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Retirement comes with challenges. I know. I know. Active workers are thinking…..”Cry me a river, Lady.” Kind of like a certain prince and princess complaining over a castle that wasn’t big enough. Whatever will they do in a shack in Montecito?
Without planning, retirement becomes one long pajama party that doesn’t end. It’s just like a table of the best Christmas deserts on my Grandma’s table in 1969. Grammie would tell me “It’s Christmas! Eat as much as you like!” Eventually, the top button on the pants didn’t anymore. Christmas was gone, and there I was. I should’ve had a plan.
My first year as a widow, I kept a planner. I made sure it was a pretty one with the entire month shown in a two page spread, followed by pages that held three days each and places to write notes (2023 PlanAhead Monthly/Weekly/Planner — Amazon). I started making entries and kept it current. While in the deepest widow’s fog, I could look back and see what I’d accomplished, even if it was only these three things.
Get out of bed.
Eat three meals.
Don’t go to sleep before the sun is down.
In the beginning, those were not far from my perfect day. If only I could’ve gone that route. I physically moved into Winterpast seventeen days after VST died. Of course, my accomplishments were much more than three things a day. Today, can I tell you what they were? No. Recalling memories can be tough when you’re grieving. In my experience, I’m able to remember a little more each day about the spring of 2020.
That first year, my planner was an external drive to my brain. Everything went into the planner or it didn’t happen. Slowly, I was able to plan and complete six things. Then nine. And so on. I always wrote them down and crossed them off. Somedays, I was back to only three. And, somedays, I stayed in bed with the covers over my head all day long. It was all part of the ultimate goal of healing through grief.
Here’s the deal. It gets better. Whatever your current loss, things do heal with time. Maybe your heart is shattered, but it’ll slowly mend. The scars give us our character through our strength and resolve.
VST was a driven man. Looking back, I don’t recommend this to anyone. In the end, you have an empire to admire from heaven. I’ve never known anyone to squeeze so much into each and every 24 hour day. Obsessed with intent and drive, he planned and accomplished everything he dreamed. He lived a life full of dreams and accomplishments.
The Dunmovin’ House was his last big endeavor. 3,300 square feet built into the side of Mt. Davidson, Virginia City, Nevada. For both of us, it was love at first sight. She’d been repossessed from people that didn’t know how to keep a beautiful home. For five years, VST poured every waking day into making her a perfect show piece. While I love to work in miniature with my tiny little houses, he worked on a grand scale, laying real hardwood floors and redwood decks with broken knees and a paralyzed hand.
The final project was as beautiful as the first. With the last nail, we discovered his cancer and he was gone in 9 weeks. The house was finished when he died.
The kitchen that got away. Every oak board in the floor was hand-selected by me. (2014-2020)Dunmovin’ House — Virginia City, Nevada
Intention and execution made it all possible. Every day, we met over coffee to plan our daily goals.
“What’re our goals for today, Darlin’?” he’d ask over his eggs. There were always 20 things on the list that involved heavy lifting, measuring, saws, and hammers. He moved the rocks in the front yard more than once just because.
Goals made with a vision end up create something wonderful. Living alone, goals are pretty hard to create and very easy to ignore. I’m finding this as I approach the spring of my 3rd year as a widow. I have pure intentions when I write them down in my planner over coffee.
In my mind, I hear the question.
“What are our goals for today, Darlin’?”
For the rest of this month, I’m going to set three a day. If I can accomplish those, I’ll have 36 things done by the end of the month. I bet I can even do more once I get going.
The day’s a-wastin’.
January 19, 2023
Get out of bed.
Check.
Whoopsie.
Just kidding.
Besides, I’ve been up for two hours now.
Whatever you do today, do it with intent. Be sure to plan some play in your day. We all need to take time for the things we love to do. If you don’t have anything you love doing, then start investigating and find something. Get up and move in a new direction. You’ll be glad you did.
Oh, the wonder of the Wook-lets. There is nothing better than brand new puppies. Every day, we’re seeing significant changes. Just yesterday, the only boy gave his first bark while cuddled in my arms! I just know it was his FIRST! They are keeping Wookie on her toes with the necessary cleaning and feeding. Tonight, at 11:50 PM they’ll be one week old. This weekend, their eyes will open, while time marches on.
Wookie has become my bestie. When I arrive, her big smiles just melt my heart. Yesterday, I had gone into the nursery to see her babies. While sitting on the floor, she came and got in my lap to be cradled like a puppy herself. Although she is quite tall, she weighs almost the same as Oliver. They are built so differently. He’s dense and compact with an approach is never light and airy, but more like a Bassett Hound.. Thud-Thud-Thud-dy-Dud-Dud. That’s my Oliver.
These days, he’s quite confused. Things aren’t fair and right around Winterpast. First of all, the snow isn’t great for the low-rider he is. When your legs are so short, 3″ of snow is a problem. Then, Mom-Oh is a traitor. Going SOMEWHERE, she comes back smelling like SOMETHING resembling his girlfriend, Wookie. She’s all googly eyed about something called Wook-What-Evers. It’s all upsetting, when all he wants to do is play and his girlfriend is busy doing something else.
Oliver and Wookie together in the good old days before THEY came along.
In his frustration, Oliver has reverted back to troublesome habits. He is now heavy into stealing. It matters not what he can find. A sock. A piece of mail. A hair clip. Just about anything. He has learned that from the recliner he can reach the end table. On the end table, he can find anything his Mom-Oh has accidentally left there.
His favorite hiding spot is under the dining room table. He absolutely delights in watching me go from side to side, while he slithers right underneath and out of reach, laughing in his little doggie brain the entire time. Yes. He’s in his own new state of puppyhood that reminds me of a very important fact. No matter how adorable the Wook-lets are, there is 7x the destruction just waiting to be unleashed on the unsuspecting owners of this new little crowd. Just how much damage will these little guys do in their first five years of life? I bet Oliver has them all beat.
“Don’t believe her. It’s not true. ” Ollie
Today is a great day for purging and cleaning. I’m using the 10% rule. While organizing and cleaning today, 10% will be donated to the thrift store. Things that haven’t been used in one year will fall under the 20% rule. The snowy days of January are a great time to release unused possessions to the universe. Save 9, discard 1. I’m sure my little four-legged helper will have a field day snatching things when my back is turned.
Oy Vey.
Whatever you choose to do today, hug your pet and then connect with someone going through a tough time. Unexpected texts and phone calls brighten everyone’s day. A visit to a shut-in is even better. You never know when it’s your voice and hug that save the day.
Just the number will never let me forget how many years it’s been since the unthinkable happened to us. One speeding freight train came straight for two very scared seniors. One was taken. One was left. Trains are a funny thing. You hear them in the night with their far off lamentations. Three or four blasts of the horn. Their sounds grow louder until all other sounds are drowned out by the rumbling cars. Just like that, they pass and the silence returns. After 32 years, that’s how I lost my VST.
That fast.
That deadly.
That gone.
It was in the Spring of 2020. Almost three years ago.
Not from Covid, but another monster altogether.
Cancer.
In the last 33 months, I’ve done everything the instruction book on grieving tells you to avoid. I signed legal documents. I sold the DunMovin’ House in VC. I bought Winterpast, located in a town where my only friends were Miss Firecracker and Baily’s and Cream. B & C died two months after I arrived. A four pack changed into a two pack in this dusty little town at a wide spot off the interstate in the middle of the high desert of Northwestern Nevada. Miss Firecracker moved on with her adventurous life and then, there was one.
Me.
Totally alone, I was forced to make peace with myself just to have someone to talk to. That took months of patience, forgiveness, love, and nurturing. I learned keep my own secrets. Only Oliver knows them all and he’s not talking, so don’t ask him.
During the last three years, throughout the ravages of Covid, I ate at every open restaurant I could find. I stayed in hotel rooms by a pristine lake. I went without a mask. I didn’t wash my hands very often. I never used hand sanitizer. I went outside as often as I could to breathe fresh clean air. My younger self would have scolded me for cussing too often and dating too soon. She was there, judging me worse than any stranger would have. But, on I went through my own wilderness not listening to her scared “Don’t Do It’s”.
I slept when I became the least bit tired and stayed up whenever I felt like it. For the first time in my entire life, I began to learn who I was meant to be. The real me, not the pretend woman who was really good at being the girl everyone wanted her to be. Instead, I released the fierce woman inside. The one quite capable of being herself.
Some parts of the last three years are so painful, I cannot yet write about them. Others are so funny they make me laugh with deep and rich abandon. I’ve embarrassed myself. I’ve also made myself proud when making tough decisions on which path to take. The easy path isn’t always the best when traveling through grief. Sometimes you need a machete to forge a new path through the brush while continuing on.
I’ve fallen three times, spraining my ankle days before my first Christmas alone. I’ve released more latex balloons into the heavens than environmentally proper, each one carrying my sorrow to the doorstep of heaven. I’ve cried. Panicked. Wailed with grief. Paced. Fretted. Bargained with God. Argued with God. Then peacefully, I’ve surrendered my life to HIM. I’ve purged the bad memories, and glorified the good. Through it all, I’ve kept moving forward, even if I needed to army crawl to do it.
I’ve broken many hearts, while protecting my own. I’ve become a good judge of character, choosing a worthy and Mysterious Marine with which to spend my precious time. I’ve found happiness in the presence of Wookie and the Wook-lets. I’m surrounded by the best girlfriends anyone on this planet could hope for. “Ride-Or-Die” friends of the best kind, each one of them.
These days, I’m okay with people and their contrary opinions. Until someone lives in your house, washes your whites, pulls your weeds, cleans your toilets, and puts up with one little headstrong dog 24/7, they can’t possibly understand your every motivation and action. I’ve learned to own my life and smile when there are those that disagree or judge. If they could only see the entire picture, maybe they’d judge less. I try to give that grace to new friends I’m meeting along the way.
In the last three years, I’ve learned that one little blog site has become a great place to talk about my traumas without burdening my besties. The keyboard has let me wander through the best adventures in healing without leaving the comforts of Winterpast. Grievinggardener has become a voice through which I’ve found my words, lost for so many years.
I’ve learned that Winterpast is not only my home, but my protector and comforter. Memories and love are woven into her walls. She’s the place that allows me to sleep without worry and dream as big as it gets. She’s my first real home, although I’ve houses more beautiful than any woman could wish for. Winterpast came equipped with some angels who text and stop by once in awhile. Real life people with forever ties to this oasis in the desert. The best family is made of those you choose. I’m glad VST and I chose Winterpast together before he left this world for his forever home.
The woman reflected in my mirror these days isn’t done growing. I still lose my way once in awhile. Often, I question if the old lady staring back is really me. Shades of my grandmother and mother peer back though our trademark baby-blues, wishing they could’ve lived the life I’m living now. I look at grainy black and white pictures while longing for the 1900’s. Somewhere in between the olden days and today is perfection. All of us experience it at one time or another. After all is said and done, happiness is true and timeless perfection.
There are those days, I’m sure I’ve totally disappointed everyone I love, but thankfully they continued loving me. Whiplash-inducing, one-eighties occur with less frequency. Life is on a good path now. I need the machete less and less. Until the next big jolt hits, I plan to enjoy winter and all the new family and friends that’ve come into my life. The miraculous blessings received over the last three years have helped me rebuild a new life from grief’s devastation. I wish that healing for every widow and widower traveling through their own journey. Life is there for you. Take as much time as you need while healing, but keep moving.
As for the old me, I miss the old me from time to time. But here’s the deal. That perfectly good girl was really bad at being real. It was utterly exhausting and life-sucking. I admire the woman that is growing right in front of my eyes. A little gray. A few pounds heavier than perfection. Some wrinkles and wear and tear. Plenty of imperfections. But, a fierce force willing to write her last chapter in ink, not graphite. You might not like her, but I do.
What would you do?
Whatever it is, live each day to the fullest with one foot in front of the other. Open each door to see what’s there. Shut the messy ones and keep on going. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, you’re doing that right now. Keep going. You’ll be amazed how far you’ve come when you look back.
I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.
Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.
But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.
In a sense we have come to our nation’s capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked “insufficient funds.” But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. So we have come to cash this check — a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quick sands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God’s children.
It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro’s legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.
But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.
We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. They have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.
As we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, “When will you be satisfied?” We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied, as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro’s basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their selfhood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating “For Whites Only”. We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.
I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.
Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.
I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.”
I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.
I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification; one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.
I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.
This is our hope. This is the faith that I go back to the South with. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.
This will be the day when all of God’s children will be able to sing with a new meaning, “My country, ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim’s pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring.”
And if America is to be a great nation this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!
Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado!
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California!
But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia!
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee!
Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.
And when this happens, when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, “Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”
Dr. Martin Luther King August 28, 1963
Whatever you do today, make it wonderful. Dream. Plan. Believe. Do.
Sometimes the best laid plans just turn out a little differently than the script we prepare in our heads. Such was the case on Wednesday night. Before I begin, the Wook-lets have arrived in all their glory. Seven round little bellies swell as they nurse happily next to Wookie. In a flash, they’ll be up and running, so these first few days are a time to marvel at their perfection while they lay together in a little pile.
Wookie wasn’t herself on Wednesday. A dog of intense energy, she was lethargic. She would pick up her ball, lay it on the coffee table and stare at it. If the ball was thrown, she would just look at it and then lay down. Her tail was hanging. The sparkle in her eye wasn’t there. The saddest thing of all was that Wookie stopped smiling. She lost her attitude of gratitude and was down and out. Even cottage cheese and freshly baked chicken weren’t enough to excite her taste buds. Wookie was one sad dog with a very full belly of puppies. Feeling them kick was easy. Heck, you could watch her belly move.
A very wise and wonderful woman told MM that Wookie would deliver on Wednesday. All well and good, except that Wookie’s due date was Sunday. A healthy delivery that early didn’t seem possible. We were prepared for a Sunday surprise, even though Wookie wasn’t looking like she’d wait that long. This wise and wonderful woman never doubted the day of the birth. She just KNEW.
I’d been hanging out at MM’s house watching the latest news Wednesday. Priscilla Presley (RIP) was still alive doing whatever she did during her normal day. Biden’s documents were still sitting in his locked garage behind the Corvette. Thursday news stories hadn’t happened yet, while the threats of flooding were still very real. Late in the afternoon, Wookie was moping around when I decided I needed to return home to Oliver.
Ollie has been moping himself. He knows when I leave I am going to have fun somewhere. These days, he sits at the back door waiting for a ride to see his beloved Wookie. Having no thumbs and very short legs, he needs me to drive him there. Unfortunately, he won’t be see Wookie for the next eight weeks. Please don’t tell him that. He’d be crushed.
Male dogs aren’t to be trusted with the tiniest of little puppies. In Oliver’s case, I’ve seen him kill a baby bird and a toad. Violent and vicious, he ate them both in front of me. With Oliver safely watching over Winterpast and the Wook-lets on the other side of town, there is no chance of an unthinkable accident. Oliver will need to visit her in his dreams for a couple months.
Winterpast has been delightfully clean the past few weeks. Christmas is put away. Wednesday’s laundry was folded and put away, and I settled in for a quiet night with Ollie. Dreaming peacefully, I’d been asleep for a few hours when the phone woke me. The time was 11:50 PM and I was greeted by an awake and alert MM on the other end of the line.
“One puppy is here.”
“No.”
“Wait!”
“The second pup is here.”
“Come.”
“Quick.”
Just like that the race was on. Ollie, who is a very sound sleeper, was confused. What was his beloved Mom-Oh doing??? It made no sense! Where did the night go? He rolled with the action, figuring an early breakfast would be great. In minutes, I was on the road to MM’s mansion on the east side of town.
There, in the middle of MM’s beautiful comforter, I found four little Wook-let’s peeping and squeaking with Wookie soon to deliver three more. Who wants to deliver puppies in a prepared whelping bed when there is a very expensive, comfortable, and luxurious mattress on which to give birth? Wookie chose her own spot to deliver. In two hours, the show was over she now has a family of seven healthy babies of her own.
Thank goodness she knows me well and thinks I’m pretty special. She welcomed me to the big event. After all, I’m Oliver’s mom. Wookie is the best dog mom I’ve ever met. Every squeak grabbed her full attention, with lots of vigorous licking and nuzzling, she had this under control. She was happy to be with her full pack, sharing the moment equally with MM and me.
Now, hours of observations begin. I’m on call to Wookie-sit at a moment’s notice. The babies are thriving. A beautiful bunch of black and white, with hints of brown to come. They squeak. They hiccup. They snuggle. All this activity under the watchful eye of Wookie.
If there was one thing I needed once more in my life, it was the scent and sound of a litter of newborn puppies. Puppy breath is a magical thing. It can melt the heart of anyone that is lucky enough to get a whiff. Wookie knows exactly what she is doing with her lucky group of Wook-lets.
Whatever you choose to do this weekend, don’t forget to love on your pet. If you need a puppy fix, try Explore.org. Once there, choose “DogBless” and you’ll have a variety of puppies to watch. My favorite is Service Dog Project, or SDP. Canine Warriors is also a good group. At any rate, Explore.Org is a great internet site on which you will find something wonderful to watch. If you are lucky enough to have access to a real litter of puppies, go see them. Cuddle them and don’t forget to get a whiff of the puppy breath. It’ll cure what ails you.
Due to a midnight delivery from the stork, I am a bit tired. 28 pink and precious paws came into the world last night. Wookie is the perfect mom. All pups and their pets (MM and me) are doing well.
A thankful attitude is a great place from which to grow happiness. Learn to dance in the rain, even if you created the storm. Every day, we all have the most beautiful blessings for which to be thankful. Some days it just takes a little adjustment of focus. It’s a personal choice.
Grateful people are thankful for everything in their life, even on the worst days. It’s observable. There is one true fact of life. Some days are going to be as bad as it gets for each of us. Those of us that are widowed have seen the blackest day in their life come and go. With gratitude, happiness will come again.
Just yesterday, I had the most wonderful experience for which I’m grateful. I was invited to a neighbor’s house. Honest to goodness neighbors living just up the hill from Winterpast! I was invited for tea before Christmas, but viruses delayed our plans. I’m so grateful those bugs are long gone.
Yesterday was the kind of day perfect for a cozy visit with tea and snacks. The kind of day in which you wonder if it will snow, rain, hail or be sunny. In the high desert, just wait a few minutes and you might experience all three. I’m so grateful to live in a place in which the seasons and weather surprise us on a regular basis. Winds so strong it’s hard to walk to the mail box. Sun so hot it could fry an egg on the sidewalk. Big sky so blue, it takes your breath away. The white-est puffy clouds, or formidable storm clouds.
This new friend is lovely in every way. A wife and mom, she’s planting her roots deep into the desert soil. She enjoys landscaping with the amazing view of the mountains as her backdrop. She loves the mustangs as much as I do. She’s smart. I think a little sassy. She’s an executive. I’ve not met many of those, but am finding my new executive besties are very interesting women. She’s a strong woman of faith.
As we sat sipping tea while enjoying great conversation, it was apparent that she’s a grateful soul. With a heart that’s full and content, her life reflects love and happiness. And, just like that, I met someone new and fun! Life is too short to sit around and moan about the state of the city, country, or world. There will always be hatred, scorn, and sadness. Soul-suckers all those things. Much healthier to focus on tea with a hint of lemon while looking out the window at God’s country.
“Cultivating an attitude can help you focus on the positive aspects of your life instead of the negative ones—making you happier, more productive, and successful. Gratitude also strengthens relationships by making people feel appreciated and supported. In addition, grateful people tend to be more helpful than those that aren’t.” Jelena Kabl’c
There are just a few tips to achieve this mindset.
PRACTICE DAILY. Choose three things a day in which to be grateful for. Start a journal. Just three things a day. Of course, you can write down more if you choose. You’ll be surprised how quickly you fill up the pages, without ever repeating the same thing twice.
CHOOSE CONSCIOUSLY! Life is one big smorgasbord of choices. Choose carefully. Be patient with yourself. Rest when necessary. Don’t forget to eat. Play a little. But, make conscious choices. Every minute counts and the day’s a-wastin’.
BE. Allow yourself to BE grateful. Choose happiness, if only for a few minutes a day. Focus on positivity. Immerse your mind in music you love, or a book with a positive message. For goodness sakes, as VST would remind us all, FAKE IT ‘TIL YOU MAKE IT! Smiling can feel weird at first, but do it anyway. For no reason. Just smile. People will want to know your secret!
SHOW YOUR LIGHT! As a widow, people tend to give us the right to be miserable as long as we choose. Don’t accept that safe little place to hunker down. Before long, it can become a way of life. Grieving is a necessary part of life, but it was never met to replace you life. At some point, the time comes to pick up and continue along our personal journies. It comes at time different for each person, and not before. Don’t stick around in that wilderness of grief longer than you really need to.
Once you practice, succeed, and show others your light, you are on the road to happiness. Share your best memories with others, because your beloved lives through them. The more gratitude you have, the more positivity will shine through your life. With those two things in place, happiness will tag along. Not simple. Not easy. Not instant. But, definitely something doable. It’s all about the attitude.
Whatever you do today, hug someone you love. Send a text, asking about their day. Give appreciation to those that help you every day. Tell someone you love them. Go forth and have a wonderful day. It’s the only one we have!
Well, the countdown to Wook-lets continues with the young mother uncomfortably restless. It’s quite amazing to watcher her expand by the hour, while we can now not only feel but see her babies exercising just under her skin. Nature will soon repeat itself the way it has for centuries, with Wooklets entering the world in a normal way. Leaving the Wookie to rest comfortably at home, the Mysterious Marine and I had other things to handle yesterday.
The harsh environment in which we live is very rough on our vehicles. There are a few automotive options that are pretty important around here, even more so as you get closer to the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range. Four Wheel Drive is one of them and one of us experienced a malfunction requiring the replacement of transmission parts.
The promises some businesses will make to someone to make a sale are fascinating. The parts will be delivered in a matter of hours. The work will be done at record speed, getting you on your way. Their spoken desire to get you on the road is all it takes. After all, in the 1900’s, men stood on their word. Great businesses were that because they delivered what they promised. Unfortunately, 18 days after purchase a service that was promised in seven, promises made weren’t kept. Some businesses will wonder why they’re failing when they do. Lucky for this business, a truck only loses it’s transfer case once during a normal lifetime. This business is a fail. There will be no repeat business.
After leaving the vehicle at the shop with no real date of completion, given, we were pretty disheartened, disappointed, and hangry (hungry + angry = hangry). MM and I decided a little breakfast would perk us up, choosing a local eatery in business since 1966. Located on the main drag of a little town just to the East, cars lined up in front of the restaurant, a diner that would fit right in any stylized movie about the Mid-West.
Immediately, a waitress with a very large septum piercing and orange hair came to take our order. It wasn’t complicated. She had her order pad and we knew what we wanted. Coffee and two breakfasts. According to the menu both came with biscuits and gravy. Sounded good after the disappointments of the morning.
The coffee was delivered and then we waited. We talked. We waited. We looked at our phones. Did I mention we waited? We did. A very long time.
Finally, a different waitress came bearing plates holding food we didn’t order. Burned bacon. Chicken tenders over eggs. Just a weird order that didn’t resemble what we had envisioned for breakfast.
“This isn’t ours.”
“Yes it is,” she answered.
Quite sure we didn’t order deep fried chicken tenders for breakfast, they realized they wrote down the WRONG name of the breakfast ordered.
I ate. MM waited. Then, MM ate. I waited.
Finally , we were ready for the bill, which was incorrect. The 2nd waitress told us she would fix it. I was hoping it would be fixed to $0.00. But, No. One biscuit and gravy was removed. End of story. We paid and left, agreeing never to return again. Now two businesses in this small town to the East of us were no longer on our recommended list.
10 AM, and the day was just getting started.
MM ordered a cover for his hot tub in September 2022. After paying for the specially ordered cover in advance, he hadn’t received word from the company since. Yesterday was the day he’d check on that. With no answer when he called, he left his phone number and waited for a call-back, which did finally come.
“Your Name?”
“Oh yes. Well, here is your order. It’s scheduled for delivery in June.”
June.
Not January.
Not on the way.
Five months from now in June. 2023.
Shaking his head, MM asked for and will be receiving a refund in 10-14 business days.
Somedays, life is better retired while enjoying winter snowstorms from the picture widow of a warm home. The world makes no sense anymore. It’s sad that business practices of the 1900’s making life more pleasant are definitely gone. Those of us that remember how things used to be aren’t all that old. The 1900’s weren’t all that long ago. Heck, we even had phones, television, and the gas engine. Somedays, I wish for the old days.
Whatever you do today, practice patience, but only to a point. I, for one, am tired of accepting poor products, rude customer service, or no service at all. Vote with your dollar. If we all try that, maybe things will improve. If all else fails, have a cup of hot chocolate and enjoy the day.
My mama always taught me that good things come from adversity if we put our faith in the Lord. We couldn’t see much good in the flood waters when they were causing us to have to leave home, But when the water went down, we found that it had washed a load of rich black bottom dirt across our land. The following year we had the best cotton crop we’d ever had.
I remember hearing:
How high’s the water, Mama? Two feet high and risin’ How high’s the water, Papa? She said it’s two feet high and risin’
We can make it to the road in a homemade boat That’s the only thing we got left that’ll float It’s already over all the wheat and the oats, Two feet high and risin’
How high’s the water, Mama? Three feet high and risin’ How high’s the water, Papa? She said it’s three feet high and risin’
Well, the hives are gone, I’ve lost my bees The chickens are sleepin’ In the willow trees Cow’s in water up past her knees, Three feet high and risin’
How high’s the water, Mama? Four feet high and risin’ How high’s the water, Papa? She said it’s four feet high and risin’
Hey, come look through the window pane, The bus is comin’, gonna take us to the train Looks like we’ll be blessed with a little more rain, 4 feet high and risin’
How high’s the water, Mama? Five feet high and risin’ How high’s the water, Papa? She said it’s five feet high and risin’
Well, the rails are washed out north of town We gotta head for higher ground We can’t come back till the water comes down, Five feet high and risin’
Well, it’s five feet high and risin’.
*********************
Good morning!
The waters here in the high desert are about to rise as the atmospheric river advances upon us. If things aren’t dramatic these days, they don’t sell. I long for the days when everyone was excited about a good old fashioned rain storm. Growing up in the Central Valley of California, precipitation was a welcome event. Only in California could farmers feed the world from an actual desert. Like everything else in California, the lush green fields were only made possible by man-made irrigation systems. Not natural rain.
Rain was rain. It rained at times. Sometimes alot. It didn’t need the name of a Cyclone Bomb or Atmospheric River. It was going to be a week of rain. You might get leaks. Check your roof. Carry an umbrella. Don’t drive through any more than one inch of water. If a street is flooded, choose another. Get over it. It’s just rain. Drama sells, so choose really scary new names for a natural event.
The irrigation systems depended on snowmelt from the high Sierra’s. When a drought came along, everyone nervously waited for rain. After the irrigation systems were abandoned, farmers moved on and the fertile west side of the Central Valley again returned to the desert it always was.
Water. It’s always about the water. For 17 years, I helped irrigate our vineyard. During each growing season, from March to August, our water valves delivered water to 16,000 Thompson Seedless vines (now 100+ years old). These old girls depended on us to get them every drop we could. In exchange, they’d produce a crop of grapes the flavor of which you’ve never tasted in your life.
Scheduling which farmer got water at what time was intricate and down to the minute. Water flowed 24/7. Throughout the month, every drop had a farmer’s name on it, all based on the number of acres one owned. It was precise and to the minute. You’d better not open the valve one minute before your time began or an angry neighbor would come knocking. There were those sneaky farmers that left their valves open the tiniest bit to steal what they could. We knew who they were. Everyone did. The system worked if everyone was respectful and accurate. Water wars are a real thing in the farming world.
From the 1st-4th of each month, my battle with gopher holes and the hot summer sun raged on. During a summer, a straw hat could splinter to pieces from daily temperatures of over 105. At dawn of an early morning, with temperatures already pushing 80 degrees, the peaceful walk down the avenue was a time to listen to the birds and watch for coyotes on the hunt while checking on the progress of the water coming down the rows. Through the year, the water flowed from the highest mountains of the Sierra Nevada’s, down into the valley, through an intricate irrigation system of valves and offshoots, while filling the underground aquifers of California. Summer rain was unheard of and yet we lived in a desert oasis.
In a different state today, we all sit on pins and needles, awaiting the atmospheric river that should be dropping snow, not rain. The Sierra Nevada mountain range provides water for the states of California and Nevada. The snow pack delivers that in a calm and peaceful way throughout the year. It’s melting as we speak. So far the snow pack is at 2x the normal for this time of year. There’s a lot to melt. The desert isn’t quick to absorb rainfall.
My little town was flooded once in recent history. It, too, is a farming oasis with an irrigation system. That year, the canal failed. Just ask Miss Firecracker. She lived through it with her best friends, The Floridians. Hundreds of houses were under water. People were evacuated with helicopters to higher ground. The Mysterious Marine remembers and can speak about the damage, as well.
The Truckee River flows right through several neighboring towns. It’s pretty full right now, and the heaviest rains haven’t hit just yet. With the reservoirs full, we wait.
How high’s the water, MM?
Two feet high and risin’.
As we wait on the rain, the Wookie is as round as a watermelon. We are about to be flooded with a crop of Wook-lets. This week promises to be one of suspense as we await the rising tides and new life.
Whatever you do today, pray for California and Nevada. If you aren’t being tried by inclement weather, celebrate. If you are, remain prepared. You might not face rising water, but shortages also occur due to closed roadways and interrupted deliveries. Don’t forget to stock necessary medicines and pet food. As always, be prepared.
Whew, the first week of the year has been a struggle. I’m glad to report that the Death Flu of last week is now officially over. After a week of rest and repair, celebration of the new year is in full swing. It’s Friday! Come on 2023. Give us all you’ve got!
Yesterday, I sat down to consider a fresh start for the new year. Considering my journey since 2020, I’ve experienced extreme adversity while watching it breed personal toughness, character, innovation, strength, creativity and success that I didn’t know possible. Through this, miracles flavor every situation with hope through faith. That has been the most beautiful revelation of all.
So long ago, my parents gave me the ultimate freedom to flee, fly, fall, and heal to fly again. Each time, my journeys took me higher and farther than I thought possible. For that, I can never thank them enough. My mistakes were mine, not theirs. That goes for success, as well. A great gift to give a young girl in the 1900’s.
During the winter of 1973, unaware of a grieving process, I lost the first true love of my life. His name was Derrick Ray Wilson. A Junior to my Senior, he was bright, strong, very handsome, and a jock in all sports. Our love was forbidden by four parents, but love we did until he died unexpectedly on a cold January night while fighting with his mother in the hallway of his childhood home. A raging argument turning to death in a matter of seconds.
That night, I was moments from seeing him perform at a wrestling match. Makeup. Tight Jeans. Pony tail. School Sweater. Almost ready to race out the door, the phone rang twice. Answering, my father’s voice didn’t give any indication that it wasn’t an ordinary business call. Hanging up, he whispered something to my mother. She told me to take two aspirin. They needed to tell me something important.
Derrick was dead.
That was the extent of the news. Critical information shared.
Derrick was dead.
No details needed. None known anyway.
No need to go to the wresting match.
Time for bed.
Off you go.
Farm life can be brutal. There isn’t a way to sugarcoat the facts when telling a little girl her favorite lamb died or the dog just got hit by a car. There aren’t proper instructions for sharing with your 17 year old daughter that her boyfriend dropped dead in the hallway of his childhood home while fighting with his mother. This was unchartered territory. They did the best they could, overwhelmed in a fog of disbelief themselves.
Over the months until graduation, I grieved constantly through fake smiles. I was really good at being really good and really bad at being real. Those were months of private hell I wouldn’t wish for any one. Thank goodness, no one ever noticed.
I went on to finish my Senior year, even playing the lead in the Junior-Senior play to adoring fans. It was a play about a pair of star crossed lovers finding and then losing each other in a concentration camp. I just played the raw and grief stricken lover I was in real life. On the outside everything was wonderful. On the inside, I walked in grief. But, of course, in those days, a child of 17 can’t grieve. Right?
Get up.
Patch the wing.
Take 2 aspirin.
Fly again.
Just like that.
Fly I did, right out of the coop and off for a summer in Switzerland. Not on the beaches of Lake Geneva, nor on the year round slopes of the Alps as a proper heiress would do.
I flew to a little restaurant in the town of Rufenacht outside Berne to the home of people that became a safe place to fall. There, I pulled weeds the garden, picked the produce for the freshly cooked meals, waited tables, and hung the laundry to dry in the attic to the tunes of the Sound of Music. That’s where I healed.
Alone.
In a foreign country.
Just me in the wilderness of grief.
Panic attacks would awaken me at night in my tiny, dark room in the 4th floor attic of a 400 year old house. In the night, I would scrapbook my days and journal private and painful thoughts. Even so many years ago, my writing healed me that summer. My words helped me grow stronger wings. In September, I became a brand new college coed, just months after devastating tragedy.
Fifty years later, I’m taking a little more time to heal through this round of grief. VST knew Derrick. It’s comforting to know that two great loves of my life played football for the same side. Somewhere up there in the heavens, they’re having a great time tossing the ball while waiting for me to arrive.
I’m not alone this time.
God has me covered. Great friends, new and old, watch over me while helping me through the rough spots.
I’m not in a foreign country.
This beautiful desert is my forever home in a country I love so much.
I’m my own best friend in this wilderness of grief. There are fewer foggy days, more meadows, and the views are beautiful.
LIFE is beautiful.
In the words of Taylor Swift, who gets so many things right —
I’m dancing on my own I make the moves up as I go And that’s what they don’t know I keep cruising Can’t stop. Won’t stop grooving It’s like I got this music In my mind Saying, “It’s gonna be alright.” Taylor Swift — Shake it Off
Whatever you do today, remember this. It’s Friday!!! Whatever struggles you are facing are at the end of their week. Do something you love doing this weekend. Try laughing at bit. It’s great medicine.
