the only pressing plot point is whether I should make another cup of coffee.

Some days are meant for breaking news. Others are meant for quiet skies, a blooming garden, and lazy bees.

Today is the latter.

And you know what? That’s enough.

Dear reader, if you find yourself with absolutely nothing to write about — congratulations. You are now in the exclusive club of creative people whose brains have momentarily checked out to admire the view. Take a breath. Watch the bees. Name a cloud. Write about writing nothing.

Because sometimes, that is the story.

And it’s a pretty good one, too.

A quiet kind of grief comes with sorting through someone’s belongings after they’ve gone. Though heavy, it’s not the kind that overwhelms with tears in the moment. This slow and steady sadness hums under the skin while echoing in the creak of a floorboard or faded certificates on the wall.

This past week, a few of us have gathered to clean out the home of our friend, Miss M. On a Saturday evening, she was enjoying a brand new porch swing with friends. Two days after being rushed to ICU, she was gone. Just like that.

Born in Kansas, SHE’d lived a simple life, full of love and laughter reflected in her things such as mismatched mugs with stories behind each one, clothing she always claimed was “on sale,” and books filled with thoughts she never got to share. Her house was humble, but her warmth hid in in every corner.

We didn’t rush the process. We touched each item, paused over photographs, passed around trinkets and memories like communion. It was heavy, as grief always is, but also strangely beautiful. There’s something deeply human about handling the pieces of a life that meant so much, even in the ordinary.

Some things went to family. Others to friends. A great deal was donated to the little house behind the church. We all agreed this would make HER very, very happy. Quiet and thoughtful, there was also a dark and funny being that lurked below the surface. We all agree she is up in heaven playing the most beautiful golf courses, something SHE hadn’t been able to do for years.

Packing things from the cupboard while carefully arranging them, I thought about how Miss M’s life extended past her death. The belongings she no longer needed would now help someone who still very much did. It was one of those small, quiet acts of grace that reminded me that we don’t stop giving just because we’re gone.

There’s so much talk these days about legacy or how we’ll be remembered or what we’ll leave behind. Most of us won’t be remembered in history books or quoted in speeches. We’ll be remembered when someone holds a mug and thinks of us or as we’re shielded from the cold by HER warm jacket. In those ways, kindness will carry on through ordinary objects that once filled HER life.

As we finished, I looked back at HER little house waiting to be filled with someone else’s life. My thoughts then turned to belongings that will help the people she never met. Although she’s gone, HER kindness remains. Not the stuff, but the love that lingers within. The care. The intention. The quiet legacy of a life well-lived.”

May we all be so lucky to leave behind something we once called ours that still has the power to comfort, nourish, and warm. Thank you, Miss M, for wisdom and friendship. Now, go get that hole-in-one just around the bend.

You just never know what the heck can happen when watering the church lawn. HHH and I have become the unofficial gardeners for the property. When we took over the job, HHH decided the dead spots in the lawn needed some TLC. And so, intensive watering began.

At first , we’d just go in the morning and night.

OY VEY.

I’m turning into my dad, who loved to water his church’s lawn at 3:30 AM. Over weeks of consistently visiting the church property in the middle of the night, he met a homeless man named Michael. At one point, Michael insisted that his friend, Elmer, must certainly be an angel because no human would take the time to water the lawn in the middle of the night. In many ways, my dad was Michael’s angel all those years ago.

Fast forward to our little church. While getting the new lawn to sprout, we brought the empty vegetable garden to life. Today, we’re growing two types of tomatoes, cucumbers, beans, strawberries, marigolds, and peppers. The hope is that the extra food will help those in need over the summer. Everything’s growing like crazy.

The Meditation Garden is also benefiting as James comes out to rake and trim every night. Things are looking quite nice here in our little bit of heaven.

Today, HHH and I were having a great talk about the price of groceries. The sticker shock of todays purchases was something that needed discussing. Rib Eye Steak? $29/pound. Bacon, on sale, $7.00/12 oz. And, the list went on, until we a young woman snuck up behind us.

“Is this your duck?”

What the heck? Homeless people that think we are angels, we might expect. But, a duck? A honest to goodness female mallard duck strolling through the very dry meditation garden?

“”Quack, quack, quack” as it interjected itself into our afternoon.

As the young lady continued on, she told us about reports of two ducks, but now there was just the one. Could she come get it after work? Would we mind? Was it ours?

Well, of course she could have the duck. After all, it wasn’t ours. She went back to the beauty salon, and then, the magic happened. This duck became OUR duck for a short time. It followed HHH around to get drinks of water from the hose. It quacked sassy little things to me. Once showered and refreshed, she spread her wings and wiggled her ducky little tail. If ducks can show gratitude, she did as she enjoyed the cool water.

Strutting her stuff from one side of the garden to the other, she enjoyed a good spray from HHH’s hose. She was one happy duck in a very short time.

I can honestly say, it’s been a very long time since I’ve had such fond feelings for any bird, yet alone a duck. As she sucked water off the ground, she was as happy as we were to meet on a hot and sunny afternoon under the bright blue skies of Northwestern Nevada.

When the hose was put away and it was time to go, we promised each other we wouldn’t look back. Never Look Back. With the two very busy dogs of Winterpast, the last thing we could adopt was this duck.

You just never know what can happen when you give a little of your time at the local church. It might be your day to be blessed with the happy antics of one female mallard. I hope some day you’re that lucky!!

More tomorrow.

Every year, I quietly celebrate “National Speak-in-Complete-Sentences-Day”. It’s the one day a year where fragments go to die, emojis cry lonely tears, and this retired 3rd Grade teacher raises a triumphant red pen to the sky.

This highly underappreciated annual celebration is held on May 31, which fell on Saturday this year. The only people celebrating it were over-caffeinated grammar enthusiasts, parents trying to correct their children, or me.

National Speak-in-Complete-Sentences-Day was probably invented by someone who got tired of hearing things like “Wanna?”, “Same”, and “Huh”? It’s a day to honor the entirety of the English language including, but not limited to subjects, predicates, and proper punctuation.

That’s right. Not only must full sentences be spoken, but the Grammar Gods expect punctuation so precise you practically have to narrate it. “I’m going to the store, comma, because we are out of milk, period.”

The first victims?

Text messages.

If you’ve never tried texting exclusively in complete sentences with correct capitalization and punctuation, Congratulations to you. You’ve probably never been mistaken for a Boomer by youngers.

Example:

Normal text:

“u there?”

Complete sentence version:

“Hey, are you there? I just wanted to see if you’re still coming to brunch at 11:30 a.m.” (For the record I never learned the abbreviated form of texting).

Don’t even get me started on Twitter, which became popular about 15 years ago. To put entire paragraphs of thought into 60 words or less has been “Mission-Impossible” for me, even though I was chosen Secondary Teacher of the Year. Thank goodness I taught Secondary Science and Math because “Creative Writing” would’ve finished me.

On Saturday, parents across the country spent the day explaining to their children that “Because I said so” is a complete sentence. Children retaliated by asking follow-up questions. Sentences multiplied. Conversations spiraled and the entire goal of the National Day was met.

National Speak-in-Complete-Sentences-Day may have come and gone, but its legacy lives on in the hearts of those who believe a sentence isn’t truly finished until it’s ended with a period or, in times of excitement, an exclamation point.

Next year, when May 31st rolls around, try embracing the full sentence. Eschew the fragment. Reject the grunt. And for heaven’s sake, if someone says “LOL,” politely ask them to elaborate.

Late spring feels like the desert is exhaling after the long hold of winter and the unpredictable churn of early spring. Trees are fully dressed in green, the sun lingers a little longer in the sky, while the air smells like possibility. Last night, we had one of those evenings that will settle softly into memory. Not flashy or dramatic, just full of warmth and laughter, while surrounded by good food and even better friends.

The backyard looked like a little slice of summer waiting in the wings. String lights zigzagged overhead, casting a golden hue as twilight slowly deepened. Six patio chairs with brand new cushions made things feel special.

We’d worked all day preparing for the special night. The guests remained a mystery because many were invited, but few had RSVP’d. Even the new landscaping professional and his son might stop by. We’d planned for everyone we’d asked and hoped they’d all fit around the tables in the house. Buzzing around the entire day, by the time 5:00 rolled around, we were a little spent.

But, this normally punctual group didn’t arrive on time. Soon, it was 5:15, and still no guests. Finally, Miss Dove arrived at the front door on foot.

“Oh, we did something so silly…..” She went on to tell me they had entered someone else’s house. The rest of the party was still at Ninja Neighbor’s. For those who don’t know, she lives right next door. Our guests got lost thinking her house was our house. They went in carrying gifts and food as she came around the corner.

Miss Dove thought the house looked a little different and thought NN was another guest they hadn’t met. Mr. Dove happened to know her and so, they struck up a conversation in NN’s living room. Just an unexpected part of a really fun evening.

The grill was the heart of the evening. You could hear the familiar sizzle as hamburgers hit the grates, the scent of smoky beef rising in the air. There’s something deeply nostalgic in the simplicity of buns laid out on a platter, surrounded by ketchup, mustard, pickles, and onions. Nothing fancy because it didn’t need to be.

Along the table sat the sides that every barbecue ought to have. A mountain of potato chips in a big bowl, cold and crispy. Baked beans in a crock, steaming and sweet, kissed with brown sugar and just a hint of something spicy. And then, sitting like the crown jewel of the evening. Miss Dove baked a fresh apple pie with golden crust and flaky edges, the apples inside soft and caramelized. Served with scoops of vanilla ice cream that began melting the moment they touched the warm filling, this dessert tasted like childhood.

But more than the perfect bite of burger or that fork full of pie was the feeling around the table. Friends gathered just to be together. People leaned back in their chairs, and laughter filled the evening. Stories told, some for the tenth time, were still just as funny. A certain someone (who will remain nameless) managed to lose all their underwear in a traveling snafu. That story was the jewel of the night. As dusk settled in and the solar lights started blinking at the edges of the yard, contentment, like a blanket, gently wrapped around all of us.

There was no big occasion. No celebration beyond the season itself and maybe that’s what made it so meaningful. It reminded me that joy doesn’t always come from planning or grand gestures. Sometimes, it shows up in a Chinet piled with food, ice clinking in a glass, and a slow sunset shared with people you care about.

As we washed dishes and packed up leftovers, someone said, “We should do this again soon.” We all nodded, knowing life gets busy and weeks slip by faster than we expect. Even if we don’t gather again right away, this perfect, unhurried slice of late spring will linger. A simple reminder that happiness is often homemade, grilled to perfection, and best served in a little town off the interstate nestled on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

There is a quiet kind of healing that slips into the soul when you step outside into the hush of a backyard sanctuary. At Winterpast, our home nestled gently into the rhythms of nature, the backyard is more than a space. It’s a refuge. A place where time doesn’t rush and peace lingers like the scent of flowers after rain.

Recently, we’ve had visitors who stopped by for a minute, and then just sat and relaxed. Everyone agrees that they don’t want to leave. With Mother Robin feeding her young with worms from the garden to hummingbirds that have finally arrived, our garden is a wildlife sanctuary. Unfortunately, still includes one squirrel, but this blog is about relaxation, so I’ll save that for another time.

The mornings begin with birdsong, clear and unpretentious. Doves flit among the branches, finches chatter near the feeders, and every now and then a hawk will ruin the party, causing everyone to run for cover. Their melodies are not just sounds but reminders that the world still hums with beauty even in the smallest corners.

Even the crows are in on the action. As my favorite bird and totem animal, the crows are quite humorous. HHH now agrees that where I go, so go the crows. One has taken to sitting on our fountain to get a drink. This guy is magnificent as he perches on the top tier.

The fountain gurgles steadily, a liquid heartbeat for the garden. Its water rises and falls in a soothing cadence, each drop catching sunlight like a fleeting gem. Sitting nearby, I often lose track of time, lulled by its constancy. It speaks in a language older than words, of movement and stillness, of giving and returning.

Last week, I finally found a use for my grandmother’s cast-iron caldron. That sounds really bad, but Grammie had her very own. On the ranch, she made delicious watermelon jelly over an open flame. While we farmed there for 17 years, the caldron became mine. For years, it’s been packed here and there. I finally ordered a solar fountain for it, and next week hope to buy some water lilies.

Wind chimes sway in the breeze, their tones delicate and sometimes imperceptible until they drift to your ear. There’s a magic in the unpredictability as they whisper wisdom from the wind itself. They never sing the same tune twice, yet their music always carries the same message: “Be here. Right now”.

The breeze at Winterpast is a kind and constant companion. It moves through the trees, rustling leaves like turning pages, as nature reads its own poetry. It brushes across the skin not to chill, but to wake. A beautiful invitation to breathe deeper, pause longer, and notice more.

And then, there’s the flowers. They don’t shout their beauty, they simply exist in vivid, fragrant confidence. Daisies are finally opening like smiles, lavender leans into the sun, and roses, (even with their thorns), bloom without apology. Watching them reminds me that growth is quiet, but never still. It continues even when no one is looking.

Everyone who visits Winterpast feels it. There’s a softness here that settles over the spirit. The gardens speak to something universal that every soul is longing for in this crazy, noisy, busy world: stillness.

Ands so, no one wants to leave. People linger longer than they planned to, holding cups of coffee that have gone cold, not because they’ve forgotten them, but because they’ve remembered themselves. Time slows. The noise recedes. And in the quiet, they find what they didn’t know they were looking for.

Winterpast is aptly named speaking of seasons that have gone, sorrows that have softened, and memories that have settled like fallen leaves. In its backyard, one finds not just peace, but the kind of stillness that restores. The kind of silence that speaks volumes.

May we all find our Winterpast where the soul can sit quietly, listening to fountains and finches, feeling the breeze, and learning once again how to be at peace.

There’s something sacred about a garden planted not only with seeds, but with memories. Tucked between the church and the Tee Pee Bar and Grill, and nearly hidden beneath layers of ivy and time, was such a place. A meditation garden, once a quiet haven of prayer and remembrance, had long fallen into neglect. Thanks to the faith and fellowship of our congregation, that little patch of holy ground has begun to bloom again.

The garden quite literally sprouted from love. Many years ago, Pastor Marilyn, who served our congregation with a gentle spirit and a green thumb, envisioned a place where people could reflect, remember, and feel close to God. A gardener herself, she believed the church grounds could use a special sanctuary, something more than just grass and trees. So she gathered a few volunteers, picked out plants with purpose, and carved out a space where hearts could heal in the quiet beauty of nature. That vision grew into the meditation garden.

Over time, however, seasons changed, people moved on, and Pastor Marilyn took her place in heaven. The garden, once so tenderly cared for, became overgrown and forgotten. It all might have ended there if not for one thought spoken on a Sunday. “We should do something to clean up the garden.”

Memories came flooding back. Names whispered in prayer under its trees and the quiet comfort it offered to grieving hearts. Before long, another church group asked if they could help clean it up. Not only did they ask, but they showed up armed with gloves, shovels, and a determination to bring it back to life.

Years of leaves and overgrowth had blanketed the space. But as the work progressed, the garden slowly began to reveal itself. From beneath suckers on a tree trunk, a small plaque was uncovered. Weathered but intact was laminated sheet music for Jesus Loves Me, mounted on a tiny wooden board and drilled lovingly into the side of a tree. That simple melody, so deeply ingrained in our childhoods, felt like a benediction from the past.

More treasures followed. Hand-painted plaques with short verses. Faded yard art spinning in the breeze. Perhaps most poetically, someone uncovered a shrub unlike the others. HHH pulled out his “Plant Parent” app to find out that this bush was actually named “The Burning Bush” (Euonymus alatus). The name was more than botanical and felt like a message. Just as God spoke to Moses through the burning bush, maybe He was speaking to us now: “Take off your shoes, for the ground you are standing on is holy.”

The burning bush has become our symbol of renewal, of God’s abiding presence, and of how life renews itself even in forgotten places. We’ve been pruning and praying. James has been out working the garden every day, plucking weeds before they have a chance to grow. With water, work, and time, this garden will again bring peace to our community.

While the garden is once again taking shape, it’s the togetherness that’s truly blossoming. Older members share stories, younger ones lend their strength, and in the rhythm of digging and planting, we’ve found community. The church isn’t just a building or a schedule of services but people showing up, getting their hands dirty, and loving one another.

In the evenings now, when the sun filters through the trees while illuminating the little Jesus Loves Me plaque. You can almost hear the song, faint and sweet, like a lullaby on the wind. It stands, decades later, as a message that Jesus loves us. Still. Always. Forever. Even in overgrown corners and long-forgotten gardens.

Yes.

Especially there.

I must be honest and tell you that real grass is a bit of a diva. It needs sunlight but not too much sunlight. Water it, but not too often. Keep it trimmed, weed-free, fertilized, aerated, and whispered sweet nothings to under a full moon. What’s the reward? Patchy brown spots from our female canine and random dandelion invasions.

Enter the glorious world of artificial turf, also known as fake lawn. This is the best decision we’ve made since upgrading to heated car seats. Fake grass doesn’t care about droughts, foot traffic, or our tragic track record with the 2025 houseplants. It’s vibrantly green year-round and never throws a tantrum in the middle of summer. No more yellow patches. No more “we’ll just re-seed it next year” lies.

The back yard at Winterpast is home to the nicest “real” lawn in the world. Other than suffering with girl-dog brown spots, it’s doing well. It gets mowed two times a week to stay in tip-top shape. At the first hint of a weed, HHH and I are on the attack. It’s the prettiest shade of green although the actual variety remains a mystery.

Now, the front yard once had an equally lovely lawn, until it was ripped out by the roots and replacec with white rocks. With the up-do on the front yard in full swing, it’s time to bring on the green, even if it is artificial.

Last Saturday, HHH and I decided to drop by Kelly at the carpet center in town. Kelly is such a go-getter. Along with selling synthetic lawn, he also sells blinds, carpet, linoleum, flooring, and U-Haul rentals. In his spare time, he’s thinking of opening a nursery which is something our little town desperately needs.

We only needed to ask about his opinion of installing synthetic lawn. It turns out he’s had his for five years and other than treating it twice a year to a little “spa” treatment, his looks as good as the day it was installed.

We can’t wait until our neighbors walk by and whisper, “Wow, how do they keep it so nice?” We’ll just smile and wave, never disclosing our little secret. Low-maintenance landscaping at its finest will leave more time for lounging and less time for lawn therapy. In our drought-ridden desert, fake grass will be our best friend. No irrigation. No sprinkler system drama. No prayers for rain. Just pretty green at all times.

Of course, grass purists may sniff and say, “But, it’s not natural.” To them, we’ll reply “Try it before you knock it.” A true Master Gardener would shudder at the thought, but, here at Winterpast we need a facelift. It can’t come soon enough.

The next steps will involve finding someone to chop down one tree, grind a stump, move some rocks and get to work!!! I promise to share pictures when complete.

Cheers to the lawn that never quits! Our new synthetic grass will stay cool (figuratively) under pressure. Sometimes, the most beautiful thing about nature is being able to fake it in just the right shade of green.