Author: Joy Hurt

In my dusty little town, there lives an Earth Angel who morphs from one type of helper to another. It is about her today’s blog is dedicated. To listen to her tell it, she isn’t doing anything special at all. She just ACTS. She sees community needs every day while greeting them with a smile and action. I will call her Bella, (Italian for beautiful, at least according to Google), because she’s that through and through. Let me tell you a few things about her.

Bella was the very first voice I heard say, “Come join us. Our Bible study is just starting.” Walking in 2 minutes before the study was beginning, I’d been praying to God for even one new friend that very morning. It seemed my heart couldn’t beat another day without female connections. My town is no longer my new home. It’s MY home. When you live in a place for two years, it’s time for girlfriends and I was missing the one’s I hadn’t yet met.

That morning, Jesus took my wheel and drove me to a Women’s Fellowship that was just ready to begin. 14 women sat around a big table, ready to study the written word of God. Sometimes, scholars do that. Sometimes, Bible buffs do that. But, in this room, 14 Christian women sat ready to improve their relationship with the trinity. There was power radiating from that room on that very day.

From the first “Hello”, Bella has been a bundle of energy and love. She’s a quiet woman, showering praise onto others. She is the first to find kind things to share with everyone in the room. It’s obvious she is directing her own life by doing it her way. She’s careful in choosing how she will spend her time, a part of life we can’t renew.

In her former time life, she worked in the movie industry while traveling the world. As she tells the story, one day that lifestyle wasn’t enough. In fact, one day, she couldn’t do her job the next. She needed something more in her life. Can you imagine the strength it took to give up glamor, travel, and the A-List? Well, come to think of it, it at least took courage to change a life that wasn’t filling her heart.

Over a few decades, she decided on a different kind of life. Today she runs a food ministry on very little of her own money. Every week, she feeds about 600 people in our community. No, not 6 or 60. 600. Could YOU do that? WOULD YOU if you could? Out of the back of the church, she boxes donated food, from perishables to cans. From soup to nuts. She feeds the hungry. They walk from the river. They come from under the bridge. Some come from their own kitchen, where the weekly paycheck was sucked dry by the rising cost of gas to get to work. They call and she meets them at the church sharing her trademark smile. That beautiful Bella smile.

Bella does work as a trainer of nurses and doctors. She finds time to keep a gorgeous yard, immaculate home, and thriving garden. She always looks as if she could be the center model for a fashion layout. Even when she wears jeans and a hoodie, she makes sure her hair is swirled just so and her lipstick applied.

She just shared that, recently, she saw another need. It seems a family of Littles had moved into the neighborhood and they were causing grief to the quiet elders. These little children hadn’t had too many examples of NICE and RESPECTABLE in their life. There was a ring leader. I can’t share his real name, as unusually adorable as it is. I’ll just call him Remington, because when she met him, he was ready to go off just like the gun.

Remington loved expressing himself with his middle finger, or worse, shouting greetings not blog approved. He and his little followers were well on the way to forming a pack when Bella stepped in and became the neighborhood “Grandma Bella”. Calling the wayward little munchkins to her front step, she held their first meeting and schooling, Bella-Style.

“I am Grandma Bella. I run the show around these parts. If you need food, water, a cookie, some ice cream, a hug, or a listening ear, you WILL knock POLITELY on my door to POLITELY ask me if I have time, and I’ll get you whatever you need. We will have NO hand gestures or bad words. We WILL be respectful and kind. This is how we WILL behave at Grandma Bella’s house and in OUR neighborhood. UNDERSTOOD????”

I can only imagine the look on their faces. She was offering safety, love, friendship, and a cookie on top of that. All for just acting civilized. What a deal!

Since that day, Grandma Bella is growing her Child Development ministry, as well. This is one busy woman. On any given day you’ll find her feeding the hungry, schooling the community children, being the best sister in Christ, all while running an AirBnB AND working two jobs.

Bella is on my list of Earth Angels I’ve met this summer. There are 14 of them that swirl around my town helping others in their own quiet ways. I know them, because I worship with them on Sunday and study with them on Thursday. It’s them that will help me get through my 185 days of teaching this year. It’s them that will help me find laughter on rough days and God at times when I think he might have stopped listening. Bella is just the first one about which I’m writing.

When Bella shared the details about her latest endeavor, she looked around the room and said, “All of you can be a Grandma, too. Look around. Is there trash in your neighborhood? Are the kids acting out? Somedays we need to step up and help. The world needs the love of more Grandmothers. BE ONE.”

Bella. What an inspiration she is in my life. Because of her, I now shop before Bible study, because the food pantry always needs bread, eggs, and meat. I feel so blessed to be a part of her ministry. Her love for others has washed right over me, inspiring me to do something to help. She is an example true Christian love all wrapped up in a beautiful human being.

That should plant some seeds for today. Think about your own strengths and calling and then get to work. There are 24 hours in a day. We can all sleep when we’re dead.

Have a great Saturday!

More tomorrow.

Never in my wildest dreams did I envision myself as a blog writer. But, this week, my total reads since September 24, 2020 reached 250,000. In internet terms, I’m not fooling myself. This is peanuts. But without advertising, while showing lots of patience, it’s huge to me. These reads have come from all over the world. From the beaches of the Philippine’s to the shadows of Mt. Kilimanjaro, for whatever reason, people have been reading. Around 600 times a day, someone is reading another one of my posts, and slowly the numbers rise.

There are platinum awards for records. I think there ought to be a Golden Pencil award for the first 250,000 reads on a blog. I think I’ll create that very award to hang in my new classroom. I’ll be the first recipient.

The Golden Pencil Award — Joy Hurt — July 22, 2022.

God has always been by my side in life. Yesterday, I was labeled a new Christian. I have my own thoughts about that. Indeed, I was baptized December 12, 2021. That is very true. I am reading the Bible from cover to cover for the first time in my life. But looking back over the years, I’ve had a relationship with God, deep and truly tested, throughout my life. One doesn’t survival the perils I have without God’s assistant. He has carried me through many fires throughout the nearly seven decades of my life.

Surviving a terrible car crash at 17. Escaping from Russia at 21. Healing from an abusive marriage. Finding VST. Farming. Teaching. Cancer. God has always guided me. I know, because I’ve asked for his guidance, mercy, and grace thousands of times through the years.

I especially remember being the hospital teacher to my sick kiddos. An aide and I were the face of school from 2010-2015. Every morning, as I drove the 45 minute commute from my mountaintop, I spoke to God about the kids. The ones that were mending and the ones that were irreparably broken. I cried out to him for miracles. I sang his praises when miracles even the doctors couldn’t explain occurred. Then there were the darkest of days on which I cursed him when heaven got a new angel.

35 times, God and I had some pretty rough discussions. 35 times, one of my students went to heaven. On the worst week, I lost seven kids. They all know I’ll ring the school bell when it’s my turn so our lessons can begin again.

The human definition of being a Christian can be rather limiting . God searches and tests my heart every day. He knows the light and the darkness found there. He sees my intentions and the fruits of my labor. He and I talk about it. He knows me by name, as does his son. This I know as well as I know my own name.

His messages often come through loud and clear. It is by his direction that I’ll be teaching at my new school. I know there won’t be one problem that I can’t get through with his help. There will be days when I wonder “Why me, Lord?” But there will be more days when I say, “Thank you, God”.

In the case of my blog, the idea came to me in the summer of 2020. I was in a new town. I had one girlfriend, but couldn’t see her because of Covid. I knew my Ninja Neighbor and a girlfriend from Walmart. I was planning VST’s memorial to be held in the Gardens of Winterpast. That was the extent of my daily human contact.

One morning, I awoke with the words “Grieving Gardener” flashing like a road sign in my brain. Over and over, my first thoughts that day were these two words. Being rather literal while still in a heavy widow’s fog, I decided I’d start a gardening group of widows, using the spacious and very empty RV barn. In a flash, I planned the year’s curriculum and was all set to go. But, something held me back.

I planned for tables, chairs, books on gardening, and the coffee pot. I designed a flyer for bulletin boards around town. Still, I didn’t go forward. The name kept flashing. So much so that I even bought a green and white road sign to hang above the door of the RV Barn. Grieving Gardener.

It was September 23rd, 2020, when inspiration hit. I’d been inspired by a gentleman that did a daily podcast. Like clockwork, his dedication led him through hours of work each morning to produce a Conservative podcast from his home. On that very day, I knew in my heart that I would blog. I would own the domain name of Grievinggardener.com. In 24 hours, my first piece was published. My healing journey began.

Each day I would look at the number of reads. Two here, five there. When I hit a consistent 10 people a day, I was amazed that ten people were interested. From there, it slowly expanded. When I hit my first 1,000 reads I cried. I stopped counting at 80 countries and 30 states.

As you all know, for me, writing IS life. There isn’t a more powerful elixir or drug in the world to calm my heart while my brain comes up with a plan. There is no better way to leave a string of my life’s story for one of my Great-Great-Great grandchildren to pick up and read someday. There is no better way for me to cultivate happiness and contentment than sending out one little blog a day.

Stories are meant to be told. If you don’t write, then record them. They tether us to the way things used to be. Because those of us 1900’s models know that the way things used to be were flat out wonderful. Maybe with enough stories, generations to come will find their way back to that way of life.

With so much to collect for my classroom, the next two weeks are hectic ones. On Monday, 1/2 of my college course will be complete. Next week, I’m hoping to meet my room. Summer school is still in session, so hopefully, I’ll get my keys to the kingdom on the 1st of August. Then, the real fun will begin.

Whatever you do today, add a dream for good measure. You, too, just might earn the Golden Pencil Award just a few short months later.

More tomorrow.

In a perfect world, a couple of decades from now, this is how they’ll find me. In some quiet backyard on the perfect island of Molokai. My right arm propped up slightly to support my head like a pillow. The softest robe of miniature clover will give me protection from the soft Hawaiian rains. No doubt, my extremely straight hair will resemble the sea grasses growing here. Having just laid in the cool of the garden for a moment, I’ll slip away. Two or three decades from now, in the garden on the perfect island of Molokai.

On some days, when my tomato plant hasn’t even grown 1/2″ in the last month, or my shriveled roses struggle, I really consider moving to the islands. Hawaii was our trip to the beach. VST’s and mine. It didn’t take much to get us moving in that direction. We visited 30 times over the years. If we had only put our trip money towards a beach house, we could have had a nice one. We visited so often that in many ways it became home.

For one year, I’d like to curse thriving plants that grow inches in the night. With a color of green so lush and deep, the dense foliage would beckon me to walk further into the jungle. That would be just feet from my back door. Tropical flowers sprouting from every possible plant with fragrances oily and rich. Fruits ripe and ready for the picking. In my mind’s eye, I go to the islands as often as I can to sit with the memories made there, as soft as the trade winds gentle caress.

The reality is, I live in the desert. In 2015, my springtime trip to the garden center involved the purchase of everything that grew beautifully in California. Delicate plants begged to be potted in designer containers and placed on our enormous deck in Virginia City. Over and over, as if the angels of darkness had planned it, an unexpected frost would come to kill. Any hope of colorful spring blossoms would be dashed.

I don’t buy what they’re selling anymore. If it isn’t a succulent or cactus, it won’t survive. Succulents and cactus only live until the killing frosts and snows of late fall. In the spring, we begin again, wishing again that maybe this year will be different. Well, if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. Right?

Most of the neighbors around here have embraced desert landscapes. Not that it makes them happy, it’s just cheaper and easier to accept reality. Since 2004, Winterpast has been home to oasis dwellers. Those of us not willing to let the green die water. And water. And water some more. I’m so thankful for the first owners of Winterpast and their vision for gardens with paths and green lawn. For planting roses and fruit trees. For setting out bulbs that shoot up through the snow to say hello before anything else is green. For my apricot tree, as big and wide as a banyan.

The maintenance on keeping all this watered is costly. This weekend, my gardener, Mr. B will come and work his magic on the sprinkler system that waters the back of the property. Broken since the summer of 2020, it’s time that it works on its timer. Broken solenoids are annoying. They’re also very expensive. Hence is the life of the gardener.

In April, 2020, I was the grieving gardener. I spent countless hours manicuring my yard through tears. Weeds were plucked as soon as they sprouted. Everything was fed on time. I replaced every emitter as fast as Oliver ate them up. I put out special lighting and I grieved. Oh, how I grieved.

Two years ago, the lush grass of Winterpast was the site of VST’s memorial with 45 of his closest friends and family. On that day, I wish I could have laid on the lawn and been swallowed up by the lawn. Thank goodness I wasn’t. That wasn’t the plan.

Each month on the 8th, a lonely widow went out to release balloons showing the number of months since her beloved “HE” had gone away. Each month at precisely 10:30 AM, muffled sobs came from Winterpast until finally, on a windy day in April, the last 12 balloons floated towards the heaven and one year gone.

Winterpast and her gardens have sheltered me through the seasons twice. She’s helped me to focus on the needs of my gardens, moving towards a different phase of grief and a different stage in life. Acceptance and healing.

Living in Hawaii is high on my bucket list. I imagine Oliver would like it, too. A year of morning walks on the beach. Of course, it would involve the most intense year of gardening ever.

Bucket lists are a funny thing. VST and I never shared one. When we came up with a worthy dream, we made it a reality. He always reminded me that someday might never come. Today is the day to embrace every worthy dream. That’s the way we rolled through one adventure after another, never looking back with regret.

With the desert heat to reach 100 today, I need to roll right outside and get to work. The weeds around here laugh at me. They know this old woman just might let them live for a few days more.

Whatever you choose to do today, find time to sit with some memories of your own. Grieve what you must, but also spend time celebrating the happy’s of your life. Being grateful makes life wonderful.

More tomorrow.

I will remain positive. I will remain happy. I will remain upbeat. I will do these things even when my internet is continually failing while the experiencing an outage that will be repaired shortly. I was patient the first week. I remembered to be kind the second week. In the middle of Week #7, the gloves are off. My new friend is the Federal Communications Commission of the USA or FCC for short.

Let me back up to the beginning. My little internet company was an adorable idea out here in the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada. After calling all the big boys, their answer was always the same. Assuring me they could fix me right up, after doing a little digging they would apologize that their extensive coverage didn’t quite extend to my distant neighborhood.

Since March of 1990, I’ve lived in remote places. In the middle of a sea of grapevines. On top of my very own mountain at the base of Yosemite. In the wild, wild west of Virginia City. And now, in the dusty little town at a wide spot in the road on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada. I didn’t really plan to have a list of past residences similar to that of a con on the run. It just worked out that way.

After experiencing the joys of no close neighbors for 42 years, now it’d be nearly impossible for me to live in an urban setting. I’m feral in that way. I need a wide ring of personal space. Winterpast and her 1/2 acre of gardens is my version of a condo in the city. To me, this is the closest to a big town in which I care to live. Last night, Oliver was uptight because the neighbors were outside talking in their driveway at 8 PM. No one ever talks outside. Aside from the noises of nature, it is totally quiet 98% of the time.

My tiny internet company is located in a littler town, a 45-minute-drive from here. I’m sure their employees face complicated complaints every day. Good service is even more vital to their customers. Through those signals, desert dwellers stay up with current events, communicate with friends and family, and even attend university classes. Excellent connectivity is everything these days. Until it goes out. Repeatedly. Hourly. Without notice.

My internet fails so often, they have not changed the message for weeks.

“We are currently experiencing an outage and are working tirelessly to restore your service.”

“You are #123 in the que.”

“Your business is so important to us. Please stay on the line.”

A most irritating part of the situation is their irritating music that fades in and out. Happiness erased all the way around.

During week one, I was polite and kind. The BEST thing about this company is that all their employees can and do speak perfect English. They are local people. Neighbors. Their business is located on Bridge Street. As a woman who lives in a place that boasts OUT OF TOWN PARK, This company exists in a real place with no imagination for street names. Bridge Street is the street with the bridge. So descriptive and simple to visualize. And yes, this is the REAL name of the REAL street on which sits the REAL internet company I deal with.

By Week #3, the outage increased to 100% for TEN continuous days, no longer being intermittent. During those long days, I had to rely on my hot spot. Now, there’s a treat. With huge mountains surrounding our little town, a hot spot works sometimes. But, most times, not so well.

Now, at Week #7. I’m not buying their story anymore. It’s time to play hardball, and this, I can do. I’m the best at finding the right Federal agency to put the fear in the hearts of thieves in the night. In this case, complaints were made to the FCC. It’s a government agency so one wasn’t enough. They finally responded three days ago.

It’s a miracle at Winterpast! Since Monday, I’ve received two personal calls AND I’m getting a personal visit from a technician today at 10 AM. Suddenly, whining about thievery has caught the attention of my little provider. Attention will focus on providing me with the service for which I pay each and every month. I’ll work on getting a one month refund next.

It’s not unreasonable to expect 16 mpbs when you are paying to receive 16 mpbs. Would you go to the store to purchase 5 lbs. of potatoes and be happy to leave the store with one spud for ten weeks in a row? I think not. Consumers of the world, widowed or not, rise up and remember that we are not in this fight alone. There is ALWAYS a regulatory agency thieves fear. Find that one agency, and you will move to #1 in the que. That’s a promise.

Whatever will I do with full speed internet? I can hardly wait to watch non-pixelated shows on my computer or I-Pad. If you have concerns about the speed of internet you receive, it’s very easy to check the speed you are receiving. I use a test call FAST. There is an icon on my iPad. With one click, it will tell me my speed at any time.

If you do have continuous troubles, document everything. FCC loves times, dates, and speed. It makes the complaint even more cringeworthy for the company ignoring your request for services you have already paid.

To stay happy, we need to create an fair environment. Sometimes, that means standing up for ourselves. It’s part of Survival 2022. Life was so much easier when we depending on the pen and paper, eh?

More tomorrow.

Pictures tell a thousand words. No matter his antics, this is the sweetest guy in the entire world. I mean, really. It’s all in the eyes. Oliver’s technical breed description is long. He’s a Cream, Piebald, Wire-Haired Dachshund with a liver nose and green eyes. They look black inside the house, but in the sun, they are weirdly human and quite green. I can identify every adorable little spot on his body. He understands the human language quite well, but hasn’t yet been able to form a word. He is the friendship ambassador in this household.

No one wanted Oliver. He came from a large litter and 4.5 months later, two days before Christmas, he was the last of the bunch. He was a discount dog. This breeder has a wonderful reputation. His puppies sell before they are born, costing almost as much as I paid for my first car in the 1900’s. VST and I would have never gone for that. But, Oliver was a discount dog waiting to come home with us.

When VST used to talk him for walks, they’d be gone awhile. Between VST’s charm and his little four-legged friend magnet, they visited with strangers on every corner. Both of them loved going their walks. Because of Oliver’s strong opinions, his days of walking in my neighborhood are over. There are big country dogs that don’t take kindly to the yapping’s of a little piece of lint like him, even if he is 25 lbs. of raw fighting machine when necessary.

Once a month, Oliver shares time with his friends at puppy camp. His bestie is Angus, who must be driving his owners bonkers, too. Angus and Oliver run the joint. The party starts when those two are together. Whether laying by the pool, or playing tug of war, they wear each other to a frazzle. I’m sure there are some girlfriends I haven’t heard about. He’s pretty private about stuff like that, wanting me to feel that I’m #1. Especially at dinner time.

Oliver has another special friend. Sam. Oliver and I met Sam the summer of 20019. Oliver was almost one-year-old, and it was time for a grooming. His hair was a little out of control and his nails made a pretty decent clip-pity-clip on the hardwood floors. Not sure where to take him, it was suggested that the groomer next to his vet was a good one. It was there we met Sam.

We both liked her from the beginning. Sam is a stand up kind of woman. The love of dogs beams from her eyes and Oliver liked her as much as I did. She made him even more handsome every ten weeks while sending him home with a kerchief instead of little bows on his ears. After all, a Virginia City dog cannot be sporting bows on the ears. Good grief!! The talk would be endless.

Since that time, every ten weeks Oliver and I drive 45 minutes to her door. Yesterday, it was to be our last visit. You see, Sam is closed on Saturdays. She works 9-4, M-F.. I’ll be busy at school with my littles. No matter how I tried to figure this out, it was a fact. I’d need to find a new groomer. Oliver and I would need to trust someone else with their sharp clippers. Maybe even accept ear bows. Tragic.

I did look for a replacement here in my dusty little town on the wide spot in the road. Visiting the shop everyone raves about was an experience. Can I just leave it at that? Not a match. The other was a mobile groomer who has no way to suspend Oliver for his nail grinding, which he detests. Sam just hangs him up like a bag of potatoes and goes to work. Not much he can do but wait until she’s done. Sam knows Oliver. They have worked out the details.

Yesterday was to be our “Goodbye” day. Oliver didn’t really believe it at all. I guess I should have shared his faith. Sam wouldn’t let us down. And she didn’t

When I entered the shop, she presented a bright green sticky holding 10 AM appointment dates until January 2023. She is now open on Saturday for two dogs every other month. Guess what? Oliver is one of them! Her extreme kindness made me so glad that she’s MY friend, too.

Seven days after VST had passed, Oliver had a grooming appointment. I don’t remember all the details because widow’s fog has robbed me of so many memories. But, I do remember her sweet face as she took Ollie’s leash.

“Things are pretty rough, aren’t they?”

With a shake of my head, she gave me the best hug and told me how sorry she was. It was then I realized Sam not only loves dogs, she loves people too.

During Ollie’s two hour mutt fluff, I usually shop for groceries. Yesterday I changed things up and went bargain hunting, finding three classroom sweaters and two adorable dresses. A 1st grade teacher has to look as nice as her dog.

When I went to retrieve my furry little friend, I had to laugh. Around his neck was no kerchief this time. It was a scholarly silk bow-tie covered in colorful happy faces. Perfect for my little canine, the teacher’s dog. Sam is part of our family here in the high deserts where the winds blow kind people into our lives every day.

Remember people in your life that help every day. The smallest things you do for others can solve big worries. You’re a super-hero to many out there by just doing what you do. Have a beautiful Tuesday.

More tomorrow.

It’s all fun and games until someone signs a contract!

Such was the case after a long, productive Sunday. The day started out in a prayerful manner. My dad used to say that he found his week on Sunday morning. I didn’t truly understand that until I reached my 66th year. Yes, Dad. You can relax. I now find my week on Sunday morning at church.

Each Sunday, the Church Ladies connect Like magnets drawn to one another, the women of our Bible study group have bonded into a unit. What a beautiful thing, friendship. Especially between women. A magical sisterhood of caring and concern. These women have become my soft place to fall in the short time we’ve known each other. Each one of us has experienced profound loneliness and isolation. Through this group, we’ve found the other pieces of this puzzle we call home. It’s a precious gift.

One of the gals suggested that we share a meal at The Tee Pee Bar and Grill. Okay, throw a small casino in along with the Bar and Grill. My goodness, it’s Nevada. Casinos are everywhere. It’s always shocking to see slot machines at the front of the grocery store or service station. Although I’ve never seen any desperate housewives playing them, they are there for a reason.

Times have been tough for the TPB&G. The veteran waitresses left their posts for greener pastures. The customers, mainly an older generation, have stayed away. A once thriving 24-hour diner has become a 7:00-2:00 establishment, while the slot machines remain open 24/7. Going there made me wish like heck Miss Firecracker would have walked through the door to join us. We shared so many secrets, always drawing attention when shrieking with laugher leaking tears down our faces. We were two women finding their way through a widow’s wilderness in the Autumn of 2020. We made it to the otherside, Miss Firecracker!

Chatter. Chatter. Laughing. Chatter. With future plans for puppy play dates in place, in a flash our plates were clean and we were hugging out our Goodbye’s until Thursday.

Racing home, faster than the desert’s Zephyr Winds, I morphed from Church Lady into College Coed. I had an assignment to finish and my papers are never late. That’s not how I roll.

Oliver had his first experience with what will become his way of life. The laundry room and the doggie door. On the way home, I panicked a little that I would find my loveable little piece of lint laying in the back yard. Dehydrated. Steps from his freshly filled pool. Too hot to take a dip. Panting his last little doggie breath in the desert sun just steps away from the shade of the apricot tree. Little x’s over his little green eyes having just succumbed to the desert heat only minutes before the sound of the garage door opening.

Not to worry. That little survivor didn’t even break a sweat. He had been inside enjoying the air conditioning. Happy as a clam to see his Mom-oh, I think he liked his time home alone. I’ll find the damage when the sun comes up later today.

Within a couple of hours, my assignment and the rest of my Sunday would be peaceful.

It was just that until 6:32PM when I received 10 emails all containing employment documents. Computer-generated forms. Last night, I promised to report all child abuse, safety infractions, bullying, and side-eyeing. I promised not to use my computer for outside activities such as shuffling funds to the Cayman Islands or other nefarious deeds. I was informed that Title IX was respected in the district. That there was no discrimination when I was hired. My direct deposits were directed and the government will now get a hefty portion of my check in the form of taxes. Twenty-eight forms in this batch, each one needing a cyber-signature from me.

The last and most important one signed was my contract. It’s now official. I am an employee again. My yard duty whistle will stop hallway runners in mid-stride. For 185 school days, I will again be Mrs. Hurt. Eyes-in-the-back-of-the-head-one-of-a-kind-loveable Mrs. Hurt. The one and only. I will watch a group full of littles grow up to read, write, and add with carrying. We’ll sing. We’ll laugh. And, then, we’ll all be tuckered out every night after long days of learning.

People are still in horror that I’d be willing to teach once again. I guess some people don’t have an intense love for something they do well. Writing and teaching provide inspiration in my life. I’m relevant again. I have a place to go in which profound and life changing things will happen every day. My group of students and I will form a bond over the year that will last a lifetime. Do you remember your 1st grade teacher? Mrs. Erickson was mine. All my teachers remain in my heart to this day. All dead and gone, they taught me critical elements of a successful life. In honor of them, I’m thrilled to return to the classroom.

I must leave you to finish my assignment. Proof reading is the last task. The paper is written in the proper style. The word count is correct. 2000 words+. 25% of my course work is now complete. This week, I’m tasked with creating a classroom Newsletter. Perfect, because that’s on my To-Do list for the school year.

Have a wonderful day! Do something you love. Love something you do. Find creativity. Enjoy a quiet moment in the day. Pet your dog or cat. Sit outside for a little while. Enjoy life. It’s beautiful.

More tomorrow.

There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under the heavens:

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance,

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

a time to search and a time to give up,

a time to keep and a time to throw away,

a time to tear and a time to mend,

a time to be silent and a time to speak,

a time to love and a time to hate,

a time for war and a time for peace.

What do workers gain from their toil? 

I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. 

He has made everything beautiful in its time.

He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. 

I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live. 

That each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil—this is the gift of God. 

_{Ecclesiastes 3:1-14The Holy Bible, New International Version® NIV®Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.®}

This morning, I woke to memories of the rhythm of the farm. Life was dictated by 16,000 100-year-old-vines. Old crones that cracked the whip. They broke tractors, discs, spirits, and bodies. The only thing bigger than their demands was God.

Every month, for 17 years, from the 1 – 4th, VST could truly rest while I irrigated. Think of planning your life from March until September without including the 1st – 4th. Just mark them off the calendar, even if the month happened to be July. It matter not, because you had to deal with acre feet of water, valves, gopher holes, and the heat.

It didn’t matter that two farmers had real jobs as a teacher and business executive. Nope. Irrigation reined supreme. For those for days, with a shovel in hand, every vine got a nice long drink. Forty acres isn’t the biggest patch of land in the world. However, when irrigating it all with at least 3″ of water, it can seem like half the world lays at your muddy irrigation boots. You need big hands, a big hat, lots of cold water, and patience.

At least twice a day, 4 came twice a day. 4AM and 4 PM. For two hours, up and down the dusty avenues I’d go, making notes on a chart that no one but another farmer would understand. More water on Row 72, flooding on Row 53. Whoops, forgot the shovel at Row 109. Man, it’s hot. We’ve got a gopher hole on Row 12. All this while the afternoon temperatures could be 105 or even higher.

The rhythm of the farm was woven through everything in our lives. You had to eat fast because there were only a few hours left of daylight. Or, you had to rest because it would be cooler at 7PM. When the grapes bloomed, you needed watch the weather closely, hoping that frost wouldn’t steal your crop away on a 30 degree night. The minutes of the day dictated that raisins needed harvesting on September 1st, because by September 15th the angle of the sun would be quite different and not good for drying the grapes.

Four times a year, scheduled crop payments arrived just before the rhythm of the creditors plucked the money away for services rendered in previous days. Yes. A time for everything and a season for everything under the heavens.

King Solomon was an amazing writer who penned Ecclesiastes 3 along with The Song of Solomon 2:10-13, from where came the inspiration for the name Winterpast. What a brilliant mind to leave such words for us all to ponder thousands of years later. His works are woven throughout the Bible sharing his very human side with mankind.

I miss the rhythm of the farm, woven into my soul for 52 years. Even though we sold the farm in 2007, a farm girl never loses her instincts and roots. Born on the farm from the rich soil, I grew and blossomed into a woman.

Whatever your activities for the day, remember your own season of your life. Embrace it. Many things lost along the way have been replaced with new wonders. Life is an amazing journey. As VST loved to reminded me, we can sleep when we’re dead.

More tomorrow.

My project started out on such a good note. It really did. Locks and hinges are now my specialty. Until last night. I found I can be the plumber, too. But let me start at the beginning of my evening.

It had been a long, hot desert day. I’ve been working on varied projects such as my college reading, written assignments, visits with new girlfriends, Bible study, and housework. It’d already been a long day.

As I usually do, I started a new list of all the projects I want to complete before returning to full time employment. Under white glove inspection, Winterpast is a dismal fail. There is dirt everywhere. When did this happen??? After returning to work, there’ll be a few weeks when my attentions will be needed elsewhere. So, I best utilize my time and complete those remaining projects.

I love projects that involve a single effort, not returning to become a project again. Like locks and hinges. Once and done. Beautiful results. Move on to the next. No extreme ladder work. Everything neat and tidy. Out with the old and in with the new.

After sitting on Main Street watching the cruisers until dusk last night, I came home to a minor problem. In my flurry of activity before I left the house, I’d forgotten that my sheets needed to dry before I could turn in for the night. No problem. While the sheets were drying, I’d just be-bop right into my bathroom and install locks and hinges on three doors. I wasn’t planning on including plumbing and woodworking into my evening chores.

The bathroom pantry door was a snap. Everything came together like it should. I got the package of lock and hinges opened without sliced off fingers. That’s an accomplishment right there. No fall from the ladder. The drill functioned properly. Proper door and latch alignment. With 35 minutes left in the drying cycle, I moved on to the privacy door for the toilet. It was there things started to go south.

Removing the middle hinge, it was obvious this door had some issues before I came along. In case you’ve never noticed, there are doors that are solid wood and there are doors that are not. Mine are not. This type of door is delicate and screw holes are easily stripped. In this situation, really long screws were needed. Three were provided should this problem arise. Problem solved.

If you’ve watched me move, you must’ve noticed one thing. I’m the first to admit it. I am painfully clumsy at the worst times. A true fumble fingers. I can drop just about anything. An important lesson was reinforced last night. When you are tired from a long day and you try to finish a project in a limited time, fumbling fingers can become a problem.

A package of hinges contain 15 screws. 12 of them are the ones most often used. Three of them are super long, in case your screws are stripped. That’s it. The exact amount of small black wood screws are included to secure your hinges. Lose one and YOU might become unhinged.

The opening in a bathroom sink is a gaping hole of unforgiveness.

#1. ALWAYS CLOSE THE SINK DRAIN OR AT LEAST PUT A TOWEL OVER THE OPENING.

As quick as I could say, “NO! NO! NO!”, my screw package was knocked into the sink. Four screws were gone. Four. One-half of a hinge-worth plus one.

No problem. My hubby taught me good. Opening the sink, I got to work loosening the trap. A J-trap collects everything heavy. There I would find my four screws. Sadly, it also takes time to get under the sink and mess with nastiness. After becoming a few minutes closer to clean, dry sheets, three of the screws were retrieved. The fourth will remain lost forever. You win some you lose some.

I smiled at a special memory of VST. When we first met, I had a plumbing issue in my bathroom at my little house in the barrio. He had a laughing fit because my J-trap was really made from a radiator hose. To me, it was no laughing matter. It worked. The important part of a J-trap is the shape not the material from which it’s made. He laughed about my J-trap for years to come. In the mean time, I learned a little about plumbing.

With the J-trap in my hand, I could hear the screws rattling around in the bottom. Into a large I carefully poured the disgusting liquid, retrieving the screws.

What do you do liquid you need to dispose? Pour it down the drain. Of course.

NO! NO! NO! NO!

Before the brain kicked in, I was now in cleanup mode, sopping up the disgusting liquid from the bottom of the open drain. Two disasters in a few minutes says it’s probably time to put away sharp tools and go to bed. I would’ve already been in bed asleep, but the drying cycle for the sheets wasn’t finished. Neither was I.

With the clean-up finished, my diversion into plumbing was finished. I just wanted to finish what I started and call it a night.

Getting up, not as spry as I was at 5 that morning, I reached for the open cabinet door to pull myself up. With a sigh and a snap, the hinge broke. NO! NO, NO, NO!!!!!!!! Add a few more words that a proper church lady just shouldn’t say. At that very moment, the clothes dryer chimed. Sadly, no bedtime for this bozo.

After close inspection of my hinge, I found it to be as filthy as many other parts of my house. Dust bunnies were living on top of it!!! Oh the horror of it all! After 20 minutes, the door was back on. “New cabinet hinges” earned a place on my Fix-It list.

My bathroom doors now have beautiful new locks and hinges. There is one cabinet door I don’t use anymore. If anyone touches that door, it will fall off in their hands. It won’t take me long. I’ll be the one.

Home projects. No matter the detours, I adore my home projects. It’s the reason I love owning a house. Always something interesting to fix or renew.

Check out your own hinges. There are so many working parts it will blow your mind. All of them can be fixed with a screw drive and a visit to You Tube. Carry on, and don’t use your cabinet doors as an assistive device when getting up off the floor. Better yet, avoid going under the sink.

More tomorrow.

There are some things so private and beautiful it take time to find the right way to tell the story. So exquisite that words couldn’t possible explain the impact on one’s heart. So healing that life has not choice but to turn and go on. I’ll tell you such a story now. I’ll only tell it once on this screen.

In the last two years, the most difficult decision of all remained to be made. It was mine to make and I didn’t want to get this one wrong. VST’s cremains had been sitting on the bookcase shelf for 25 months. Where would I release the last physical connection that said it all really happened? The first dance on a hot night. The romance. Our vows. The kids. The ranch. Our private mountain top at the gateway to Yosemite. 50,000 miles of laughter in the RV. Sailing. Virginia City. All of it.

To make such a decision took me two years, one month,and 12 days. Should he watch over the vines of the ranch, the beach at Bass Lake, or our beloved Pacific Ocean? Or should he remain in Virginia City, the place he loved as much as the others? I asked T and K. I questioned CC. Of course, no one could make that decision but me. I wrestled with this more than anyone knew, all the time being comforted for the beautiful blue urn that held nothing more than ashes. VST left us on April 8th. This would be the final formality.

The presence of the urn gave me strength on days that I really didn’t know if I could go on. I could talk to VST. Just outside my bedroom, he stood sentry allowing me to sleep soundly. All irrational and delusional thoughts of a widowed wife of 32 years. Someone grieving so deeply for her life’s true love. You’ll just need to trust me on that, those of you that didn’t know us. For those of you that did, you knew that before I wrote those words.

I’d just enjoyed the first meeting with new friends at Bible study and I was walking on clouds. In the morning, I had prayed so deeply for new friends. God granted me 20 of the best friends in town that morning, even defining the word friend on the hand out for that day. That day afternoon , a storm blew in. No rain or lightning, just wind. Ferocious wind.

Late that day, the urn caught my eye, and for the first time I KNEW where I was going and what I was to do. There was no second guessing, because the end of the final chapter flashed before my eyes. VST and I needed to go on one last ride together and I knew just the place we would go.

Wind. Quite possible my favorite force of nature. VST loved the Zephyr Winds of Virginia City, but I probably loved them more. So powerful and cleansing. One of God’s most powerful forces. Especially here on the desert. Wind carries us through life. It cools us on the hottest days. It’s a life force that awakens our senses. It’s wild and free just like the times VST and I enjoyed being feral parents. It’s force is awe-inspiring. It has a fierce voice as it roars along. It can also be a soft caress on the loneliest of days.

With deliberate steps, I got dressed and lovingly lifted VST’s urn off the shelf. A perfect outline would remain where his urn sat for so many months. The weight still shocked me. Dense. Compact. Heavy as a brick. Hard to believe that the 6’1″ man of flesh and bone could be reduced to twelve pounds of ash. Another reminder that, indeed, the time had come. It was right. It was now.

The late afternoon was the kind of desert day I write about all the time. Puffy white clouds racing across the biggest cobalt-blue sky. Strapping VST into the seat belt, I remember the last times we drove together, he only a week from death. Even on our last drive, he taught me about engaging the 4WD as we drove down the treacherous and unforgiving Geigher Grade towards medical news that would shatter our hearts. Today, there would be no driving instructions.

Behind Winterpast, wonderful gravel roads lead up the mountains toward God. The sweeping views look out towards Winterpast and hundreds of miles of high desert. Sentinels watching over us, these brown, barren mountains take the brunt of the wind. It would be to that force, to which I would release my sweet husband to go on his way.

Standing on the mountain top, I felt God’s grace, mercy, and love surround me as I held the urn tightly one last time. Not VST. Not VST. Not VST. In my mind, I kept repeating those words until my heart calmed and I caught my breath. Blowing sand was stinging my skin. My hair whipped. The intensity of the moment was just the perfect place for such a GoodBye. A physical manifestation of how cancer had ripped VST when nothing else ever would have.

The winds had slammed the door of the Jeep causing me to jump. Now, I was one lone woman saying Goodbye. It was the end of our physical connection on earth.

Releasing his ashes to the wind was the most beautiful experience I could’ve experienced with him. I released him to a force of nature, not to one particular place. Racing off towards adventure he left me. Traveling East to all the places that were our favorites. I’m sure part of him will linger, overlooking Winterpast and his one true love. The one with the bluest eyes that stole his heart on that beautiful September night so many moons ago.

I sobbed for a very long time crumbled in the dusty Zephyr winds of the desert I love so much. Comforting me, the wind covered me in bits of ash leading me back home to the loving walls of Winterpast. It was done.

VST had been released to a force of nature. What better words to describe a man among men? A true force of nature throughout his life, VST bulldozed through all of his life’s ups and downs. He lived life on his terms, even when the game changed. He chose happiness every day, and always found a way to share that with others. He aimed his arrow and hit the bulls-eye time and time again. A regular guy leaving brilliant memories when he left for heaven.

I can’t properly explain in words the amazing healing that occurred on that windy afternoon. Intense beauty cocooned our private Goodbye. The last time he would ever cradle me with his love and devotion. A beautiful healing occurred on that lonely mountain top. In that moment, God sang a lullaby to my grieving heart while he guided VST on his way.

Free.

We are both free.

Happy Birthday, VST. I’ll have an ice cream for you today. I’m sure you’re having one, too. Peanut Butter Chocolate. It wouldn’t be heaven without ice cream, right??

Love you more,

Mrs. H

Oh what a day I enjoyed yesterday! As July rolls on, broiling under the desert sun of July, my days are filled with more fun than any widow woman could hope for. These days, my phone rings and pings with the laughter and prayers from new friends. The Church Ladies. I have over 20 of the best women in town on my team now. Team Giggles and Grins.

It’s an amazing thing to receive an invitation to an event, because in this dusty little wide spot in the road, we don’t have many. We are a truck stop town. A place to pull off the interstate to gas up because it’s 30 cents cheaper than the next county. A place to get some fast food and keep going. A place two hours away from Tahoe and on the doorstep of Burning Man. That’s where I live. The high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. A place where the women are tougher than sun-scorched paint.

Yesterday was a special day for one such woman and her husband. It was the Grand Opening of their brand new employment agency. Nestled between the China Buffet and a small church, there’s a most beautiful office. Everything new. Inspirational signs on the walls. Fresh paint. New carpet. The freshest of hopes and dreams. It was their Grand Opening day.

With the promise of free food and a job, three of my Sisters in Christ and I showed up to meet them and celebrate. The mayor and his wife were there, along with city council men and women. They held an enormous pair of scissors and a roll of blue tape for the official announcement of the opening. It’s been awhile since I have been present for a ribbon cutting. We all did it desert style. There were no suits and ties. With temperatures of over 100, the parking lot was sweltering. Definitely casual attire.

Talking with the new owner, it was evident she is a business owner that has her sights set on success. She spoke of her desire to be an example of grit and determination to inspire her daughter and teach her that to get somewhere, sometimes you need to walk through the desert. At 14, the young girl was already answering phones and filing. A family working as a unit is sometimes invisible because they are in the background working. I’m sure there are far more of these units in our country than the daily news wants to recognize. I remember one such family that farmed grapes for 17 years. Mine.

The event was graced with the most amazing food. Churros. Now, if you have never had a fresh fried churro, then, you have never eaten a churro. They are the Mexican version of a funnel cake. A man named Jesus (pronounced HAY-soos) was deep frying a batter a little thicker than pancake batter. Squirting it into extremely hot oil, in minutes, the golden friend treats were dipped in cinnamon and sugar and left to cool. If you have ever had a freshly baked Krispie Cream donut, the texture was just like that, but with a crunch.

Even better, Jesus and his mom had the best smiles. They were genuinely happy to be helping make the event a celebration. Mom sat on the tailgate of the truck, quietly watching her son work his magic. He makes a living deep-frying churros for all kinds of events and he obviously loves Churros. Add it to a long list of carbohydrates that scream “This will make you gain 5 lbs. immediately, Joy”. A list of foods I must try to avoid. Carbohydrates. My dark addiction.

We had the best time enjoying the party with a business owner who was now our new friend. The mayor’s wife shared pictures of her 12th grandchild. The councilman that owns an office store in town talked with pride about his exceptional staff. In all, it was a parking lot party to remember.

Feeling the need to share more time together, the four of us decided we would drive to the home of Top Gun (yes the REAL Top Gun Naval Air Station) to get some Pho. Again, an ethnic food of another kind you may not have ever tried. Pho (pronounce “fuh”. Snap that off your tongue. Fuh. Fuh. Fuh. Kind of fun to say. Like FUN with no N). Pho is a Vietnamese broth based soup with meat and vegetables.

The 30 minute drive was filled with chatter about all kinds of things. Church Ladies don’t only discuss the Bible. Just normal gals that have lived us some life, we all have stories.

In the car sat a world traveled Hollywood executive who retired from that career and now runs the food pantry for our church. A retired Coca Cola executive who worked at a time when women hit their heads on the glass ceiling while men shattered it and went on up the ladder, sometimes by stepping on the heads of women they passed. A woman who has lived and worked from coast to coast of this great country learning about people, politics, and the ways of the world. And me. Four beautiful Women of Christ. Four of the best kind of friends. Heart friends.

The restaurant and staff were delightful. It was my first experience saying or even seeing a bowl of Pho. I do know one thing. It’s a super fun word to say. PHO. PHO. PHO. Especially for church ladies.

I got home after dark last night. Oliver was unimpressed, still in trouble after destroying my lone bell pepper plant. When will this dog grow up? Maybe never. That is the sad truth of the matter. I love his intelligence, but it gets him in trouble more often than not. Back to the leash and Doggie Manners 101. I know there is a great dog somewhere in there. I hope I live to see the adult side of him.

Go out and try some new foods today. Find some PHO or a fresh churro. Attend a Ribbon Cutting to help celebrate the efforts of a new business owner. Meet the mayor. Hug his wife.

Small town life. It doesn’t get better than this!

More tomorrow.