Category: 2020

The Appliance Counter (Not Home Depot… Just Sayin’)

Saturday morning, April 25, the eve of my move off the mountain, just seventeen days after VST left. There we stood, three grieving amigos, at the appliance counter of a major chain hardware store (not Home Depot… just sayin’). Along with everything else pressing in on me, my new home, Winterpast, needed appliances.

Fridge, range, dishwasher, washer, dryer. VST and I had already made that decision together. Everything would be replaced before I moved in, and I intended to carry that through.

I knew exactly what I wanted. My VC range had been heavenly, so I chose that same model again. The refrigerator needed a bottom freezer with French doors. The dishwasher must have a food grinder and a heated dry cycle. The washer and dryer needed to be full-size—and, if I’m honest, pretty. Stainless in the kitchen. White in the laundry.

As we stood waiting for help, I made my selections within minutes. The kids wandered, wondering how I could decide so quickly. What they didn’t know was that I had already made these decisions long before we walked in. What I wanted most was to get back to VC and be ready for the movers the next morning.

But I had already been through Round One with this store.

A few days earlier, buried in paperwork and to-do lists, I made what I thought was the responsible decision. I called to cancel VST’s credit card.

We had loved remodeling together. It was our happy place. He could see what something could become, and I could describe what I imagined. Somewhere between the two, we built beautiful things. Not without a little bantering and a few stalemates, but always something we were proud of.

The kitchen in VC was one of those dreams. I worked those first two years with a purpose—to pay for it myself. Every cabinet, every handle, every inch of that space came from my paycheck. The store card helped us along the way, giving us just enough room to build what we envisioned. We never paid a cent of interest which ws one of VST’s golden rules.

So when I called to cancel the card, I thought I understood what would happen. I didn’t.

After navigating what felt like an endless maze of prompts, I finally reached someone. I explained gently—my husband had passed, I needed to close the account and open a new one in my name. The response was immediate.

“His account is now closed. The closing bill will arrive in 5–7 business days.”

Just like that. No pause. No bridge. No understanding of what I was actually asking.

I sat there, staring at the phone. Our account was simply gone.

So I went online and applied for a new one, assuming my history, my income, and our years of use would somehow carry over. The screen refreshed, and my new limit appeared.

$500.

That wouldn’t even cover the washer.

I called again, explained again, listened again. The answer didn’t change. “Perhaps the store manager can help you when you come in. Sorry for your loss. Goodbye.”

And so, back to Saturday morning.

Selections made. Total tallied. I handed over my brand-new card, still holding onto a thread of hope. The associate glanced at it and quietly told me it would only cover $500. I asked for the manager, explained again, and was transferred once more. The final answer came back, calm and unyielding: at this time, your credit limit is $500.

And then something unexpected happened.

I smiled. Not a big smile, just a quiet one, because in that moment something shifted inside me. I reached into my purse while the kids watched, unsure of what I was about to do, and pulled out my Platinum Visa. Financial solvency does have its rewards. I had wanted to replace that original card—to carry something forward in honor of VST—but this would do just fine.

We completed the purchase, thanked the young associate, and walked out. I imagine she wondered how that slightly worn, widowed woman in jeans and a t-shirt managed to pull that off at the appliance counter on a Saturday morning. The truth is, I wasn’t entirely sure myself—but I did.

And that’s the lesson I carried home with me.

When you begin untangling a life built together, especially after loss, things change quickly. Systems close, doors shut, and answers become final. It can feel abrupt and impersonal at a time when everything already feels uncertain. But if you find yourself in that place, take a breath before you begin. Give yourself a moment to think through what needs to be done, gather what you can, and ask the questions you didn’t know you needed to ask.

It helps to remember that the people on the other end of the phone are simply doing their jobs. They didn’t write the rules, and they may not fully understand them either. Offering patience in those moments doesn’t make the process easier, but it does make it a little more human.

Most importantly, hold onto this truth: there is always another way forward. The path may not look like the one you planned, and it may not come easily, but it is there. With determination, a little creativity, and a willingness to keep going, you will find it. There are many ways to reach the same destination, and somehow, step by step, you will find your way to yours.

“Hawaii-philes.” A phrase coined to describe VST and me. Over 32 years, we became absolutely addicted to the islands and all that Aloha brings. It started with two young lovers taking a second honeymoon in their first year of marriage. What began as a fascination with paradise slowly grew into something much deeper over time.

It all started in 1988, when we were still adorable kids. Married six months, reality was beginning to settle in. The monumental task of parenting a blended family of five was, at times, overwhelming. It is one thing to fall in love with a soulmate; it is quite another to fall in love with someone who already has young children. We had to learn to navigate the schedules and personalities of five kids, ages seven to twelve, all while trying not to offend grandparents and extended family who were watching closely, holding their breath, and hoping for the best. Some had even given up counting to nine, convinced we married so quickly because a sixth child was on the way. Believe me, we sorted that out on the first date—five was plenty.

One evening, after an especially stressful day, VST came home with a brochure he’d received from a coworker’s wife. “Pleasant Hawaiian Vacations. Dream the Dream. Live the Aloha Spirit.” The blue waters on the cover were irresistible. There was a twinkle in his eye as he asked if I would run away with him, even if just for a week. This, while children played in the background and dinner simmered on the stove. What’s a girl to do? Of course.

Our first trip cost $450 per person, including airfare from Fresno—money we truly did not have. But it was worth every penny. Six nights, seven days on Oahu. Six glorious days of being adults together. Sleeping in. Breakfast overlooking the beach. Catamaran rides. All the wonderfully cheesy things first-time visitors do to capture memories they will treasure forever. We were that young couple, and older couples smiled at us knowingly. I understand now—they were remembering what new felt like. We were glowing, tanned, alive. That week, we got to know each other more deeply, celebrating the anniversary of our reunion—when two independent people realized their lives were meant to be shared.

Over the years, we visited Hawaii thirty times. In hindsight, we probably should have bought a place. Every time I stepped off the plane, I felt the same thing—I was home. The air, soft and alive, seemed to revive my Central Valley lungs. No matter the weather, it felt like a return to something essential. Back home, life was full—farming, two careers, college courses, parenting, and still being parented. The weight of it all was real. But in Hawaii, when a warm rainstorm caught us walking, we could stop and kiss in it—rather than worry about crops laid out in endless vineyard rows.

At first, our trips were annual. We searched endlessly for deals, stretching every dollar to get closer to the ocean. Eventually, those trips became biannual as flight miles added up and discounts improved. Each visit got better.

And always, the rhythm was the same. We talked. About everything. Without the daily pressures, our minds could wander freely. We dreamed up business ideas, solved vineyard problems, marveled at our children’s growth, and laughed—deep, belly laughter. Sometimes we said nothing at all, sitting side by side under a cabana, and somehow, that silence said everything.

On the five-hour flights, I began to notice something. We were the couple talking, holding hands, laughing quietly, sharing music through headphones, and nudging each other with a grin. The rest of the plane seemed to disappear. We were in our own world. And yet, I couldn’t help but notice how many couples sat side by side like strangers—one buried in a book, the other lost in a screen. I promised myself we would never become that. It would take effort, but we would protect what we had.

One of our best trips was taking the kids when they were older. With a rented condo and a great deal of patience, we created something unforgettable. We watched them experience flight for the first time, saw them relax into the spirit of Aloha, and made memories that remain frozen in time. We celebrated our unique family—complete with arguments, laughter, a brief missing-child incident that ended at the police station, and moments of quiet chaos. It was imperfect, magical, and entirely ours.

For years, I thought that if anything ever happened to VST, I would return to Oahu and stay. There was a woman we always saw near Waikiki—“Cannie Annie,” we called her. She sat cross-legged each day, crushing cans, smiling as she worked. I imagined I might become some version of her—simple, quiet, breathing in the healing air, letting the Menehunes guide me. I believed that without VST, my world would stop.

Then Covid came, and that possibility vanished overnight. Paradise closed. The one place I thought might hold my memories was suddenly out of reach. Maybe the islands needed rest. Maybe they had given enough.

So, in month five, Oliver and I took a different kind of trip—a Covid trip. Aloha in the living room. Don Ho played as if just for us. I served fresh pineapple while Elvis sang in Blue Hawaii. I pulled out memory books and returned, in my heart, to that moonlit beach where we once stood alone, wrapped in the kind of love that feels endless. It was a beautiful trip. No quarantine. No travel worries. Just memories—rich enough to carry me.

I like to think Oliver noticed the Menehunes nearby, quietly discussing that my world had not, in fact, ended, and that perhaps their guidance wouldn’t be needed after all.

So grab your own Mai Tai and find your own Aloha. As the State of Hawaii defines it, “Aloha is the coordination of mind and heart within each person. It brings each person to the self. Each person must think and feel good toward others.” The world needs each of us to live Aloha today. Remember your moment under the moonlight and hold onto it—not as something lost, but as something that still lives within you.

 

Widowhood. Six months in. I sit here in quiet awe of the woman at the keyboard, fingers moving across the keys as if they still belong to the life I once knew. They look like mine—these same hands that have always prepared meals, cared for Oliver, waved to neighbors, and answered the phone when friends and family call to check in. From the outside, everything appears familiar. But the truth is, I am not the same woman I was six months ago. That woman died with VST, and in her place stands someone new—stronger, harder, and still trying to understand who she is becoming.

Unless you are a widow—and even then—no one can fully understand the path I have walked. In these months shaped by both loss and a world slowed by COVID, I have traveled through a wilderness more daunting than any high Sierra trail. There were moments so cold and lonely I thought I might simply lie down and let grief consume me. The pain felt relentless, as though no matter how far I walked, one small turn would lead me right back into the darkness. This journey has no shortcuts. No map. It is a path I must walk alone, even when surrounded by others.

And yet, words have carried me. Words like Food, Shelter, Clothing, Friendship, Everlasting Love, Faith, Adventure, and Happiness have become my anchor—my port in the storm. They represent the life we built together, the foundation of the power couple that was Dr. and Mrs. Hurt. Now, as I stand at the threshold of Month Seven, it feels both strange and necessary to choose a new word, a new focus. Looking back on the words that defined our 32 years together brings a deep and quiet comfort—like stepping into a meadow where grief loosens its grip, if only for a moment.

A year ago, life was still unfolding as we expected. We had just decided to return to Cayucos along the California coast. VST was still walking Oliver each day. We chose to stay a little longer in Virginia City, even naming our home The Dunmovin House to reflect that choice. There were subtle changes in him then—things I quietly questioned but never fully understood. Even if we had known the truth sooner, the ending would have been the same. The only difference is that we might have missed those final RV trips, those last sweet memories that now mean everything.

I think of our final Christmas together. I was sick with a cold and, as often happens, passed it along to him. We took turns caring for one another as snow fell gently outside. It was a white Christmas on our mountain—quiet, simple, and, though we didn’t know it then, our last one together.

When spring arrived, VST finished what he had always done so well—he completed the work before him. Projects were wrapped up, the last nail driven. He set down his tools with pride in a life well lived. He touched so many people in meaningful ways, carrying others through their struggles with strength and love. He loved fiercely and faithfully. He was loyal, trustworthy, and worthy of every title he held—Father, Dad, friend, and, to me, my Dr. H. Imperfectly perfect, just as the best of us are.

Somewhere in the midst of saying goodbye, this new version of me emerged. She came quietly at first—helpful, strong, smart, even a little funny—and scared beyond words. But she stayed. She planted her feet in this new place called Home and began to grow. I realize now that these qualities were always within me. Somewhere along the way, I had set them aside, becoming a passenger in my own life. That version of me is gone now, and I don’t wish to call her back.

Today, I choose something different. I choose happiness. Faith. Strength. Perseverance. I choose God. I am learning to move forward, step by step, through this first year of widowhood. I know there are still rivers to cross and terrain that will challenge me in ways I cannot yet imagine. But I also know this—I am strong enough to stay on the path. It will be okay. God and I will walk it together.

There came a day, sometime in late summer, when I woke with a quiet knowing. I could no longer wear my wedding ring. For 32 years, it had been a symbol of something sacred—simple, golden, enduring. But what it represented could not be contained within a circle of gold. Our love was far greater than that. Removing it was harder than I expected. My finger, pale and marked by years of wear, felt exposed and strangely vulnerable, as if even my body was learning this new truth. I was no longer a wife. I was a widow.

And yet, here I am—six months gone, six months here—beginning to reach outward again. I find myself laughing with friends, making plans, stepping into small adventures that feel both new and unfamiliar. I am learning how to care for this woman I am becoming—how to speak kindly to her, how to celebrate her small victories, how to recognize her strength. I smile now, and it feels real. The long winter of grief has begun to soften, and in its place, I sense something like autumn—steady, golden, and full of quiet promise. I hope it lingers for many years to come.

One of the last things VST said to me, in a voice soft and fading, was that he wanted to return to the ocean. I hold that close. One day, I will go to San Simeon and release him to the wind. That moment will come when I am ready to turn the final page of our earthly story together. But not yet. For now, I place that thought gently aside, tucked safely behind tearful eyes. There is still healing to be done in this first year.

If you are reading this, I ask only this—cheer for me in your own quiet way. And then, cheer for yourself. For all that you have endured. For all that you have loved. Reach out to those who matter. Call them. Hold them close. Laugh when you can. And if you, too, are walking through loss, know this—you are not alone. Love still surrounds us. And one day, we will step out of this wilderness into the clearing, stronger for having made the journey.

Dreams have always been a personal comfort and a place of wonder. My traveled dreamscapes are richly diverse, filled with beauty I have never experienced in waking life. Stories grow through my sleep-filled nights, and I often awaken before light, ready to harvest those thoughts and serve them up in words.

In my dreams, I am an athletic, svelte, tall, very blonde, ageless beauty. I rollerblade, snow ski, skateboard, and even backpack the Pacific Crest Trail from Canada to Mexico in a single night. I notice the tiniest details, quietly storing them away, knowing they will someday enrich my writing. All of this happens peacefully, while I sleep.

But the one thing that escaped me night after night was just one more visit with VST. Each morning held a quiet disappointment as I slowly woke and realized there had been no magical meeting the night before. No sun-kissed island with azure seas surrounding us, no quiet moment at our kitchen table at dawn. No final kiss filled with passion, regret, sadness, or goodbye. Not one more gaze into the eyes that once held my forever, accompanied by that familiar playful wink—or that look, the one that came in so many varieties. The look that could draw me in, correct me, or gently end a conversation. I would have settled for just one more silent exchange of glances, no matter the topic. I would wake refreshed from other dreams, but never from the one I wanted most. Until a few weeks ago.

That night was ordinary. I fell asleep halfway through a movie, with Oliver making soft, sweet puppy sounds in his crate as I drifted off, just as I always do. But the next morning was anything but ordinary. My wish had been fulfilled. VST and I had spent the night together.

We were outdoors in a beautiful, natural, green place. We smiled and talked, quietly savoring the time we had been given. He was his younger self, without any sign of illness—just my Dr. H again. Most of what we said remains just beyond memory’s reach, shared in a way that felt almost celestial. But the feeling remained, wrapping my heart in peace. Cancer had not taken this from us. It had not stolen our ability to connect.

There was one part, however, that I remember clearly.

“Darlin’, the memorial was fine. Perfect. The words and songs you chose honored our life together and me in ways that warmed my heart.”

In that moment, a wave of relief washed over me. Everything had been done right.

“It was thoughtful of you to send programs and notes to those who couldn’t come. That meant a lot. It was all just beautiful.”

Then he paused.

“However…”

However? What more could there be?

“You missed one part.”

Even in the dream, I knew it. There was always that one moment—something that could have been done just a little differently.

“Please explain,” I said.

“Everyone who needed to be remembered was… except for three. Pat, Steve, and Harry. Honey, you forgot to tell them. Please, tomorrow, send them notes. Let them know I’m gone. Don’t forget.”

“I promise.”

That was it. Not a grand declaration of eternal love or a glimpse into what comes next. Just a simple, urgent reminder that three important men in his life needed to know.

A doctoral classmate, a boss, and a close work friend. People who had been part of his life in ways that were his alone. Important to him, just as my friends are to me, but not naturally at the forefront of my mind.

The next morning, I went to the closet and retrieved the box. If you are widowed, you probably have one too. Mine holds programs, prayer cards, the guest book, and sympathy notes. Every item inside feels sacred, filled with meaning and memory. In VST’s box, I found everything I needed.

I sat down and wrote three handwritten notes, each one personal and thoughtful. I placed them in silver envelopes along with a program and prayer card, sealed them, and sent them on their way with love. Mission accomplished, VST. The rest, we will talk about another time. I went on with my day.

Two weeks later, I heard the familiar sound of the mail truck outside. There is something special about having a mailbox at the end of your drive—the rhythm of the truck stopping and starting, the quiet anticipation as it reaches your home. I stepped outside and found a handwritten card waiting for me.

The return address read: Dr. Pat.

Inside was a full page of careful handwriting, ink on paper, the old-fashioned way. He wrote of friendship, of laughter, and of the easy, joyful spirit that VST carried through life. His words were filled with kindness and memory, exactly what you would expect. But as I read further, the letter took on a deeper weight.

He shared that he had been diagnosed with leukemia five years earlier.

Cancer.

The same relentless enemy.

VST’s real-life Superman—a man who had served for 35 years in law enforcement, protecting others—was now fighting his own quiet battle. Alone, as so many cancer patients do.

In that moment, everything came together. I understood why the dream had come, why that message had mattered so much. It was never just about remembering names. It was about connection. It was about reaching someone who needed to be reached.

I held the letter in my hands, struck by the depth of a friendship I had never personally known, yet had somehow been called to honor. A man so important to VST that he found a way to remind me, even from beyond.

You just never know what dreams may hold, or what might arrive in your mailbox on an ordinary day. There are people in our lives—and in the lives of those we love—who matter more than we realize. Sometimes all it takes is a simple note, a memory shared, a reminder that they are not forgotten.

Take the time to write it. Handwrite it if you can. Stamp it. Send it.

You may never fully know the difference it makes, but it may arrive at just the right moment, carrying comfort, connection, and even a bit of hope.

And as for dreams, embrace them. They are more than fleeting images in the night. Sometimes, they carry meaning. Sometimes, they carry love.

And sometimes, they find their way exactly where they are needed most.

Thursday last, I sat waiting as so many Seniors do. We wait for many sad, happy, frustrating, unexplainable, funny, terrifying, and peaceful things. I was waiting for my friend to arrive. A HEART FRIEND as a student once described special bonds that we form with very few in life. This kind of friend is of the deepest kind, covering you with love, protection and things you need when you need them. I am blessed with this kind of friend that was visiting on the 6 month anniversary of VST’s death.

I remember when we met. It could have ended badly. You see, we loved the same guy. VST loved her first and she had an 11 year jump on me in this situation. While my love was unfolding in new and exciting ways, hers was deep, steady, and rock solid. They shared a history of which I was not a part. It was up to me to honor that and find a way to create new memories we would cherish decades later. She had him at their first Hello on May 25, 1976. She was K to me, and oldest Daughter to VST.

The doorbell rang, and there she was, the best hugger and friend, knowing the day would be tough. Intuitive and gracious, she had cleared her schedule for the next few days to come hang out and remember our VST/DAD. We each owned separate memories of our man, that brought a more complex picture to light when shared. She was an hour earlier than I thought she would be, after a six hour drive. In a moment of highly energized happiness, the doorbell rang again. I really didn’t hear it, and in a gentle way, she said I should check.

As I opened the door, out popped T. This bulk of a man standing in my doorway completed the Momento Perfecto. T was K’s other half. A dear friend and rock to me since 1987. Smart, strong, problem solving T. When I met him, long ago, the connection we had was real and authentic. I never had to pretend around him, smiling and cheering his accomplishments, which were vast. His connection with VST was a bond that is as deep as time passed and eternity to come. He could have claimed VST as his own, meeting him first on May 25, 1976 as VST’s only biological son and K’s twin. He could have warned his SIS to steer clear of the new gal in Dad’s life, but, he didn’t. He had every right to, but he opened his heart to me and my boys, J and D. The Three Amigos were off and huddling at the first meeting. The seven of us rolling through happy in our red VW van. Here he was in my doorway, smiling and glad they got me good. K hadn’t mentioned they BOTH cleared their lives to come comfort ME.

Here I was, StepMom, but our steps had led me to Friends. How very beautiful and blessed it is to call them FRIENDS of the HEART kind.

When VST got sick, we had been feral parents, holding hands and running towards life. Illness slowed that to a standstill. We hadn’t known how serious things would become, but, T and K were on it. They came every weekend to visit. They made us calmer, happier, and less scared. They brought life of a vibrant kind to a very frightful enviorment and most importantly, they made VST/DAD’s heart smile. By coming, they brought FAMILY to our home, which healed and mended us all in ways we didn’t know needed fixing.

To me, they will always be my Kids. They are anything but kids or children.

Tim is a funny, logical, brilliant, and handsome knockoff of VST. He is a wonderful father to three beautiful kids that will someday ask him not to refer to them as kids anymore. He is driving every aspect of his own version of the red VW bus, making sure their familial path is on target. He loves is sweet M with all his strength for the beauty she is in and out. He grieves for the loss of his Dad deeply. He is a 6’6” softy to the core. When we are together, it is my hope just for a minute, he can put down his heavy load, and be our kiddo again. The freedom of childhood can be revisited while you still have a mom friend who calls you a kid.

Kim is an exquisitely beautiful and fierce woman not to taken lightly. She is funny, sensitive, kind, and thoughtful. To me, she is the Friend Daughter I didn’t raised from birth, but fell in love with, none the less. We chose the same career in teaching, but, SHE took it and ran faster and farther. Her students are blessed to be under her wing. Her own mothering abilities shine in the faces of her two man-children. Kim is wise and patient. She skillfully releases her boys to freedom and then reels them back in when needed. She cherishes her sweet husband, J, remembering when they met in grade school. K mourns the DAD that took her to the fair as a young girl one minute, and walked her down the aisle to her future the next. She remembers that, in his eyes, she was and will be his little girl for eternity.

In past posts I have referred to The Kids. That was wrong. They are not part of a pack or a rock group. They are T and K. The best parts of their dad reflecting his brilliance, grace, honestly, loyalty, and at times, funny looks or words. They hold his memory gently and share it with me. They are strong, beautiful adults that will need to forgive me if I call them kids. In my eyes, they are T and K. All things listed above and so much more, My kids, but more importantly, my HEART FRIENDS.

Today, hug your kids and hug them again. As parents, you already know. They may be bigger, but they will always be sweet, loveable kids to us.

VST was not a dog person which was one of our troubling differences. Raised on a farm, being a 4-H member, and majoring in Zoology in college, he should have known my love for dogs would never die. Through the years, he always kept me in furry friends, keeping them at a distance from his own heart. Being busy with so many different things, he never discovered what I had known since one bit my nose off at two years old. Dogs are the coolest friends you can ever have. Period.

Settled in VC, totally retired and RVing, I would pine by the dog parks across the country. I would accidentally take the trash out at just the right time to beg a caress from a newly groomed poodle, or win a big old slurpy kiss from a retriever. If missing, he would find me talking with the owners at the dog park wishing I had my own puppy to throw into the mix of wagging tails. I would make not so subtle observations that traveling with the right dog might be fun. He would remind me that our RV was brand new. Did I want the leather seats chewed? Did I want poop on the floor? Did I want to chance loosing the dog at a truck stop? Did we NEED the complications of a dog? Really????

For months, I pined. Really, really pined. I created a virtual dog to dream of. The perfect pet. No messes. No chewed leather. No muss no fuss. I was constantly on the internet looking for a puppy, but I found not THE ONE. Finally, November of 2018, VST woke a changed man. Just like that.

“Darlin, we have been traveling awhile now. Do you still want that dog? Maybe it IS time that we could look.”

I was in shock. Who was this man? Was there a trick here? What was the end game? A dog? I might get a dog??? I MIGHT GET A DOG!!!!!!!!!!!!!

With laser-like focus, through every town traveled, there was a visit to the animal shelter. Nothing. No one there that was even close. We looked at every Craig’s List. Cuties, but none for us. We looked online. Sold out. Sold out. Sold out. And so, the weeks went by. Nothing. Secret relief was his, and I was waiting for the reasons to emerge on how this was a cosmic answer to my longing. I would never have another dog. Period.

My December birthday came and went. I hoped there was a hidden puppy somewhere. It would have the cutest bow on its neck, bigger than it. Hallmark moment 101. To my surprise, I did get a dog gift from him. A Christmas doggie sweater. Long and small, it was adorable. But, very flat and empty. Not puppy filled, squirmy and delightfully kissy. Nope. No dog anywhere. I must admit, I was a little depressed, and almost accepting the fact that it was a cosmic answer.

Until December 23rd.

Just like every other day, I had been in heavy pursuit on the internet. I am a Dachshund girl. Period. I have had several, the very first being when I was six. Fritz. Fritz was a mini, red smooth haired Doxie. My parents got him for the farm, and Fritz lived his entire life outside. No problem with coyotes or wild dogs, Fritz was quite capable of taking care of himself. He lived a great life keeping our ranch free of any one or thing unwanted. He was a great watch dog and a wonderful friend to me as a child.

On December 23rd, I again googled Dachshund Puppy. The following picture emerged.

The add was a normal description of a very unusual dog. I am asked this often, so I will give you the complete description. He is a cream-based piebald, chocolate, wirehaired standard dachshund with green eyes that can look through your soul. VST would add, “Dropped into Area 51, because he is alien. And yes, he sheds. Alot.”

In my heart, the ad said the following.

“If you do not immediately call this breeder, you do not really want a dog at all. This is quite possibly the most adorable dog on the planet. Pick up the phone now, because this guy cannot exist and be available possessing this much swag and cuteness overload.”

He was a bargain puppy. No one had wanted him. He was 4 months old and ready for a new home, and that home was ours. Period. On Christmas Day, the breeder extraordinaire drove from Nevada City to Reno and we met in the snow covered parking lot of the Atlantis Casino. I had the option of not accepting him if he wasn’t the right puppy. Once in my arms, this puppy became Sir Oliver, Gentleman of Ashworth Hall, better known as Oliver or Ollie. (VST named him after a Grandfather, many generations removed). He snuggled toward my heart and stole it right there.

For a few days, I was in terror of what we had just taken on. I was up with him every two hours for months to insure proper potty training. He was neutered and I slept on the recliner with him for two nights. We listened to puppy complaints when he was unhappy and laughed so much as he delighted us with his adorable antics. And just like that, VST became a dog person.

Did he need a new toy? VST would be online finding out the right toys for a him. Was his food just right? Again, more research. As we traveled together in the rig, Oliver was always our first concern. Was he safe, happy, warm, well-fed, and enjoying himself? Oliver was happy as could be. He would see us preparing for a trip and remind us the entire time that he wanted to be included. He always was.

VST quickly learned that when they walked together, Oliver stole the show. People would stop their cars to ask us about him. Women requested pictures with him. I am referring to Oliver. Strangers would smile big, wide, happy smiles, all while Ollie just did this thing. Dignified and true to his blue blood name, he became a Gentleman.

For almost two years, Ollie and VST were walking buddies. I would smile as I stood on the deck and watched them trot off. Oliver kept his puppy waddle far past his first year. He would take on a new happiness when being with VST, one that he never had with me. Just a little free spirit walking with his man.

VST took his part in Ollie’s life serious, and one day, quietly decided to teach him a new trick. Not being a dog person, it would really irritate me when he would stare at dogs in the eye. I would remind him that in many cases, that is how people get bit in the face. He cared not. So, I would see VST and Ollie gazing at each other, but didn’t understand what was happening. VST silently taught Oliver to wink. There they were conversing through eye movements of the oddest kind. VST became a true dog whispering soul.

I have told others since that Oliver will wink at them if he feels like it. No one believes me until they wink at him and he winks back. You have to be a very special sort of person for him to interact with you in that way. He saves this for his very favorite people.

Since April 8, Oliver has taken on the role of my emotional support dog. He doesn’t wear or even need a vest. He has soft green eyes that look into my soul and know when I need a doggie hug. He knows when I get stressed and encourages me that it surely must be nap time. He senses when I need a laugh and does something adorable. He is good at knowing when I have had enough, and doesn’t try anything silly. He still steals my socks, and anything else he finds humorous. He watches our front door to keep out the unwanteds. And he is my writing buddy when I blog.

I picture myself at my first book signing someday soon. I will be dressed in appropriate writer clothing, picked out for the occasion. My makeup will be just right. Fresh haircut. A stack of pens, ready to go. Oliver will be himself. I can guarantee you, the line will form to the right to get pics with Ollie. I will sigh, and give him the limelight.

For a time, Ollie brought the beauty and love of a dog to one man that had never experienced it. He brought an old couple such happiness by just being himself. He may be my last dog, but he is definitely the one I will never get over.

Your dog is doing double time right now, grieving with you and for you. They deserve a little free time to be a dog. Take a walk. Play outside with a new toy. Just for a minute, delight in your dog and give a smile or laugh. They will be relieved that you are feeling better. And, feel better you will.

A huge thank you to Song Catcher Dachshunds in Nevada City, California. Breeding for over 30 years for soundness, personality, and beauty. Please mention that you met Oliver and he says Hi!!

If you have ever moved, you know that the first shopping trip is a doozy. Magnify that by 100x as a brand new widow. Although not my first outing alone, it was the first in my new town, stocking the refrigerator/freezer. I was still shrouded in widow’s fog, a very real malady. Others would refer to it as shock. We would both be correct.

VST and I had always done the shopping together. We would glide through our Wal Mart hitting every department. As the years passed and his arthritis worsened, it became harder and harder for him to walk. His most comfortable position was leaning on the basket as he pushed it along. When done, we would look for a human checker, but, if they were taken, we use self check out. We would take turns emptying the basket, scanning, and bagging. It took us both.

On this first visit alone, so many things raced through my mind. I missed my husband. I missed discussing our shopping needs as we walked the aisles. I missed running into old friends, as we often did, stopping to visit for a minute. Everything was new and overwhelming as I dug out the list and began.

After a full hour, my basket was brimming. At this Walmart, the only choice was self scan. For a single person, this was difficult, even without the added problem of widow’s fog. I needed to put a few things on the belt, scan, bag and repeat, while feeling totally self conscious and overwhelmed. The bagged items were overflowing in the bagged item area, while I was only half finished with the basket. There was no place to put the bags and continue because my basket was still full.

To add to the fun, the scanner kept timing out. The associate working the area needed to come help me repeatedly. Each time, we talked a little more. She, too, was a widow of two years. She understood the stressful nature of the situation and understood the timing out was making it worse. Her kindness was overwhelming, as in this town, I knew no one. Not even her.

M was a beautiful older woman who obviously took very good care herself. Her golden blonde hair was beautiful coifed in a short, curly style. She was trim and energetic, wearing a sweet smile as she helped everyone, including me. She loved her job. You could tell.

When I finished, after a good 30 minute ordeal, she smiled kindly and said so sweetly, “Maybe sometime we can get together for coffee.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I mumbled “Thanks.”

Wheeling the basket out of the way, I took a minute. I then did something so out of character, it still gives me chills. Promise me, no matter how low you are, you will never do this. I took out a pen and paper and wrote down my name, address, and phone number. As a lost soul, I went back to her and handed her the paper with tears rolling down my face. It was the Three week anniversary of VST’s death. I handed it to her and she understood everything as our eyes locked.

Driving home, I cursed, hit the steering wheel a few times, and screamed at myself for being so stupid and vulnerable. Who was this sweet woman? I knew her not in the least. I deserved to be robbed, mutilated, and left for dead. The damage was done. UNBELIEVABLY STUPID was I.

The next few days, I hoped she would call to arrange a coffee date, but she didn’t. I then changed my internal conversation to this, “Loser, loser, loser!!!!!! Not even a friend from Wal Mart would call me.” Dark days.

About ten days later, I was in the kitchen when my phone rang. The kindest voice was on the other end. It was my new friend M, asking if I had time to talk. I did. And boy did we, discussing so many things. We were both born in the same California town. We both had sisters. We were both widowed and held each husband’s Celebration of Life on our late husband’s birthdays. We laughed and cried on the phone that day. Just like that, I found a sweet friend.

On my first Dinner date at her home, she gave me a stern lecture on the stupidity of my ways. By this time, we laughed and laughed as we played Chinese Checkers and Uno. Since then, we have enjoyed shopping trips, meals, tears, and gardening plans. M helped with VST’s celebration of life. She brought me the sweetest gift. An antique handkerchief to hold my tears on that day. Only another widow would understand and know that gift would be so special.

I treasure the story of how I met my first friend in a new town where I knew no one. I took a chance on someone that felt so familiar and warm. Her heart reached for my heart and held it in her eyes when she found I was a new widow. She has known how to help me and when to give me space. She has listened when I might have been running towards the future a bit too fast. But, she didn’t judge.

Look for new friends in odd places. Be CAREFUL, but OPEN to kindness from others. When you find kindness, return it gently and see what can grow. It may surprise you that wonderful “strangers waiting to be new friends” are already helping you every day. Just say “Hello”.

Today was the most beautiful day I have experienced in weeks. The smoke from the California fires was almost gone, and the unique beauty of the high desert mountains was all around me. I am a desert rat. Period. I love the wind. The sharp, stark peaks of the mountains here. Natural hues blending into a real life watercolor, the palette rich with the mountain browns and the bluest of skies. Landscape dabbed with bright yellow Rabbit Brush. White puffy clouds streaking the sky. The breeze ruffling the golden leaves on the cottonwoods. Life is beautiful.

I have been yearning to drive to Bridgeport, California for weeks now. VST loved Highway 395. It’s been a year since we traveled this road, and I longed to follow the path we took. I started out at 7:15 this morning, the air crisp with a real autumn chill. An hour’s drive to Carson City, I was traveling on the loneliest road in America, Highway 50.

The wild mustangs are everywhere now. The mountaintops no longer provide them with food or water. They are now down in the lowlands with us, visiting my neighborhood in search of lawns and a drink. Strange to walk outside to get the mail and find a 2,000 lb. pony in your front yard. Or six of them. These are not the starving horses you hear about on the news. They are healthy, procreating, families of horses with nothing else to do but eat and poop.

As I traveled on 50, the air was so crisp and clear, I saw the V on our Mt. Davidson in VC clearly and from miles away. Each small town has a letter above it, made of huge rocks and easily seen from long distances. On our return RV trips, VST and I would strain our eyes to see who could see the V first. I wished he was by my side today, I would have let him win.

During the move, I had placed 350 boxes in storage in a small town just off the mountain. I made many trips from my new town to get loads of boxes. Each time I located the V, high above, I would cry the ugly cry. I would talk to VST on the way there and back about all kinds of things, wishing he were there to reply. Today, with nothing but blue skies, I sang along with the radio, knowing that VST was laughing at my singing voice. He was MY wingman today, instead of me being his. Today, I loved driving.

Once I reached Carson City, I got on Highway 395 and traveled through Gardnerville and Minden. Memories were flooding back to me of all the towns we considered before buying our home in VC. These little towns, nestled on the eastern side of the Sierras are a little reflection of heaven. Today, the green pastures were filled with Black Angus cattle, registered pedigrees and with sassy calves. Bald or Golden Eagles soar over these pastures. There were RV’s everywhere today, making me wish we were leaving on another trip to anywhere. With VST, it never mattered the destination, just that he was in the driver’s seat telling me about songs on Willie’s Roadhouse or asking for his next snack.

As I started up the hill and went through Holbrock Junction I thought of our Shriner friends that lived close. Lake Topaz Lodge had been OUR favorite for Steak and Egg goodness with a view. I thought of cuddling through a cold night when we camped there in our new trailer almost 4 years ago. Just past the lodge, I was waved through the Produce Inspection Station and found myself across the border in California. The sky was still as brilliant. California natives, we had grown into the people we were when we exchanged vows and began our lives together. Now, it was the California I would never choose to return to after experiencing Nevada. I wish we had known desert secrets decades before, when we were so young and full of dreams.

In Coleville, we had shared a cozy night in our RV camping with the Karavaners at MeadowCliffs . Along the Walker River, VST and I had stopped to enjoy the beauty of the gorge on so many trips. Road work that delayed us last year was finished. With little traffic, my Jeep made the twists and turns of the canyon as the music played on. I wished VST would speak up. I am sure I heard him commenting on my driving, and not in a good way.

At the turn to Highway 108 to Sonora, I smiled and remembered the wife that forgot her purse back at The Westin at Mammoth Lakes and didn’t discover it was missing until Toulomne Meadows in Yosemite. It was Labor Day, and we had left the hotel extra early to avoid horrendous traffic. He had insisted that I had to have it somewhere in the car, but no, I remembered right where it was. He drove all the way back to Mammoth, and upon retracing our steps decided that the Sonora route would be the preferred route at noon. It was miles further in holiday traffic. So patient and kind he was to me. Even though, I am sure it was not our finest moment, being way after dark when we finally got home. How I wished to return to that awkward and tense moment, if it meant we could have those quiet hours in the car just once more.

I traveled on, until I arrived in Bridgeport. The beauty and majesty of the mountains there takes my breath away every time. I think of the time VST gave in and drove me all the way into Bodie, a deserted ghost town, left to an arrested state of decay. I had only dreamed of going there. As we traveled the last three miles of washboard roads, each bounce was torture on his back. The desolate road was not something he felt comfortable or confidant on, but, he drove on for me. That day plays in my mind like yesterday. I wish I would have driven for him, just a little bit, so that he could have rested his shoulders. But, VST wasn’t like that. He loved driving so much, or hated mine more.

In Bridgeport, the trees were brilliant. The cows were statuesque and fat as ticks. The fence by the picnic tables was a combination of metal posts and limbs from trees. Artistic and functional, something only a farm girl might take note of. The tourists going in and out of the mini mart were speaking a variety of languages reminding me that this beautiful place is loved by millions. It made me think of my own traveling experiences to Switzerland, and the lovely places visited. None rivaled what I saw today. My heart was full of wishes that VST was there to hold my hand and drink in the view.

I had made this trip to meet someone new. A cyber friend. Someone that I had talked to over the past few days. The meeting time had been carefully choreographed, with my texts sent at prearranged times. Waiting in the sunshine, I smiled at the possibility of the day, fresh and new. Waiting. I wished for the minutes to race along until he came. Waiting. I stretched my legs and adjusted my sweater. Waiting. Minutes rolling on, until I finally understood the outcome. I realize now, he was just another stranger on his own schedule. I wished VST was there, because, he would NEVER abandon me on an outing. Not in a million years.

At that moment, I wished I was not this stupid, lonely, old woman.

Suddenly, WonderWoman burst into my soul and slapped me around a bit. There was nothing stupid about wishing for a new friend. Nothing wrong with hoping for a fun day, after the horrible year it had been. I was anything but stupid. And, I was waiting not one second longer out of respect for myself.

Right then, I wished to be on my way home through the short cuts of Yerington, which were and will always be my favorite way home. I wished B, D, VST and I were picnic-ing again along the river at the rest stop. I wished VST and I were prepping for a trip at Weed Heights RV Park.

But, most of all, I wished that I was not a widow. That for a tiny window of time, I could be someone’s date on a really cool outing. Not defined by how many months gone, how many months here. Just a pretty woman meeting a nice man for a picnic. I wished.
But, we all know. If wishes were horses, then beggers would ride.

So, for now, I will date myself. No one loves me better, or respects me more. I know exactly what suits me. I have beautiful drives to make and wonderful things to see. I will never leave myself stranded, wanting more. I will never abuse the privilege of being in my own company.

Today, smiling all the way home, I wished VST could see me and know, I am enough all by myself. He didn’t leave a half-person to wail at the moon, throwing her own pity party. He left a beautiful, capable, smart woman who can stand on her own two feet and do just fine. With that said, the songs on the way home were fantastic. Radio blaring and the windows down, I sang my heart out while smiling. VST, you will forever be my wingman. I love the high desert, driving, and you.

Once upon a time, I shopped like a lady at a beautiful department store and bought things I couldn’t afford. Indulging myself as a young mom, I would find myself in the lingerie department, which was ever so enticing. Slips, lacey undies, the softest wisps of fabric skillfully assembled to create a vision. And, bras from heaven at devilish prices.

At that time, I was a mere irrigator on the ranch, while maintaining my role as domestic goddess and mom.

Irrigation occured the first of every month, our antique system being in use since the beginning of time (1940’s). We were part of an irrigation network. Water flowed through a huge canal across the street from our house. Not like Venice, with gondoliers and lovers floating by in canoes. This canal was a functional canal. 15-20 feet across and at least 15 feet deep. The water ran dangerously fast and demanded respect. From there , pipelines branched off under roads and fed each vineyard.

On the first of each month from March to July, the dance would begin with me closing off the neighbors pipeline and opening ours. This was done in measurements of quarter-turns of a very big wheel. All this was decided decades before by menfolk before me. I had no time to experiment with whether or not the instructions were the most efficient. I was given directions and the number of quarter-turns needed to start the process. That was the easy and fast part.

Once the water was filling the pipeline, I needed to slowly ride the John Deere Gator (think green quad) down the west end of the ranch, while noting how the water was filling the 1/8 mile rows. This was jotted down in hieroglyphics known only to me. (Code — 0- no water seen…..X..Done…–Look again at noon ) This was done when the morning sun was just rising or the evening sun setting, creating blinding glare. I often thought of Dad and how many years he did this without benefit of sunglasses, wondering how.

After checking the progress of the water, I would then need to drive the buggy to the East end of the ranch and adjust the valves. The system was antique. Water came up through cement pipes and bubble through adjustable gates. It was during this time that I would find broken pipes, hit by tractor work done at midnight after a full day at a professional job. Or drop the little antique metal plate that was part of the adjustment situation into the standpipe, in which there lived plenty of black widow spiders. It would be then, I am quite sure I grew a pair, reaching into the darkness to retrieve the metal gate and replace it.

Always, this procedure could not be cheated for time. There was no bargaining with the irrigation. It was my job and for four days, I was racing with the clock. Wiping mud off my ear as the school bell rang and my 3rd graders came pouring into the room. Or, returning to the house in the later afternoon knowing for sure that the Fresno sun had cooked half of my brain cells. At least I had the other half needed to prepare dinner, help with homework, and grade papers while VST was out working. Some days, this was a nice place to think. But, on days when it was 4:30 am, knowing I would be late to my classroom, it was frustrating.

This was farm life, and I miss it like hell some days. Not the work. Just the pace of so many things accomplished in such a healthy, beautiful environment. Through it all, VST and I were everything to each other, because no one else could really understand what was on the line. Not even the kids. We were working in two full time professional careers to support the little farm that devoured our paychecks like a certain widow gobbles Whoppers out of the Halloween candy bag.

One day, I got a card in the mail from the store that holds the Parade in New York every year. You know the one. I had been selected to join their exclusive “Bra and Panty Club”. Elation filled my heart. If I bought five the sixth was free. Even better. The thought was in my brain, waiting for the 5th of the month. No, not the day of B & P sale. Irrigation occured from the 1-4th. So, the 5th was a special day in our life. The ranch was under irrigation water. To wet to disc, furrow, or in any way touch. The 5th and 6th were our days of rest. In the entire month. Two days, which were most likely on a week day, in which we were working our real jobs. Get the picture?

VST and I had planned to meet at the mall with my boys for dinner. They were at the age of easy embarrassment, the three of them. VST and I hated shopping for different reasons. I found it tedious and still do. VST, even then, couldn’t stand very long without having back issues. The boys were just adorable lanky, goofy pre-teens that were happy to go anywhere. We were all Fresno tanned. The boys had golden buzz cuts and manners grown on the farm. Good ones you don’t often see today.

After dinner I announced that I wanted to go to the afore mentioned store and they agreed. Marching straight to the escalator, I sensed no hesitation in my group. They followed willingly. At the top of the escalator, I made a right, and sensed that I was suddenly alone, with my tribe frozen a few feet behind me. I was at the Lingerie department and the three male types with me were mortified.

I moved on little cat feet to the most beautiful bras I had ever seen. The finest lace in deliciously soft and feminine colors. Every part of these were a work of art. I had only read about the comfort I would experience when wearing one. The lace was from Italy. The hooks were painted and delicate. All of it screamed GIRL!!!!! After discovering a perfect fit on my young and svelte 30-something body, I bought two. One pink and one pinker.

Smiling ear to ear, I summoned the man of the group to come forward. As a farmer, I didn’t prefer to carry a purse. I had no time or need for the things most women carry in them. VST had a marvelous devise called a wallet, in which he held everything I needed for payment. It worked beautifully for us. Except, in this case, the cashier was a ravishing beauty, and this was the Bra and Panty Department. The boys hid behind his legs, red as little beets.

“Sir, are you a member our exclusive Bra and Panty Club?”

Forever will this moment be one that makes me laugh at the memory.

“Uhhhh.” Before he could speak, the little card that had been waiting in my jeans pocket was thrust past VST towards the minx-y cashier. “YES!” I blurted out! And right then, I lost the three of them. They were beyond saving, being mortified and slain by the mother. The beautiful woman said the words BRA AND PANTY. There was a CLUB for this?????? Silence as the exquisite purchase lay waiting for payment.

We paid as much for those two bras as we did for a gallon of farm grade Roundup. This was not lost on VST as the sideways glances of “We Will Be Talking Budget” were shooting my way. I smiled. I was a card carrying member of the EXCLUSIVE BRA AND PANTY CLUB, and I knew he wouldn’t deny me. I was right.

A few weeks ago, I had my first real shopping trip with a girlfriend. I can honestly say it has been decades since I lunched with one gal pal, gossiped, laughed, and walked the mall. Foreign territory and so much fun. She had to keep guiding me on the Covid-arrowed path, as we walked toward the afore mentioned store, modern and different, and yet exactly the same as all those years ago. We went upstairs, just like before, to the lingerie department specifically because I was planning to buy THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BRA in the store. Italian lace, the finest hooks, delicate, and exquisite.

I went to the section selling the same brand I had purchased when in THE CLUB. After looking at every single style, I took two to the dressing room. I noticed the fabric was of cheap quality. The lace polyester and computer generated. The hooks were grey metal. Plastic was involved in the construction. I sighed thinking of how things had changed, even in the bra world.

Upon trying them on, I realized a lot had changed in my world, too. And not in a good way. The mirror in the dressing room didn’t lie. Farming had been great exercise, but, any 30-something farmer girl can put on any bra and look stunning. I was stunned, but for entirely different reasons.

My bras today come from Walmart. They are 100% cotton. They cover what they need to cover and keep their shape when washed with the towels and my jeans. One bra costs what the tax would have been on the expensive one. They are new and beautiful, because I can afford to discard them the moment they aren’t. They are functional and absorbent. Durable and trustworthy. I don’t need to belong to a club to run into Walmart and buy them. Their label sends me a shout out to the farmer girl in me still, as the word FRUIT is on them somewhere.

In the heavens, VST is shaking his head, wishing I had some common sense that day so long ago, when I was a card carrying member of the EXCLUSIVE BRA AND PANTY CLUB.

Once, 44 years ago, I was 20. Beautiful, naive, nice, naughty, and quite plainly, a very stupid girl. I ran with a boy of which I had nothing in common. A dangerous young man more worldly than I. Not someone that I loved in the right way. Being foolish, I chose foolishly those that I would spend time with. He may have been the worst choice of my life.

We had decided to run away to a high, deserted Sierra lake for a few days in autumn. In the olden days of the 1900’s, that was still possible to do. This lake was pristine and deserted. We drove to a camping spot, and, indeed were the only couple on the lake. We set up a tiny little tent for two. Very nice, except, the boy was still the same person, and no matter the setting, wrong for me.

Twilight was not far off, after a day of arguing about the particulars of our camping experience, and I needed a walk. Being mad enough, I stormed off towards the water’s edge and clapped back that I would return in a bit, before dark. Being a hot head, I walked downhill toward the water, which was peaking through the trees, as steam trailed out my ears. I made a small miscalculation. In my anger, I didn’t take note of my surroundings. I just walked toward the water.

It had been an extreme summer, and the rains had not yet started. Halloween was in a week, but I already felt like Dracula’s bride. Ready to go for the jugular. Leave no survivor at the campsite. I knew this relationship would end that way, and thinking of the next two days with this person had soured my thoughts. Walk I did, right to the water’s edge.

The sun was going down over the granite peaks towering around the tiny lake. It was a beautiful setting as the colors were changing from daytime brilliance to twighlight shades of purples and blues. I walked a distance throwing rocks into the lake. Not skipping them. Having no brothers, I never learned that skill. Just throwing them with great passion, envisioning his head as my target. One after another. Stop. Bend over. Pick up Rock. Throw it like crazy. Walk. Repeat. Each splash echoed, the sound hanging in the air for just the tiniest bit. Silence would return. The kind in which you can really hear yourself think.

I don’t know how long this went on, but, when I had cooled off, the sun had gone down. A tiny bit of light still helped me to avoid the piece of barbed wire fencing I had stepped over earlier. The boulders by the shore were still visible, but the light was fading fast. Canis lantrans were in the area, as I heard a plaintive wail in the distance, answered by another on the other side of the lake. It was then I realized the error of my ways.

The level of the lake was at autumn’s low. There was a band of land, 50 yards and rather steep up to a dense wall of trees, in which we were camping. Somewhere. This band of land was decomposed granite over granite slabs. All the way up to the forest. I had no idea how far I had walked, or where I had emerged from the trees. I had no flashlight. No whistle. I tripped on another piece of barbed wire, and now, I was sufficiently freaking out. It was night fall.

I searched for any sign of our camp. A small glow of light. A little smoke. A noise or voice calling for me. Nothing. Another plaintive wail, closer, but still not close. A reply. And silence.

I started calling to the camping mate. Just calling at first. Within a few minutes yelling my head off. The echos across the lake were distracting. The wails were a bit closer. My pounding heart pumped adrenaline with each beat as I called over and over for help. I fell on a boulder I didn’t see. Prostrate, the sand stuck to my tears. At this point I was helpless and alone in a place so dark I could only see the black outline of the trees against the starry sky . I laid there and cried. Exhausted.

Finally, way down the water’s edge, I saw him walking towards me. Even though he was the reason I had left camp, I called to him, so glad that he was the one to find me. He had marked the trail back to camp and helped me clean and bandage a nasty scratch on my leg, advising me that it was prudent to mark a return trail when one was camping in dense forest. I never hated/loved anyone so much as I hated/loved him at at that very moment in time.

I relate that story to you, because that is like the grief I find myself working now. In the daytime of grieving, there are beautiful lakes full of possibilities. I can kayak, swim, or just lay in the sun. They can feed me delicious trout. Their beauty soothes my soul. The softest winds rustle tall, protective trees. The colors dance and change throughout the day with the foundation of granite keeping my world in balance.

Without warning, night can come, and things are not as I remember them. There are boulders to trip on, or the sharp edges of memories that cut me until I bleed tears. Storms come, bringing waves to my calm lakes, demanding that I regroup and protect myself from lightning that can surely strike me dead. My heart races at the thoughts of storms that may come tomorrow, next week, or even in the winter. I lay prostrate, with sandy tears of grief. There is no one to call to. No light in the distance, because, I find myself camping alone in this wilderness.

Just as quickly, my own voice reassures me that for this moment in time, everything is as it should be. I am getting stronger every day, learning about the resilience I hold inside. My friends and family come out of the woods with phone calls and cards, checking on me to make sure the sun still shines on my world. Oliver stays close with puppy hugs and kisses. My campsite is well lit, and the path marked with the way back to safety.

As I am making my way through this wilderness, I am finding larger stretches of meadows and light. Sweet grasses on which to lay provide rest in the sunshine. But, I am very away that a patch of woods can stop me in my tracks at any moment. I have a great internal compass and God will show me the way. When the going gets tough, God will carry me to camp. I know this because he has, many times already.

If you find yourself in the dark, call for friends and family. They are right there, sitting around the campsite waiting for you with hugs and bandaids of love. Try not to leave camp angry and remember to mark your trail.