Author: Joy Hurt

Decorating for Christmas is something I love doing, but, I’ve reached my limit. This is the year my stash of Christmas decorations will be cut in half. There just isn’t enough room for all that I’ve collected over decades. Hard as it will be, I can no longer be the Christmas hoarder that I’ve become.

Living on the ranch, all the decorations were stored in my little basement. Dug by my Great Grandparents who building the house, the basement was a magically creepy little place. Very steep cement stairs led to a pull chain light bulb fixture on the ceiling. A 6.5′ ceiling made the 10 X10 ft. room feel very small. In the Central California summers, the room was a wonderful 65. On foggy winter days, a wonderful 65. Constant temperature. Consistently dark and creepy.

It was here my Christmas decorations lived 10.5 months out of 12. Year after year, the number of tubs increased, while the size of the little farm house remained at 1200 square feet. Upon our moved to the Mountain House, Christmas finally had its own closet. In DunMovin, Virginia, City, Christmas resided in an entire room. Now, Christmas has an empty RV barn. Enough is enough.

As I open each box, with excitement, it’s clear. I love Christmas and these boxes hold decades of memories. From the tiny little ornaments I bought for my first tree when I was only 20, to bigger pieces that VST bought for me throughout the year, these boxes hold all the stories of Christmas’ past. The Costco of long ago used to sell exquisite decorations of all kinds. Not cheap plastic or through away tinsel. These decorations were the kind handed down through generations. VST would see me gazing at my favorite and a few hours later, it would find a new place in our home. It was that way for years.

Discarding certain Christmas things are difficult because they’re no longer made. When did “unbreakable” Christmas ornaments become a thing? The beauty of a glass ornament was found in its fragility. Carefully wrapped and unwrapped each year, treasured ornaments held memories of days gone by. As a child, I needed to reach a certain age to handle my mom’s ornaments, lest one of Mom’s favorite might break. No. The glass ornaments will stay.

Maybe I should pass on the little porcelain town that VST bought me when we barely had enough pennies scraped together to finish paying for harvest? No. I think not. Although Winterpast has no great spot to display the town, maybe someday the rest home will. The little town will stay.

The music box with the moving skaters on top? No. The angels I painted when I was a young girl? No. Santa’s given to me as gifts from past students? Absolutely not. Lights that haven’t been hung for years due to my aversion to ladders? Well, some day they’ll be hung. Old Christmas bags? Needed. Fake Poinsettias? Lovely on the coffee table. The tiniest little creche and nativity scene? What?? I think not.

As the boxes are opened, items evaluated, and saved for another year, ten items are found that can go to Goodwill. Just ten. Out of hundreds. Some day the kids will have a field day with their major estate sale. For now, I have an empty RV barn that isn’t quite so empty anymore.

Take time for memories while decorating for Christmas. Don’t wait until the last minute. Christmas is a time of wonder and magic. A time to remember those that have gone before and all the wonderful Christmas’ shared. Christmas wishes do come true for those that believe. Happy decorating!!! More tomorrow.

CHOOSE HAPPINESS

In bold letters, these words hang above my kitchen curtains reminding me I do have a choice every single minute of every single day. I can choose to focus on nasty and vile people in the world, be they near or far, or simply focus on the happiness growing here within the walls of Winterpast. So much easier to drop the excess baggage and travel light.

T and K brighten my life with their brilliant spirits. Like beacons of hope and resilience, they reflect the best parts of VST, being his first born twins. They are intelligent, sensitive, and loyal people that I’m blessed to call my kids, even though they’d remind me, they’re no longer kids.

It seems T and I are experiencing similar external static in our daily lives. The devil never rests. Attending Bible Study last night at Baptist on Main, we spent time talking about the evils of gossip. Damaging and hurtful, gossip circles a small town like the wind with the source easily identified. One of my favorite sayings is this. “A truth told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent.”

Gossip becomes a wonderful game of phone tag. Remember the childhood game in which one child whispers a secret to the next? And so it goes around the room until “Jane chews gum” turns into “Fred went to the moon yesterday and was back by dinner.” Such is beauty shop gossip in this dusty little wide spot in the road. There are many loyal friends eager to report on the words of those with loose lips.

People forget that they have two ears and one mouth for a reason. Fools run their mouth because they have nothing better to do. Not caring whether they even know the parties involved, gossiping raises them to a level of personal credibility missing in their lives. Talking at full speed, they have no accomplishments of their own of which to speak. Truly unworthy fools identifiable as such the minute they open their mouths.

One other time in my life, such unwarranted gossip darkened my door almost causing me to give up my teaching career. An unstable parent wanted her cheerleading daughter to be with her cheerleading friends in another teacher’s class. Beginning the year with an unhappy parent is never a good thing and I was supportive of the move. The principal wasn’t. The parent decided the only way to get her way was to tarnish my teaching reputation.

This parent made the first month of the school year a living hell, hoping that anything she threw at me would stick. Sitting with other parents at after school activities, she would engage anyone and everyone in conversations about her perceptions of the evils of my classroom. As gossip does, it quickly came back to roost on my shoulders. As the days went on, I became more disillusioned with the teaching profession.

Finally, I went to a sage and seasoned teacher for advice. It was steller.

In life, the only authentic thing we own is our reputation, formed by others after viewing our actions over time. Some will elevate us to Saint status, others will have the opposite view. The truth, at any moment, is somewhere in the middle. All we can do is CHOOSE HAPPINESS and be true to our inner self. That will always lead to the best outcome.

Praying for T and myself last night, I found comfort. The road is long and pot-holed for the gossip. At some point, people turn to more interesting and intelligent conversation, leaving them with no one else to tell. A juicy story is only new once. Love and light always win the day, producing rays of happiness and contentment. Actions over time will produce an accurate representation of the person inside. Both good and bad actions.

If a gossip comes to you today, stop them in mid sentence. Without an audience, gossiping dies. There are so many positive subjects about which to converse, such as the lunar eclipse that will be visible over the United States tonight. Ask them if Jesus is their Lord and Savior. That will give them pause. Positive and constructive conversations leave people happy.

Yesterday was a beautiful morning to polish furniture and focus on Oliver. It was a grand afternoon to have a hot dog and chocolate milkshake at the local Hamburger Stand. It was an evening to sing praises to the Lord at Bible Study. It was a night to smile at the full moon knowing I’m a beautiful, intelligent, kind, and complete Child of God.

Some days you’re the windshield, some days your the bug. Some days your the windshield covered in bugs. Just get out the Windex, clean-up, and move on. Have a wonderful day while remembering to CHOOSE HAPPINESS.

Nights are the blackest on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. With only random street lights for guidance, driving through the darkness takes courage and a current Garmin. In some areas, Nevada is so dark it has claimed Dark Sky Designation. Massacre Rim is one of 12 International Dark Sky Sanctuaries in the world. Light pollution robs everyone of the beauty of the night sky. While definitely on my bucket list to go star gazing on a moonless night, last night wasn’t the night.

Baptist on Main is hosting the 8th Annual Christmas extravaganza. Last night, lady angels were gathering for the first planning meeting under the watchful eye of our Lady of Perpetual Light and Cookies (LPLC). The founder of the event, she is a bundle of love, light, and energy, all packaged in her tiny 91 year old body. She is the embodiment of the vision I have for myself. Her light guides so many in the church, as she marches on with her apron and whisk.

Every Sunday, LPLC not only brings freshly baked goodies for our Bible Study, but cooks an entire Sunday dinner for her large and beautiful family. She sews her own clothes, which are more beautiful than any designer. She always looks like she’s stepped off a fashion runway. But more than that, she always has time for a smile and hug, making everyone feel like they are the most special people in the world.

Not wanting to miss this meeting for anything, I started preparing at 4:00 PM. Men be damned, this would be my first social event with all my favorite prayer sisters. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. The minutes ticked on until it was 6:45 pm and out the door I went, into the night.

I very rarely venture into the night on my own. Bad things can become deadly. A flat tire. An unexpected horse. People lurking in the shadows. As I left the lighting of our neighborhood, the darkness surrounded me.

Into the darkness (Stars and Moonlight)

Dark all around me (Nothing but darkness)

Out of the window (Into the darkness)

Darkness and me. (_{Come From Away})

Making a right at the high school, I entered the small subdivision at the American Flag. Taking the first left, I was now immersed in total darkness. Street signs were unreadable. Most of the house numbers were not luminated. With cars parked on either side of the road, I was in unfamiliar territory. Inching along, it was evident. I was lost.

In my normal world, I would have scoped this out during the day. Things haven’t been quite normal, experiencing a little darkness in my own selfish little world. I didn’t do that ahead of time. I’d also managed to lose Lady of Perpetual Light and Cookies’ phone number. The meeting would start in 5 minutes. The me who is never late would be worse. A No Show.

After driving around the very dark neighborhood, I abandoned my plan and drove back home defeated and forlorn. This was a meeting I’d looked forward to from the moment it was announced. I’d need to catch up with assignments at the next one.

Pulling into the comfort of Winterpast, my phone rang. Was I coming? Oh No! Come back! We will wait outside for you! We’ll find you! Catch you! We have fresh baked cookies and love! We need you! My heart is so lucky to have found this group of angels that surround me. Humbled and ever so slightly humiliated, I drove back and found my family.

Sitting around the dinner table, a group of finer women were no where to be found. A party for 100. Sit down dinner, not buffet, served by the church youth. Tri-tip. Roasted Potatoes. Carrots. Green salad. Freshly baked rolls. Individually decorated tables. Homemade cakes and pies, seasoned with plenty of love and care. All because we are a family of Southern Baptist women, and that’s what we do.

Just like that, I was out of the darkness and into the light. I’ll be ironing the aprons, designing and decorating a table, and other yet-to-be-assigned tasks. Christmas Dinner at Baptist on Main. Come One, Come All. Out of the darkness, into the light. Bring your appetite. We’ll be sure to leave the lights on and wait for you.

Somedays life is as simple as a choice of Ice Cream or Liver and Onions. At 65, I know exactly which one could sustain me through life until the end.

Hint.

It isn’t L & O.

As a child, I was expected to finish everything on my plate. Praise to the Almighty that I had three older sisters that did the heavy lifting before me. Liver and Onions wasn’t a favorite of my mother’s, therefore, she only made it a couple of times that I can remember. As we all gagged, our looks of betrayal stabbed her heart and she accepted our opinions on the meal.

Ice Cream, on the other hand, was an adventure into yumminess. Summer Sunday’s often found my dad deciding it was time to make some homemade ice cream. Jumping into the back of his pick up truck, we bounced along pot-holed roads to the Ice House. Driving at 65, a mass of browned legs, golden hair, and giggles didn’t need seatbelts. No one ever died from flying out of a pickup truck in our world. We all made it to adulthood.

The Ice House, a mystery box as big as a building, stood waiting. On the outside, there was a rusty coin slot with a place for a quarter. To the right of that, a small-doggie-door-like opening was covered by a rubberized flap. Push one quarter in, a chunk of ice came flying through the door. Fascinating. The ice house never let us down.

A block of ice takes some chipping. With sharp picks, we would sit under the shade of the massive mulberry tree and chip away until the 18″x18″x18″ block was reduced to shards of ice. For years, Dad’s recipe for ice cream was his and his alone. Fresh eggs, milk, Eagle Brand condensed milk, sugar, and vanilla went into the mix, along with a few other secret ingredients. Into the canister he would pour the mix and the fun would begin.

The great thing about having lots of kids is that you have lots of energetic helpers to turn the crank on the ice cream maker. In my childhood, we wore out two ice cream makers that I can remember. Excited kids would wait their turn to show off their strength as they cranked away to the magic number of 100. No one wanted to crank at the end when the ice cream was so thick it was ready to provide us all with brain freezes. Dad would always finish the job showing off tanned arms and farmer muscles. Such fun memories of happy summer days growing up on the farm.

VST and I shared an intense love of ice cream. My personal favorite is Vanilla while his was Peanut Butter Chocolate. When days and nights of work on the ranch became too much, he would often suggest it was time for ice cream, and off we’d go. Just the two of us on an ice cream date, smudged with a little grease and a lot of tired.

Life these days has been Liver and Onions for me. Knowing my goals, while choosing my own unique direction in life, I’ve no time to move the Liver and Onions around on my plate to pretend I’m enjoying it. When a woman experiences things she can not tolerate, there is no need to waste another moment tolerating. Those that love Liver and Onions can order up. I’m sure restaurants never have a shortage. Ice cream, on the other hand, was sold out Sunday at Black Bear Diner. Everyone loves ice cream. Liver and Onions???? You be the judge on that one.

My life decisions these days are based on solid values, goals, and an functioning inner compass. Life isn’t always fair or fun. You don’t always get what you want. We can all strive to move on with grace and dignity and life will be good again. As for me, leave me to my ice cream and memories. Life with VST was a bowl of ice cream with a cherry on top. For that, I’m eternally grateful.

Corona Virus. Covid-19. Wu Flu. China Syndrome. Whatever you choose to call it, it’s real. Whether you’re lucky, like me, to have avoided it all together, or battled Covid personally, all our lives have been forever changed by this pandemic of fear. My little high desert town in Northwestern Nevada had been a safe haven in the early months of the virus. Lots of sunshine and fresh air. A small population. Not many restaurants or venues where the virus could spread. Very few cases. Until now.

Church. If you go, you know. My church family are close and huggable. Each week, we become better friends, clinging to each other for support. Something evil and horrible hit our church 14 days ago leaving everyone shaken in disbelief. The pastor almost lost his wife.

Two weeks ago, my world was different, too. Situations can change drastically in two weeks. Crossroads appear and paths change. Such is life, and so it goes.

Bible study at Baptist on Main rocks. Held four times a week, it’s fascinating to learn about history, stories, and life lessons. To say our Pastor holds fluid knowledge of the Word doesn’t even begin to cover it. He is a walking and talking Bible study, painting scripture into the most marvelous verbal murals. Miss “Let-Us-Pray (Miss LUP)” teaches two of the classes. In her 70’s, she shares life lesson’s from a widowed woman’s point of view. All fulfilling and just what I need that this time in my life.

Two Sunday’s ago, the usual’s weren’t at Bible Study. When Pastor C came in, he was very, very ill. A greyish-red skin tone. Sick beyond sick. He and at least ten others had gotten Covid. The entire choir was wiped out. Miss LUP was down for the count. In fact, so many were sick, the church doors were locked. All services were canceled for the week.

For the last two weeks, our church has been praying for the pastor’s wife. Complications led to hospitalization. Do-Not-Resuscitate hospitalization leaving our Pastor for 12 hour vigils at his wife’s bedside. Deep in his own silence, he found himself praying in a way only a loving husband or wife can understand. Begging for a healing he also accepted that God might have other plans.

For days his nightmare continued until he finally prayed for God’s will to be done. His wife started to recover. Each day, she works at finding her way back to health, but healing is slow. Other recovering members have also returned to their activities. Some members are slow to return to normal, while none of us are quite the same as we were just two weeks ago.

Yesterday, we celebrated the return of our beloved Pastor. Tears fell as he personally chose hymns declaring heartful devotion, gratitude and praise for our God. His sermon held a heartfelt story of a hospital nightmare personal and raw. A recovery slow, painful, and yet so very beautiful. What a blessing and testament to faith, trust, and mercy of our God. Their love story brought back back memories of my life with VST. Through God’s grace, memories are such a comfort to this grieving gardener.

Some things have died in the past two weeks. But, hope, faith, trust, and love are alive and well. Time heals all wounds. Please prayer for our Pastor’s wife. She is a beautiful and courageous woman. Pray for our church. Our community. Our world. Prayer is a silent yet most powerful healer.

There are a multitude of benefits to living alone. Not that this was my first choice, nor would it ever be. But, it is what it is and it ‘aint so bad. One of the nicest parts is that when I choose, I can live in silence. No blaring radio polluting my life with static. No television advertising new drugs that will surely kill you by next week. Just quiet silence in which to reflect on the last days of my 65 year.

VST always needed background noise. Heaven knows, his brain was a busy place. Trying to find the perfect balance between his visions and ability to create them, he needed news and westerns to complete the circuitry in his busy brain. In his last days, soft music provide lift to his angel wings, leaving only sweet memories behind.

One of the perks of being old is the memories that keep us company. Better than any movie or hit novel, memories come and go, reminding me of adventures, accomplishments, and loves along my way. Farm life. My first kiss at 13. Puppies. Lessons learned. Graduations. Births. Children. Teaching. Writing. Deaths. Whether I’m seeking high drama or intense romance, I only need to remember details of my life. It’s all there for my amusement.

Silence allows my other senses to alert me to tackle needed chores around the house. Smells from the refrigerator tell me it’s time for a deep cleaning. Seeing dust bunnies under the bar stools, vacuuming is on the list for this week. Feeling my bangs below my eyebrows reminds me of my 12:30 appointment today to restyle my hair. My inner thoughts finally have a chance to be heard.

A garden grows best while listening to the stories of the birds as the wind whistles its tunes through the leaves. No stomping and tromping of children. No barking and digging of little dogs that cause havoc. No BBQing-boasters telling tall tales. Just quiet peace. The gardens of Winterpast and I have a lot in common.

Autumn is the perfect time for quiet reflection on the past months. As the days go by, I keep waiting for the moment when the last word on widowhood will be written. It only becomes more complex and colorful. Some days the colors are intensely vibrant and rich with possibilities. Other days, the colors are as dark and ominous as those in the desert skies awaiting the coming storm. But always, through the lens of widowhood, my world has changed.

As I ponder these things, I need a few days of silence for reflection. I will return on Monday with tales from the high desert of Northwestern Nevada. Take some time for personal reflection. Enjoy the silence.

Life is a series of hard choices. As a perfectionist, I’m always looking for the right one, while second guessing myself along the way. Funny, there are probably at least 100 correct paths in any given situation. It seems lately, I’ve been choosing the dark and unlit paths, taking life two steps at a time to get through the darkness. That can set a girl up for a few stumbles.

A new path through Widow’s Wilderness always looks fresh and lovely when starting out. Just a welcoming break in the dense forest, looking inviting and safe. It seems the minute you get off a known path, the pebbles turn to rocks and, pretty soon, the low hanging branches scratch your face a bit. Before long, you realize it wasn’t a path at all, but a dead end. Life can be that way.

Needing to laugh at myself a little, I can relate to a video on You Tube. You may want to look this one up. Simply called “The Backing Up Song”, it’s taken from an interview with a woman that survived a robbery and shooting at a liquor store. The lyrics tell her story. After a great television interview, her words were auto-tuned into a clever song. Today, she sings to me. Be sure to look this one up for a chuckle. Thank goodness this sweet woman was okay.

The Backin’ Up Song _{Original by The Gregory Brothers and a Kansas City Woman.}

I’m backin’ up, backin’ up, backin’ up, backin’ up,

‘Cause my Daddy taught me good

I’m backin’ the hell outta there

And I’m like, “Oh My God”. Oh My God, My God”.

I’m backin’ up, backin’ up, backin’ up, backin’ up

‘Cause my daddy taught me good.

And I think maybe I should faint.

But I don’t. (NO.)

My daddy taught me goooood.

Sometimes it’s just necessary to drop to our little knees and back up out of what ever situation we find unhealthy, unpleasant, disrespectful, or beneath our status in life. That could be something as simple as the choice of a movie, or something far more complex. The key is to know when to drop to your little knees and back it on out.

One year ago, I was in the wilderness of my first year of widowhood. The terrain has certainly cleared with less days of dense fog. But, I’m far from out of the woods. I can see more clearly with each step away from April 8, 2020. Looking forward to a cozy holiday season, I’m lucky I can back it up right into Winterpast to reflect and continue to heal.

As widows, our most important duty is to give ourselves time, space, self love, and emotional support. Somedays, just rest in faith. Always, we need to find humor in our mistaken paths, and keep on moving forward. The world will keep spinning, even if it gets dark before dinner.

From the bottom of my heart, I thank MY daddy for teaching me good.

Enjoy today.

To all the Veteran’s out there, Happy Veteran’s Day Week!! I hope you are celebrated with kindness and love. You sacrificed your youth for our safety and well being. Last night, in a little town East of me, we celebrated a group of heroes in a most wonderful way.

American small town living is something very special. When there is a celebration, the town’s folk know just how to do it up right. Last night, Veteran’s and their guests were invited to attend a dinner in their honor at a local golf course. Every seat was taken. The Veteran’s received their plated dinners at no cost. There were gifts for each one. The room was awash with red, white, and blue.

Everyone was dressed in their “Sunday-Go-To-Meet-n'” clothes. Beer and wine were provided at no charge. After finding a table, I started to make small talk with the kindest woman sitting next to me. She looked familiar. Her father was a 92 year old Marine Veteran who served in the Korean War. As we talked, she was so soft spoken and sweet, I was drawn to her even more. After talking a bit more, we discovered why.

It turns out she was the School Nurse, Miss Camille, from the last school at which I taught. The world is a funny place. I was supposed to sit on the seat right next to her. On the coldest of nights, finding myself in desperate need of a hug from an old friend, I became one of my 5th graders discussing private issues with the sweet school nurse. She was a welcome bit of warmth on a very cold desert night.

While catching up, uniformed men were talking quietly to her father. It seemed he was the oldest Marine at the dinner. Would he help with a ceremony after dinner? He agreed.

Taken from the program…

MARINE CAKE CUTTING CEREMONY

“Traditionally, regardless of location, Marines pause to observe the Marine’s birthday by sharing a cake and, usually, a holiday meal. A sword is used to cut the cake as a reminder that they are a band of warriors committed to carrying the sword so our nation may live in peace.

The first piece of cake is presented to the Guest of Honor. The second piece is presented to the oldest Marine in the command, signifying the honor and respect accorded to experience and seniority.

Symbolically, the eldest Marine present passes a piece of cake to the youngest Marine present, just as for years, experienced Marines have nurtured and led young Marines that will fill our ranks and renew our corps.

Although not all were Marines, they were all veterans who served and fought in wars past. This ceremony is held as a reminder that we, as a community, will never forget the sacrifices given for us to have the freedoms we enjoy today.”

Before dinner, I happened to spy another delightful person from my past. Teacher Gal taught 6th Grade in the room next to me for a year. We helped each other along the way. She was my Secret Santa Pal. It was the year she found out she had cancer. She was there that night in honor of her husband’s service. It was wonderful to exchange hugs and plan lunch in the near future. Just like that, two more girlfriends anchored me to the desert I love so much.

After dinner it was time for the cake cutting ceremony. With help, my heroic table mate made it to the front of the room. With more help, the cake was cut with a beautiful sword. The youngest Marine at the event was 22 years old. There they stood, the 92 year older and the 23 year younger, enjoying a cake layered in red, white, and blue. Everyone cried.

The dinner was a time to honor those humble men and women that’ve served our great country. Amazing citizens with even more amazing stories, we’re blessed that they were brave enough to serve and protect.

This week, thank a Veteran. Remember, freedom isn’t free, but comes at a very high price.

Good Morning,

Twice a year, bewildered and befuddled, I try to remember how to change my clocks and get to where I’m going at the correct time. This year is no different.

I’ll be back tomorrow with the latest.

Joy

Winter is coming

An hour repeat.

Gain one hour of shut-eye

Propping up our feet.

Change the clock on the stove

Change the clock, microwaving

Change the clock on the mantle,

Changing clocks, you’ll be slaving.

On your own, you. Go quick or go slow

Directions without? That’s a yes or a no!

Now sun on the street, shines at 7AM

You check this clock and that

Trying not to forget ’em.

On your own, you. You go quick or go slow

Directions without? It’s a yes or a no.

With the speed of a youngster

To this room and that,

You flit here and there

Time not for chit-chat.

And you may not find any

In some certain rooms,

No clocks in the shower

Nor next to perfume.

Time goes slowly on this very dark morn,

What was 8 is now 7.

It makes you forlorn.

Hungry for lunch, you certainly feel

Because 11 was noon yesterday,

Making you squeal.

The day is off kilter,

It brings up a frown,

You feel sort of angry,

A little bit down.

But finally, each clock,

On this dreary slow day,

Is now showing time right,

Or that’s what they say.

You sit down and ponder

Smiling broad and sincere,

You did it, you did it,

Without any fear.

No directions were needed

To set your world straight.

Six used to be seven

And seven used to be eight.

Don’t race ahead,

You’re right on the money.

What?

It’s bedtime already?

Time change is quite funny.

To bed in the night.

Eyes look through lashes,

My brain says, “Oh Heaven’s.

Where are my glasses?”

A book I will read,

Time change is the worst.

Changing the clocks,

The whole thing is cursed.

For listening to my tale

I thank you, so much.

Writing ’till next spring

We’ll stay in touch.

Thank you, Dr. Seuss, for introducing me to words and helping me learn to read. J