Author: Joy Hurt

As a young woman, I did something that startled everyone I knew. I married as a mere girl of 21, and left on a plane headed from Russia. No, I’m not Russian, but a Volga German American. My Great Grandfather spoke very little English, remembering his boyhood along the Volga River in Russia. Born in central California in the mid-1900’s, I grew up three hours away from anything fun (including, but not limited to the mountains, desert, beaches, big cities, or Disneyland). Being a California girl, and blonde on top of that, common sense didn’t start to develop until later in life. I was a clueless child in the spring of 1977.

The bloke I married wasn’t Russian either, and also quite clueless. A city boy on a mission to learn something in college. On a job board during our Senior year in college, there was an interesting posting.

“Needed. One Agronomist. Tiraspol, Moldavia. Please apply.”

He did, accepting the job as long as his new bride could come along. That would be me. Arm candy on a foreign adventure. Why I accepted, I can’t begin to explain. I had nothing better to do. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Not accepting the position until the last minute, I received all necessary inoculations in one setting at the health department. A horrible two days followed, bedridden with the room literally spinning around me. Fever. Sweats. Chills. I think malaria, cholera, typhus, typhoid, liberalism, swine flu, bird flu, or Wu-Flu would have been preferable. In a matter of weeks, I was a college graduate, a new bride, fully inoculated, and off to the USSR.

With a ring on my finger and bells on my toes, I arrived in Tiraspol, Moldavia in May, 1977. Not speaking the language didn’t really matter, because the only person I knew there spoke English, although, we often didn’t speak the same dialect. For six months, I lived in a special hell that is communism. For anyone with a free will and intelligence, shear torture with no answers as to why things were as messed up as they were. The local “sheeple” didn’t know any better or different. I wasn’t about to point out how degrading and awful their life was.

Bibles were secreted deep under mattresses. Churches were boarded up. Elections had a single hand-chosen candidate who always won. Children didn’t smile or play. Adults were weathered and worn, with any hope or spirit beat out of them long before I came on the scene. Proper flush toilets were non-existent. Everyone walked in lock step to the beat of communism. If you didn’t….. Well….. Rest assured, everyone did.

I wore my daisy dukes and halter top to the beach. A little golden fish in a very small bowl. I was physically followed, watched with binoculars, taped, and documented. Hand written letters home were returned, edited by those in charge if stories were too sensitive or unflattering to The State. As I watched communist life grind around me, I knew one thing. America was a very special place I’d never again take for granted.

Our escape began in 2:00 AM darkness one early November night. We weren’t only fleeing communism, but the horrible American boss who ran our lives ragged for the six months we worked there. Risking jail, or worse, we lied and cheated our way to Moscow and eventually out of the USSR. Desperately trying to return to the country we loved so much, we would’ve told any story to get us to safety. We did, and it worked. Take a look on a map. There’s quite a story about two people who made it from Tiraspol, Moldavia to Moscow, Russia, with only a bottle of gin and a box of Juicy Fruit gum with which to barter.

Forty four years later, I wonder how in the world Socialism is even a discussion in this country. If it is your cup of tea, I have a little bit of advice. Take six months out of your life and go live in Russia. Not in the Potemkin village called Moscow. Go live off the beaten track. Try an outhouse on for size. Maybe a cistern well. Tote your own water, bucket by bucket. Try a horse and wagon on for size. Starve a little. Enjoy a room with no heat during bone-chilling cold. I did all those things. It gave me a perfect view of how lucky we are here in the United States of America.

I remember a reoccurring dream I had during the summer that Elvis Presley died. In my sleep, I strolled through aisle after aisle of the local Safeway. Every shelf was filled to the brim with all kinds of delicacies such as pasta, bottled spaghetti sauce, cheese, milk, rice, bread, lemons, and maggot-free meat. Delicacies not available to starving locals where I lived. Night after night, I’d dream this to be true. In the morning, the one grocery store was still there, stocked to the rafters with one product. Canned peas. Oily, grey, canned peas. Aisle after Aisle. Shelf after shelf. An entire grocery store filled with cans of oily, grey, peas.

We are so blessed with everything our heart desires here in the USA. An abundance of choices. Visiting Walmart last week, I found lots and lots of empty shelves. Let’s hope that soon, our way of life returns. That the shelves fill up with choices of the many different products we’ve become used to. Let’s hope we continue to embrace our American traditions, and, again, enjoy the holidays as a nation. We need to bring happiness back to Who-ville, because, we are the very Who’s that can do it.

Sorry for my ramblings. But, then again, not sorry. In my real world experience, I experienced it all first hand. Socialism and Communism don’t work. Just ask those immigrants streaming over our borders. They know a thing or two, as well.

Checking earthly activities from heaven, I hope VST sees an earthbound constellation of glowing happiness while finding me in the center. My constellation is called “The Writer”, featuring me at my computer screen surrounded by stacks of books. Oliver shines brightly as a golden star at my feet, giving me inspiration to carry on. WP and all my sweet friends and family sparkling with kindness and love.

Everyone has their own sphere of influence here on earth. Choosing happiness or misery we carry on, day after day. Kindness makes every life twinkle. Those on the receiving end feel it. It energizes those that give it. Nothing could be worse than hiding our God-given gifts, positivity definitely being one. The world would benefit from emotional intelligence right now. Sadly, many people are unaware it even exists or the benefits of accessing it once in awhile.

As a widow, I plan to shine brightly, sending the best kinds of signals to the heavens. VST, I’m using my own wings as my words set me in flight. I’m finding strength to be bold, graceful, and hopeful. In your honor, I soar higher than I ever dreamed possible. I can sleep when I’m dead, VST. Just like we always said, Right?

Of course, with any constellation, many stars are needed to create this picture. From the very first day I was alone, the stars came out to shine. From hospice support to Ninja Neighbor. Winterpast. All the “Ya Don‘t Know who loves you ’till you do’s”. Strangers who smiled and offered a hug, becoming friends. My wonderful church family. New friends who made a difference in my life along the way. WP making a difference in my life now. CC. Da Girl. New star fusion even brought a most beloved D.O. back into my life. They’re all part of my earthly constellation creating the beautiful life I now enjoy.

As a writer, I hope my words are lighting the world on fire, one person at a time. Wondering how my words even matter, I’m still drawn to my computer at 4:30 every morning. As the words tumble onto the screen, I want them to be words that I’d like to hear. Something that would make me smile if I read it. Heaven knows, there’s enough sadness in this world to cover it with clouds a mile thick. Positivity is the wind that can clear those away.

People tell me I’m intelligent, cool, street smart, intuitive, independent, funny, sweet, accomplished, a bitch, a writer, bold, outrageous, fierce, self-assured, smart, a traveler, sensitive, brave, a gardener, persistent, faithful, loyal, a Christian, sincere, honest, loving, kind, helpful, observant, artistic, insightful, mechanical, mindful, obsessive, aware, creative, centered, playful, beautiful, soulful, spiritual, empathetic, sympathetic, self-aware, patient, exuberant, electric, demanding, exploding, authentic, observant, inventive, organized, and responsible. I wish I truly felt I was any of these things.

Most days, I’m unsure, scared, sad, lonely, and frail. Widowhood persists, rather like tinnitus. It never goes away, and so we learn to live with it. To make it through, I write.

Brand new to teaching in 1996, it was the first day of school. With my brand new designer outfit, shiny leather flats, fresh haircut, and perfect makeup, I drove 45 minutes towards the first day of my career. VST hugged me before I went out the door that day. His words were perfect.

“Remember this, Darlin’. Fake it, ’til you make it.”

I figured the kids would sniff out a fake right away. To my surprise, there was an inspirational teacher packed inside, enjoying the same wonder and energy held by my little students. I didn’t need to fake it at all. It was already there, waiting to be used.

I hope when VST sees my constellation, it makes him smile. Soon, he’ll be watching me at book signings and someday, maybe help me through a TED talk. Why not? This chickadee has plenty to say. I wave to the heavens some days as I write. Not knowing how these things work, I hope my constellation can be fluid. I hope he see’s me smiling. It’s in your honor I do this, VST. But then, you already know.

Today will be a cozy kind of desert day perfect for finishing fall cleaning. Beginning to decorate for Christmas on November 1, a fresh house always makes the chore more fun. The desert winds have been churning up the dust, blanketing everything in my house. Some time has passed since I’ve seriously dusted. It’s hard to believe one lone person and a tiny little dog can make such a mess. But, we do.

Oliver has been on his best behavior since coming home from puppy camp. Eager to pick him up, I left really early on Monday morning. A beautiful drive through the desert always leaves me inspired. Autumn is breathtaking, with sunshine helping to paint the mountains in different shades of beautiful. Shadows and lights produce the most unusual colors, even purple and blue, at times. The drive always takes an hour, no matter how much I try to shave off minutes.

When I arrived, the young lady at the door greeted me by telling the most interesting story about my furry little friend. It seems that Oliver made a special friend while at Puppy Camp. A little male Cocker Spaniel. I was so pleased to hear about his interaction with a new little buddy. Oliver gets lonely here with only me, clinking away on my keyboard. I know the interactions at the kennel are important for his mental health.

It seems the little Cocker Spaniel and Oliver had the jolliest of times playing. Running. Fetching. Jumping. Barking. Humping.

Wait.

She couldn’t really have told me “humping”. It just wouldn’t have been the thing to say to a proper senior citizen dog owner.

“Say What?” I asked in a hushed tone.

“Yes. The two of them just humped and humped and humped. We all thought it was so cute. They had great fun together.”

“Swell.”

There are some things that make a dog owner really happy when picking up their dog. They ate all their food. They didn’t poop or pee in the wrong places. They didn’t bite anyone. Humping is not on my list of happiness. Not something I would’ve thought to add.

As she walked away to retrieve Oliver from his run, her last comment took the cake.

“Gay Doggie Love. Such a wonderful thing!”

Some days there are just no words for how much I don’t belong in this world anymore.

Oliver and I had a quiet ride home. Since returning, he hasn’t found a need to hump anything in my presence. I’m quite happy about that. I wish I could unhear the little love report on my dog’s vacation behavior. I hope words of his reputation don’t get around. My little country town is just a wide spot in the road. I can only imagine the talk about town if this gets out.

Have a great day. Just remember. When going to the kennel to pick up your dog, you don’t want to know everything. What happens at Puppy Day Camp stays at Puppy Day Camp. It’s better that way.

Why is it that men seem to know everything about everything? Like little predictors of disaster, they chime in when they know something bad is about to happen. When will I ever learn that I should just smile, nod, and take note. If I had, I wouldn’t have experienced the inconvenience of a broken garage door.

Leaving for any trip is hectic, even under the best circumstances. The beach trip was no different. Days before, I was running around taking care of last minute details. Buying this. Packing that. Like a squirrel readying itself for winter. A very organized and prepared squirrel that could have survived many “What If’s?” due to proper planning. It was on my last afternoon at home that I opened the wrong garage door.

Now, if you are not familiar with garage door openers, I’ll explain. You push a button, the door is lifted up. You push the same button again, the door goes down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Just like it should. The problem was that I pushed Door #2 to open it, when I really wanted Door #1. Half way up, I pushed Door #2 again, in mid cycle. There was a terrible crunching noise, and then something that sounded like “rat tat tat tat tat”. Just like that, the chain was drooping. The broken opener worked no more.

The door, now in the down position, had trapped my little Jeep Wrangler inside leaving me with a bit of a problem on my hands. Moving the pickup out of the way and into the RV barn, I maneuvered the Jeep in a back and forth motion and managed to turn it around in my garage for a quick escape. Rather incredible, if I do say so myself. It would have been more incredible if I wouldn’t have broken it in the first place.

Days before, a similar thing had happened. VST once advised me that one should NEVER stop a garage door in mid-movement. I’m quite sure I’ve done that very thing many many times before in my 65 years of life. It would be after ignoring this little bit of advice that my opener would actually break. The angel’s of Man-Knowledge were watching. Laughing hilariously at the little woman, they went into action. Pretty sure that’s how these things work.

Situations like this led me to choose the acronym “QDS”. As women, we all have those moments when our male friends tell us something we find unbelievably impossible. We disregard their advice. In the end, things goes awry. We are left needing a pink baseball cap embroidered with the letters “QDS” . This, of course, stands for “Queen Dumb S#%$”.

I surely felt that way with the garage door chain hanging sad and low over my head. In reality, the door opener was 16 years old and original to the house. I’m sure other female owners had done the same thing with no terrible outcome. In my case, I wasn’t so lucky.

I’d resigned myself to the fact that I’d need to buy another and have it installed. Not cheap or something anyone would want to spend money on. Explaining this to Daughter K, she so brilliantly reminded me that I have a home warranty. Again, another QDS moment. Of course. The policy that didn’t help with the Air Conditioner this summer owed me some help.

With a simple call, I received a claim number and quicker than a cricket, Master Technician Raymond flew to my aide to replace the broken unit. He did look at me when he saw the chain. He knew. “Ahhhhhh. Hmmmm. You broke your sprocket.” I could tell he knew exactly what I’d done, but held his tongue. In the worst way, he wanted to say, “You know, you should never hit the button when the opener is moving.” Such a guy. He just went to work to replace the unit.

Home warranties. Don’t forget about the benefit to having one. For small appliances and quick fixes they work great. Just don’t expect them to replace your broken AC unit. Probably won’t happen in a hundred lifetimes.

The next time a gentleman advises you of something important, give careful consideration to his words. Men do seem to know everything about everything. Darn it all, anyway.

Adventure is truly a state of mind. My bestie, CC, and I were discussing this yesterday. So many places to see. So many things yet experienced. Every new day holds opportunities that’ll be seized or missed. Each day, you’re the most beautiful you’ll ever be in your life. The boldest and strongest version of you. Each minute wasted is a true tragedy and irreplaceable loss.

Reflecting on the last chapter of my life, I realize how many days were spent in limbo. Waiting. Wishing. Sleeping at the wheel. Missed chances to make choices about my authentic life. Focused on that now, it’s never been more clear that, each day, I have one less. With all the craziness in our world, there are fewer choices available. Freedoms and opportunities evaporate before our eyes. The time is now.

I’ve promised myself I’ll never settle for less than I deserve in this, the last chapter of my life. This isn’t in reference to acquiring more belongings or new things. A shroud has no pockets. Truer words were never spoken. Memory-making experiences are the most important. Often, I’ve settled for situations that were less than what they could have been. Dreams were put on hold, setting them on the back burner for a later time. Now it’s time to embrace my authentic life.

Widowhood has been a journey through the strangest land. There are days in which I wake up and wonder just how I’ve arrived in the place I now find myself. There are other days I awaken to remember every pitfall or steep precipice so severe I thought I’d surely fall to my death. Through it all, the most important thing has been to be true to myself. For, in the final analysis, the life we create depends the paths we take.

In my notebook, with a cup of coffee in hand, I notice things while traveling through my days and weeks. Reading last year’s journal, I see how far I’ve come, thanking fellow travelers that have made my journey enjoyable to this point. I’ve discovered so many unexpected things. Changes made in a neighboring towns. New roads. New businesses opened. Familiar businesses shuttered. Friends have quietly passed on. Through it all, I’ve loved the experiences. As the months have passed, I’ve embraced the most meaningful time in my life.

Last week, while watching a movie, the dearest friend called me. We worked together at the Children’s Hospital teaching kiddos with severe challenges. Through the hardest of days, we helped so many children fight through serious illnesses, while growing together as women. Moving and life had gotten in the way and we hadn’t spoken for over six years.

It just so happened that she had a terrible nightmare about the two of us at the hospital. In a frightening situation, we hid and held each other. It was such a scary dream, she started to look for me online. It was then, she found VST’s obituary. She hadn’t heard. Her heart was breaking for me.

While talking about life on the phone, she was relieved to find me alive and well. Happy and healthy. Reassuring her that life and my journey were fulfilling, I realized how far I’ve come. I know who I am. I know why I am alive. I have purpose and a reason for the life I’m still living. I have a lot to say. A lot of good to do in my final chapter. In a moment of sheer happiness, I found the right words as laughter and memories were shared on that lovely phone call.

When I quiet my heart, there are so many new parts of me that want to speak. I need to listen to them, considering new possibilities. Breaking through road blocks that have held me back, I need to push on and get as much out of life as possible. That is what I intend to do as I create the newest version of myself, rough and ragged though it is at the moment.

Identifying goals, I intend to reach every one of them. They say the sky in the limit. Why there? The truth is, heaven is the limit. Who knows? Perhaps we can soar even higher than that. Choose your dreams carefully and make a plan to get there. Envision what your perfect life will be and move towards it one step at a time. Pretty soon, you’ll have traveled through more adventures than you ever thought you ever could. No need to judge whether it was far enough. Just moving towards your dreams is what life is all about.

Remember this. We all shine in our own ways. If it’s meant to be, it’s up to me. And You! Have a wonderful day.

Chilly mornings are upon us here in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada. The leaves continue to float by Winterpast. The nice thing about high desert winds is that they blow my leaves to someone else’s yard, or beyond. With such low humidity, the leaves are brittle and light. Off they go with the blow.

Winterizing is a guessing game. The temps are fluctuating, day by day. Today may be a sweatshirt and jeans day in the morning and shorts and t-shirt day in the afternoon. If you don’t like the weather now, wait an hour. Collecting up the yard art, each piece reminds me of something special that has happened since I have lived here. A crazy little red neck boy was my first housewarming gift. Relieving himself on my tree, his head is crimped backward with an impish grin. This was a special gift from T and K, before the sale was even complete.

Windchimes no longer clang in the autumn winds. Buddha will take a ride back into the RV barn for safe keeping. Many years he sat outside through all kinds of weather. Made of concrete, he’s showing his age. I wouldn’t want him to loose lips or an ear, or something more vital. There might be bad karma in that.

Slowly, a few pieces at a time, the garden furniture will be moved inside. Pots need to be emptied and put in the shed. Tools need to be washed off and stowed. My outdoor enjoyment will be limited to enjoying the fire pit and hot tub soaking. Soon, Winterpast will be ready for the first snow.

The gardener came over a couple of weeks ago to turn off the water for winterization. For all of you warm weather readers, in cold country, this is something that must be done at the critical time before the first frost. The reverse process happens in the spring after the last frost. Hoping the temperatures will continue to decline, we made the right decision. A slow dance of valves and drains. If the system is left charged with water, a gardener can expect to find burst pipes in the spring. Never a fun thing.

As I was walking around the yard, I was pleasantly surprised by more bushes that I hadn’t met yet. Floral blooms on three of them showed me that my watering system hadn’t worked last year, but has been working this year. Next year, I plan to fertilize the entire yard for brilliant greenery and blooms all year.

With hoses stowed and hose bibs wrapped, autumn can turn off the heat and start chill-in’. The hot tub has been serviced, with filters cleaned and ready for duty. Firewood is stacked and cozy is in the air.

The last chore of the year involves heavy pruning of my wild and wonderful tree. Along the back fence, this isn’t the most popular tree, but, such is life. It volunteered many years ago, growing to be the beauty it is today. No one cuts down a mature tree in the desert. No one. Especially not me. Besides, it glows on the gloomiest of days in the winter.

Being self sufficient is one of the things most important to me. I keep my cars in tip-top shape. With new tires and fresh oil, they’re ready for treacherous driving in the snows to come. Looking forward to one more journey through Yosemite while traveling west, wiper blades are new. You never know about freak storms in Autumn. Yosemite is the first to get random dustings of snow.

I plan to check expiration dates in my pantry and stock up. In the high desert, storms can come out of nowhere. VST and I chose Winterpast because the town normally gets very little precipitation throughout the year. I think we made up for that last winter, having many heavy snowstorms. I plan to use those days to write my heart out, watch old movies, and make soup.

Enjoy autumn. Try some new recipes. Watch the Halloween Baking Challenge on the food network. It’s a glorious time of year to get out and see some fall color in the forest. Enjoy today!!!!

There must be some good karma surrounding us these days. Leaving on the day a storm was blowing in, I made it over Tioga Pass before the first snowflake fell. Traveling back home, the same weather was expected. This time, I braved Donner Pass. Again, the winds of the storm pushed us up and over the gorgeous pass. The trees are starting to change color, while winds tossed the golden leaves around a bit. A beautiful day for a drive in the High Sierra’s.

So many parts of the trip come to mind, but the one I want to share is about some very old sea shells. My parents owned a beach house for many years. Setting as a harbor sentinel, the view was breathtaking. For over three decades the entire family would take turns using the place, and everyone has their personal and best take away memories. The Harbor House was, indeed, a special place.

Just like any beach house, people would find treasures on their walks along the shore and come back with sandy pockets bulging. It seems thirty years ago, it was more common to find shells on the beach than in this day and age. While some of the finds were really nice specimens, some were just broken pieces of a clam or mussel shell. Over time, the collection grew and grew.

Somehow, I ended up with a gallon zip lock bag of these shells. Through the years, they’ve been displayed in glass or wooden bowls. As a teacher, I’d take the bags to school and let the students sort them. Many little fingers have caressed the old shells. Kids were always amazed at the variety of shapes, sizes, and colors.

But.

Always, always, always, I felt they should be returned to the sea. Something was very wrong about keeping them to myself in a closet. How many other beach goers would love to find at least one shell on their daily walk? Maybe the sea might like to wash over them again, as she should have been doing all this time. These shells all came from the Central Pacific Coast of California. There were none from the romantic beaches of Waikiki or Tahiti. Nothing from Bora Bora or Thailand. These plain old Central Pacific Coast shells needed to be returned to their rightful owner.

The afternoon was winding down when I decided to go for my walk. Sauntering down the lonely beach, I slowly dropped a trail of shells as I inched along the shore. Rather like a trail of bread crumbs, they plopped into the moist sand one by one. By the time my bag was empty, I’d walked a very long way.

A long walk on a shoreline where an 8 year old boy loved body surfing in the 60’s. Paying $1.00 to rent a wet suit, he’d spend the day swimming until the daylight was nearly gone. Dusk would find him fishing with his dad from the pier, shining the light into the murky waters in search of sharks.

As he got older, his love for this little town never changed. A grainy black and white photo shows his last visit with his mom and dad. A high school letterman’s jacket spoke of his love for football. But the look on his face showed his love for the ocean and his favorite little town on the coast.

While the years passed and he became a man, he returned many times to this same beach. Looking out off the pier, his face was that of a man searching for answers to questions, his alone. Walking along the beach, his aching body wouldn’t allow him to ride the waves again, like he did when he was that young boy. His troubles would vanish when he visited the Pacific, be it on the mainland or in Hawaii. Near the water, he found his own best version of himself.

On one of his final days on earth, that man had one request that couldn’t be fulfilled. “I want to go back to the beach.” On this trip, I took his memory with me. He and I took a walk as I dropped the shells for us both.

On the return walk, something odd was occurring. The tide had creeped higher up the beach, and in doing so, was snatching up the shells. Disappearing into the seafoam, they tumbled back to the sea. I’m quite sure I heard the waves sigh a “Hello. Where’ve you been? Welcome Home!”

Some think it was silly to return the shells to their natural resting place. That’s okay. On that beach, in that moment in time, it was exactly what I needed to do to make peace with many of my own thoughts. The beach is a magical place, healing us all in different ways. I’m so lucky to have returned one more time.

Back in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada, the winds howled last night. The first storm of autumn is upon us. Winterpast is ready to protect me from the elements, while Oliver waits for me on his last morning of puppy camp. Doggie kisses and wiggles will remind me I’m back home in the place I love so much. Although a part of me remains forever at the beach, for me, Home Means Nevada.

To say this vacation has been fabulous would be an understatement. I didn’t know if I’d ever get to visit this little part of the Pacific Coastline again, let alone have such a splendid time. I will surely be sad as we drive away from the house house on the beach, already planning to reserve it again, and soon.

I visited with a Coastal Goddess and her golden locks, (still a little tangled from her daily drive down the coast), a true garden artist, and, of course, my beloved Auntie TJ, God Mother and best friend. I met a true American-Italian wine maker. I tasted some of the worst wines ever made, but also some award winners that deserved their titles. I enjoyed every minute.

Today will be filled with packing, having a few last minute places to visit. A search for fresh avocados, and one last drive south to crane my neck while searching for the zebra herd, left over from the days of William Randolph Hearst. I’ll have a last dinner at a favorite restaurant that overlooks a tiny inlet where otters hold their pups on their tummies near a rock where rare Peregrine Falcons nest.

Tomorrow I head out at Dark:30.

Whatever your weekend holds, make it grand. Traveling back to my dusty little town in the high desert of Northwestern Nevada on a wide spot of road next to the interstate, I’ll be glad to return home. The mustangs will be shaggier, the air crisp, and the nights cold. Golden leaves will cover Winterpast and life will return to normal.

I’ll be back on Monday!!

Is life just one big script that we know nothing about? Sometimes, my life is so choreographed that I want to believe that to be true. A string of things that couldn’t have occurred if I’d been one minute earlier or later. And so, this story unfolds.

Two nights ago, while enjoying dinner when I experienced a cringeworthy feeling of the bad kind. My temporary crown loosened. It’s a helpless feeling knowing you need to keep something in place in the mouth, while needing to talk and breathe, let alone eat. The tooth was complaining by the nerve, quite alive and active. All dreadful.

I’d been warned I should bring along dental glue for this very reason. I listened. Prepared I brought the stuff, resembling a bad version of museum wax. It didn’t help that mine had traveled 30,000 miles in the RV. Never opened, it remained pliable, but not especially fresh. I wasn’t feeling this entire procedure. I’d have rather paid for a night visit to the dentist, but there wasn’t one to be found. Well, another of my favorite lines. “‘Ain’t nobody got time for that.” So the procedure began.

Of course, the bathroom sink was lined with a protective towel to catch the temporary every time it was dropped. The temp was carefully removed from the tiny little stump of a tooth which had been amputated to nothing over years and years of dental work. Cleaned and prepared, the temp remained undamaged during the process.

While holding the flashlight, all was ready. Quick as a cricket, the temporary was in place followed by a roll of paper towel on which to bite. I was at the finish line. Clamping down for twenty minutes drying time, I realized how much saliva is produced during those minutes. When the proper time had elapsed, I opened and removed the paper towel. Biting down, I realized a very sad thing.

The cap was on backwards.

Yes.

High and dangerous to the health of the stump.

Flying back into the bathroom, it was removed. Not to worry. The museum glue was nothing more than a feel good measure until you could get to a real dentist. Everything came apart, leaving me with a very naked and sensitive stump that would need to wait until morning for a real Dentist.

In a strange land, one never knows where to get medical care. I’d noted a local dentist in this two block town just the day before. I’d be there at 8 AM. Surely they’d find pity and glue me back together. This is when God went to work.

Arriving, the receptionist told me I would need a mask. A gentleman walked right past me without a mask. The mask-less one turned out to be the dentist. On his day off, he’d stopped by to retrieve something. Off for a day of fun away from the office, his wife was the receptionist.

Could they? Would they? Might they help me?

Well, they couldn’t let my beach trip be ruined, could they? Just like that, the dentist had on his lab coat and told me to get in the chair. He cleaned and checked and mixed and cemented, all while chatting. His first name was the same as VST’s. I’ll never forget his kindness.

In a matter of minutes, they’d saved the day, cementing the little cover in the correct position, eliminating the chance for undue stress on the stump. My heroes.

If I had been five minutes earlier or later, none of that would have happened. I’d have driven to another town and waited in a Covid filled waiting room for a chance to pay hundreds in emergency fees. It didn’t happen that way. I was home in under 30 minutes with a new vacation story.

Kindness. It’s never forgotten. We should always remember to share a great story about small town heroes we encounter every day. Dr. T is mine today. Have a good one.

Down a long dusty road, through miles of hills and oak trees, I made my way. The Garmin Chick told me to turn here and there, and I assure you, I wouldn’t have made it there or back without her. Thank goodness she knew where we were going. The California drought has left everything a burnt brown with rain needed in the worst way.

Dust. Gravel. Washboard roads. Rusted barbed wire fences. I drove up a drive, arriving at two barns in the middle of a vineyard. No fancy tasting room. Just roll up doors on two weathered buildings. Feeling familiar to me, we entered a door marked “Tasting Room”.

Inside were the workings of a real winery. Forklift. Spider webs. Grape crusher. Large stainless fermentation tanks. Cute plastic 1/2 ton grape bins, larger than the ones we saw the day before. No vat of dry ice or anything else so ridiculous. A real farm. On the other side of the dimly lit barn on a homemade bar, sat six bottles of wine. Behind the bar stood a 70-Something man, obviously invested in his business. Totally committed to everything about HIS business.

Dave Caparone. Owner and operator of Caparone Vineyard and Winery. Simply Caparone online. Another couple was just finishing a tasting. Visitors from Arizona, we exchanged small talk about desert life while they completed their purchase. Now, it was our turn.

No tasting fee. No fluff. No t-shirts or other trinkets for sale. Just six bottles of wine in a dusty barn. Either you like them or you don’t. It didn’t seem to matter much to him whether you did or didn’t. Proudly, he stood behind them. He liked them. That’s all that really mattered.

As stated yesterday, I’m not a wine drinker. Never was. Didn’t think I ever would be. But, in this little barn, with this very quiet farmer and winemaker, I repeatedly found myself wanting another taste. Six amazing wines that were unfined and unfiltered. Made from very old Italian varietals he grew on his ranch with his own two hands.

Mr. Caparone explained that in the late 70’s, he started playing around with wines. He planted vineyards. He and his son did all the work themselves, other than pruning and harvest. Slowly his wine started selling. An old broken down forklift was replaced with a better one. This was his ranch. His winery. In those bottles of wine, his life.

To say that these were the best wines I’ve ever tasted in my life would be a true statement. Remember, I don’t like the stuff, having little experience in the finer side of wine tasting. All six varietals were different, one to the next. Each one told their own little story. In just a sip, I could taste the hours that went into tractor driving, worry, physical work, and sweat. Just he and his son made them all. Year after year, it was their hard work. Not any sort of privilege involved with that. I assure you, few would do the jobs a farmer does. I know.

It was hard to learn much about this man behind the bar. No nonsense, for sure. A quiet gentleman. If you are ever lucky enough to meet him, you’ll understand. He could have told me any story he wanted and I would’ve believed him. But, he didn’t tell any tales.

“Ah, a farm girl. Do you drive tractor?” He had me at that. Yes. I drive tractor and forklift, too. I know how to sucker a vine, pick up pruned thick wood, and check degrees of brix (sugar content of an aqueous solution) in anticipation of harvest. Many parts of my farm experiences overlapped with his. Yes. A farm girl forever.

I left with some of his wine. I can’t wait to enjoy a bottle on a winter’s day. It will take me back to a most perfect autumn at the coast.