Category: 2020

Yesterday, with the internet down, I visited VC. My friend, Mr. MudDuck, MMD, was visiting, and we decided to venture out to buy a cowboy hat, as his had been lost. VC is a great place for such purchases, with hats ranging in cost from $30 all the way up to $Thousands.

The weather was a beautiful golden day, with autumn leaves showing their color all the way up Six Mile Canyon. Bright blue skies were above the beautiful mountains surrounding VC. Sugarloaf Mountain watched over the town, already bustling with tourists by 11:45. The usual fight to find a parking space was on, and we parked toward the south end of town and walked back to the hat shop.

So many choices were on display. Stetsons, straw or wool felt, in every type of brim possible. Black, tan, grey, brown, and every color in between. We were in hat heaven and, after a thorough search, settled on a chocolate-brown Stetson that fit just right. Happy with the purchase, we walked around town a bit, and I went into the post office to check my mailbox, which was empty. I guess it is time that I relinquish my keys and the box to the Post Mistress, giving up my last physical tie to VC.

Noon had passed, and we were both hungry. We decided to visit the restaurant that had kept me fed while VST was so ill, and after he was gone. The owners had been so gracious, watching over me and making sure my orders were hot and fresh when I picked them up. We both ordered the Gospel Fried Chicken with mashed potatoes, gravy, and cole slaw, which was just the best.

They seated us by the window in front of the 100-mile view, while the ghosts of so many meals past ran through my head. How many times VST and I had eaten there with all the A Street Gang and the former owners. So many special parties had been celebrated there. Just last January, VST and I enjoyed a meal and announced that we were planning to stay in VC for at least another year. I remember the neighbors all happily cheering. It was then that VST announced that our house had a name that he had chosen. The DunMovin House. Period. Because we were DUN MOVIN.

At the end of our lunch, the new owners brought us a piece of cheesecake to share. When VST was so sick, and after he had passed, I would call in my orders on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. So many times, there was a piece of cheesecake included, just because. Just because they knew my heart was breaking. Because they knew it would make me feel even a little bit better. Because they cared so much. That cheesecake was LOVE.

MMD had mentioned that perhaps we could stay in VC for the night, so it was the perfect time to take a ride around town. I found myself driving right up to A Street to view the Cobb Mansion, a lovely old Victorian that would be a nice place to spend the night. I kept traveling down A Street past neighbors, thinking of all the memories six years could hold. It had been impossible for me to return even for a few minutes until recently, and now, there I was, almost to our old house.

The new owners obviously loved her as much as we had, and she looked just the same. MMD commented on the deck and how fantastic the view must be from up there. I assured him it was. An, the, I saw. I burst into ugly cry, almost driving off the road as we went past. MMD didn’t understand what I had seen that he hadn’t, and besides, wouldn’t have understood what made the tears flow instantly.

To go back in time, VST had passed, and it was Friday of my moving weekend. T and K were visiting to help with the move when the phone rang. It was the new buyers asking if they could stop by. It was the perfect time for them to do so, as I had time to show them lots of details about the house.

During their visit, the topic of naming houses came up. I mentioned to them that although there was no plaque on the house, VST had indeed named it DunMovin. I shared the story of the day at the restaurant with the neighbors around us, who listened intently.

“Well, this is interesting, because on the way to see you tonight, we were having a discussion about what to name the house. We couldn’t come up with anything,” said Jim. ‘How would this name have been spelled?”

“DunMovin.”

“Just as I would have spelled it myself.” He smiled. “We shall name the house ‘DunMovin’ in honor of VST.” Just like that.

Getting back to yesterday….. I was looking at the top deck when my gaze fell to the front door on the bottom floor. To the side, in at least 10″ letters, was the name “DunMovin” in flat black metal, sharp and crisp. It was that I lost it. Well done, VST, well done.

That part of my life is finished. Like a deliciously wonderful novel, in which the reader slows their pace to make it last longer. It was the most beautiful story lived in real life together there on A Street. In fact, VST was DunMovin here on earth, and has moved on into his new heavenly digs. I pray the new owners find every bit of sweet loveliness built into all VST’s projects with skill and perfection. I hope it wraps them with comfort, as it did us.

DunMovin House, A Street, Virginia City, Nevada. Go see her. She is magnificent.

It’s amazing how many shortcuts I have discovered during my years in Nevada. They hide in plain sight unless you know them, and once you do, they are your first choice. Ramsey Weeks Cutoff. Turn right at the red barn. Left at the biggest cottonwood, not the one that is dead. Down the dirt road until you come to a fork in the river, and then, there you are. Nevada is full of shortcuts, often convenient. Sometimes the roads are not groomed, or even there at all. Dirt roads, gravel roads, ways unknown to Garmin. Ways full of the most amazing sights and sounds are saved for those who know.

VST hated new shortcuts. It takes trust to turn onto a road, hoping it joins up to the main highway somewhere along the way. Therein was the problem. VST was a black-and-white guy who wanted everything mapped out before the Jeep ever left the driveway. ETD and ETA were always calculated along with the approximate time between them. He measured minutes like gold, maximizing time and squeezing as much out of life as he possibly could. I find myself not as good at this.

Now, the shortcut for which I am searching doesn’t exist anymore, nor does teleportation. A turnoff from unexpected grief and sadness. The road through my wilderness is odd. Things can be going along great, even marvelous. New friends. Unexpected phone calls. Welcomed visits. Happiness. Calm and quiet. But for the briefest moments, terror in the dark woods. Fleeting thoughts dangle. What if? When? How will I? Why? How could it? Where are you? Treacherous obstacles that can trip up the most solid individual, resulting in racing hearts and sweaty palms.

I navigate through, hoping to avoid a fall and a massive head injury, or worse. Sooner than soon, the path clears and I arrive at new and wonderful destinations. Thankfully, there are fewer detours these days. But they arrive when they want to, not exactly because I have chosen to turn in that direction.

It is said that grief will not be denied, lest it be there to fester later, like an unhealed wound. This worries me. These days, approaching Month 8, I find myself content and happy. I look around and marvel at the semblance of order I see in my day-to-day life. It is similar to my old life, but a new life all its own. I look at pictures on the wall hanging in new groupings or in places they’ve never been before. A picture of a “kitchen” now hangs in the bedroom. A favorite vase always in the china hutch now hugs fresh flowers on my dining room table. New perspectives on old belongings. Every aspect of my life is now mine to decide. I own the results.

Anger has eluded me so far. I question what exactly I should be angry about? I suppose I could sit on that bench for a while, rolling around in Anger-ville, but it seems pointless. It also seems a shame to cloud wonderful years of my life with bitterness. For any dark thought, I can always come up with comforting thoughts of gratitude.

VST was a proud, stoic, funny, intelligent guy. I must believe in my heart that his passing was exactly as he chose. He had been sick for longer than we had embraced the reality. Looking back, the visions of things to come were appearing on lonely nights in Cheyenne, and even on the bluffs of San Simeon. Unidentified and years prior to death, there were cancerous moments that remained unexplained until, in retrospect, everything became clear. If we had discovered the end years before, the end would still have arrived. Cholangiocarcinoma will not be mitigated or denied. Like seeing an unavoidable car crash from years before, while speeding towards the inevitable with eyes wide open. I am thankful that our car crash was immediate and final, and I know VST felt the same.

This road of grief will lead me through different landscapes, but I am still in control of myself. For those moments when it becomes overwhelming, I know God will walk with me through the worst and heal me. Knowing that, I continue on.

_{Note–Today’s piece includes bolded words from a song I listened to last night (ALL BOLDED WORDS WRITTEN BY JONI MITCHELL). One of the most beautiful pieces by Joni Mitchell, I had never heard it before. If interested, Google “Joni Mitchell, Come In From The Cold”. It speaks about me at this time in my life. But then, it’s Joni, my soul sister. Thank you for being patient with my creative endeavor. Enjoy.}

I FEAR THIS SENTENCE OF SOLITUDE, TWO HUNDRED YEARS ON HOLD.

Frost will not be denied. Near Halloween, its killing ways come a few days earlier or later, but always with immediate results. The last few days of balmy autumn are behind us, and the mornings are frigid. I haven’t been paying attention, finding my happiness in the sunshine rays of late mornings and laughter at my own watering hole with MMD. Just forgetting anything but moments now.

OH, AND ALL WE EVER WANTED WAS TO COME IN FROM THE COLD.

I AM NOT A STONE COMMISSION, LIKE A STATUE IN THE PARK.

As the cold came upon the high desert the last few days, the winds grounded Goodbye. I had time to relax at the pod and get to know MMD better. A good thing and a bad thing all mixed up in a pile of leaves. Winter is almost here, bringing early darkness and snow. No matter who the visitors are, the cold will turn them away towards warmer places.

In just the time it took for my gaze to turn upward and see MMD drop from the sky in a Bonanza of possibilities until today’s farewell, my yard has taken on a new look. It morphs overnight, reminding me of the dying spring last with VST. Leaves that were golden and beautiful now cover the ground in brownish-grays. The bone-chilling reality of winter’s approach is here, and I must say, I feel a bit threatened and alone.

LONG BLUE SHADOWS OF mustangs, grasses grazed on by the road, OH ALL WE EVER WANTED WAS TO COME IN FROM THE COLD.

Days have passed, and truly, the laughter has been the healthiest of medicines for me. I’m a realistic woman, knowing that when happiness lights on your shoulder, you need to embrace the moment and enjoy it. The chance for real communication shouldn’t be ignored or squandered. Meeting at a pond doesn’t guarantee anything except some water and rest, for lifetime alliances take years to create. Just facts of life at the watering hole.

DOES HIS SMILE’S COVERT COMPLEXITY DEBASE AS IT ADMIRES? (JUST A FLU WITH A FEVER?) ARE YOU CHECKING OUT YOUR MOJO, OR AM I JUST FIGHTING OFF GROWING OLD (JUST A HIGH FEVER)? ALL WE EVER WANTED WAS TO COME IN FROM THE COLD.

I often question how MMD and I both appeared at the watering hole of internet dating at the right time to find each other. He, the polymath. Me, the sapiosexual. (Please look up the terms before judging.) Months have passed, and I’m not tired of his quick wit and intelligence. The watering hole has been an interesting place to hang out, but one never lives their life on the run. That fact is not lost on me.

I KNOW WE WILL NEVER BE PERFECT, NEVER ENTIRELY CLEAR. WE WILL GET HURT, AND WE WILL JUST PANIC. AND WE will STRIKE OUT OF FEAR. (YOU WERE ONLY BEING KIND).

So, MMD will migrate again today, heading westward to a life not parallel to mine. For now, our lives can only intersect at future points. Initial loneliness at the watering hole will diminish as new memories appear from far and wide, just to settle, drink, and rest awhile. For now, there are plenty of leaves to rake.

I FEAR THE SENTENCE OF SOLITUDE, TWO HUNDRED YEARS ON HOLD. OH, AND ALL WE EVER WANTED WAS TO COME IN FROM THE COLD.

Goodbye. Such a word. Sometimes Bye is a Good thing. Many times not. Yesterday was both. Good, because the reality is that MMD and I have very full and busy lives that need tending. Business, writing, family, friends, and our day-to-day existence are all outside the bubble we placed ourselves in for a few days. Not so good for the obvious reasons you might think. We had a wonderful time just being mud ducks. Yesterday, there were no outward tears, only promises of a return. With that, he took flight and was gone.

Coming home to the empty house just was. Not anything descriptive. It just WAS. Everything the same as before, just quiet. A cup of coffee, half-filled and cold. A bar stool askew. Laundry in mid-cycle. Dishes in the sink. Evidence of activity only hours old.

I sat in the recliner with Oliver and thought for a while. Just took inventory of the events from Saturday past until now. Every little detail, joke, and look. I filed them in my brain for easy retrieval, while periodically texting with MMD as he flew over the desert I love so much. Hawthorne, Mina, Luning, Tonopah, Goldfield, Beatty. Places I have eaten and slept, but never seen from the air.

The rest of the day was spent resting. I finished watching The King and I, and, sadly, the King still died. I stretched a Subway sandwich between lunch and dinner. I held Oliver and told him secrets he assured me he would hold dear. With some things he agreed, with others he gave me his judgmental gaze, before promptly falling asleep from sheer and utter boredom. With little else to occupy my time, writing brought solace through thoughts and words swirling in my head. MMD had landed safely, while focus and clarity settled my soul.

At 4:20, my phone alerted that a text had arrived. I always like to guess who is contacting me before looking. The list of possibilities is short, but I didn’t expect this.

On the screen flashed one picture; no text was needed.

The visual was confirmation that I HAD seen the name on the house. I could really drink this in without being considered a stalker. The image was so perfect. In my mind, there was nothing that would symbolize VST better than two mustangs in a clearing, surrounded by trees. We had found a safe place to settle and rest, protected from the dangerous elements of our world. Although we were part of a much larger herd, for a time we traveled alone, enjoying the fresh grass and each other. That sign said everything VST would have wanted it to say, and yet it was chosen by the new owners for their own stories and reasons.

How did Mrs. know that this would mean the world to me? How did she decide to send it at just the right moment? Did she see me at the moment I saw this for the first time? I had been so stunned that I didn’t notice if anyone was present. She couldn’t have known that this visual would bring me back to the wonderful day MMD and I had shared on Sunday. Her thoughtfulness and sweet soul, I first met when I found a still-warm loaf of bread left at the back door after VST had died. I had cried the ugly cry then, too, in the midst of Covid solitude and grief.

The picture reminded me that I stood so many times eating grapes at the top step from a very abused and neglected vine that, in spite of that, provided summer sweetness. I spent hours painting railings and trim, washing windows, and spraying the patio to prepare this home for them. The perfect naming spot had always been right where they hung their plaque; we just hadn’t known that.

I immediately sent her a text, thanking her for the picture and letting her know that the ugly cry had gotten me at first sight of something so unbelievably humbling and beautiful. I also sent her the link to the blog, saying the day had been documented under the name DunMovin. A few minutes later, she assured me that she, too, had experienced the ugly cry while reading it. Mrs. is a good, good woman. DunMovin is hers to love.

Virginia City, Nevada. She pulls all the strings. She knows things. Important things. Lasting things. She chooses her own. She keeps some people. She lets some go. I think maybe, just maybe, she had a little bit of compassion and sorrow at how things ended for me. She is making amends, and we are settling our differences, little by little, Virginia City, and I. Through the sweetness and grace of two very dear new owners, VST is smiling. There is a name on a place he loved so much. A perfect name for two that have come home, a perfect name remembering two that moved on. In that, I find peace.

I am living between wife and widow. Swaying towards the past, leaning into the future, trying to find my balance in the middle without a terrible fall. Rather like that childhood toy, the punching clown. If you have kids as old as mine, they might have had a similar toy when they were toddlers. A four-foot blow-up clown with a weighted bottom. Toddlers loved to punch the nose and send it flying backward, only for it to return and knock them down, resulting in giggles and “Do it again.”

I hate clowns. Grief is the worst of all. White-faced, exaggerated emotions, overly decorated to be one thing at all times, clowns can be any living thing underneath. Evil. Sad. Compromising. Denying. Angry. Bargaining. Depressed. Any real feelings might even be noticeable through the makeup, but the outward illusion dominates others’ focus. Anything at all can be painted on the outside. With clowns, you never know what you are going to get once inside. Just like grief. I REALLY hate clowns. Not to be trusted.

This Halloween, you won’t find me in the costume of a clown. Even though I feel like a clown toy as I bob and sway, my center is happiness. These days, I am anchored there most of the time. A gust of memories might blow me back a bit, but resilience helps me return to center. There are fewer times that memories of being the wife I am no longer disturb my peace. There are more times when the terror of aging widowhood sneaks up on me. I cannot let the old woman in.

We all have experienced it. A surprise visit from mother or grandmother in the mirror. It’s shocking to say the least. In my bathroom, I have a picture taken when VST and I had been married for a moment. This girl. Beautiful. In blue lace, with bluer eyes. A sweet girl in love, apparent in the expression she had for her VST photographer. The prettiest of pictures, that one is the one I think of as me. The reality is, those days are gone. The old woman has a foot hold and is setting up shop.

I never knew so many things could sink and sag at once. Grief has accelerated the process. New clothes, a bit of walking, staying busy, finding happiness, these things have all helped. But the truth of the matter is, I need to embrace the fact that I am of Medicare age. Signed up and waiting for December 16th, when I will be a part of that new system. I think the most similar experience for me was going into school as a kindergartner. A milestone in life. Now, I find myself a full-fledged, card-carrying, senior citizen.

Willie Nelson asked a great question. How old would you be if you didn’t know the day you were born? Some days, my answer would be 120. Other days 12. But his question made me realize that most days I would not say 65. My average would be somewhere in the mid-forties to fifties. Happy years that were so incredibly busy and full of careers, projects, and love.

The old woman at the door. I cannot let her rob me of my right to choose how I feel by pasting a number on my forehead. Life shouldn’t be defined by passing years. The moment doesn’t depend on a number, but on choices, opportunities, and experiences.

The kids, who are adults, came to help me on the 8th of October. They helped me make that day a beautiful celebration of 6 months of survival as a widow. They helped me make it a beautiful day of honoring their dad, 6 months an angel. We decided to decorate for Halloween. One of the things I selected was a paper which, obviously, flew into my door. Her flattened body can only be seen from the back, and she is hanging on my door. She has a new meaning. That is the old woman. Tried to get in. Smashed flat as a pancake on my door. Sorry, honey, the old woman needs to stay away for now.

This ageless woman has things to do. Words to write. A book to sell. She needs to see Hawaii about 50 more times. And go to Paris for the weekend, just once. She needs to love again. She needs to keep laughing and embrace life. There is no time for hours rocking away the day while wallowing somewhere between wife and widow. She needs to find the next in between. That place between Widow and Woman. Happiness is there. I know because I am spending days there. Sorry, Old Woman, there’s no time for you right now.

My widow-weight loss has been negated. I find comfort in food. Period. Especially Carbs. Can you relate here?

The days after VST died were a blur. Although no casseroles arrived at my door, the first thing that did was an amazing lemon cake. Moist and heavenly, adorned with a beautiful stenciled design out of powdered sugar. Of course, this was from our dear friends who had just retired after years at the restaurant in town. Just the perfect amount of flour, sugar, sweetness, and tartness. It went beautifully with a side of tears.

Cafe del Rio in VC really kept me alive for my last days there. Due to COVID, they were only open for dinner Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Those days, at 4:05, I would drive down to retrieve my lunch. Dinner—next day’s lunch. I am a huge fan of their Steak Tacos. You will not be disappointed. And better yet, the Gospel Fried Chicken. MMD is now a convert. The secret recipe is straight from heaven, along with mashed potatoes, the best slaw, and, of course, corn steamed and cut right from the cob. Truly a masterpiece.

Although I know I kept the fridge full, I really don’t remember much else. For those three days of the week, I had fresh, hot food. The rest of the time, I made do with whatever. It didn’t matter.

VST and I were always chasing the last 20 pounds. For two years, we were on the Keto Diet and did so well. VST trimmed off 50 pounds in a flash, and me 30. It was the way we enjoyed eating anyway. I made delightful recipes, including a cheesecake that tasted just like the real deal. We had lasagna, peanut butter cookies, and ice cream. We lost weight keeping our carbs at a measly 20. Just start looking at nutritional values. Even cold syrup has carbs. Lots of them. It was easy to eliminate most.

I loved my dieting buddy. We would both have cravings on the same day and decide together that it would be okay to stray from our diet. The next day, we would find our resolve and again get back on. I miss having my partner in dietary decisions.

Once I moved, life was different. I now live in civilization where it is possible to get food delivered to your door. What a concept!!!! I make a call. 20 minutes later, the hottest, freshest pizza arrives!!!!! Subway is just down the street. Chinese food? Ready in ten minutes with a phone call. Burgers so juicy they drip all over. The list goes on and on.

I can say Subway has done the most to sustain my life. One six-inch sandwich lasts for lunch and dinner, with a White Chocolate Macadamia Nut Cookie (a nod to the islands, of course), and a bag of Classic Lays on the side. I could exist on that for many weeks, and have. It is so my favorite that Subway catered the lunch for VST’s memorial. Always fresh and custom, they are my go-to place when I need two quick meals. I mean, JARED did it, right???

Things were going okay. My weight was good. I had lost 10 of the 20 pounds I needed to, and was feeling that I might actually “reduce excess poundage without risking overexertion” (an example in the dictionary for poundage, which I found so perfect). Overexertion is something I try to avoid at all costs, perhaps a topic for a future blog.

My downfall showed up in a box from Amazon. Cuisinart Ice Cream and Gelato Maker with a commercial-quality compressor-freezer and fully automatic operation. Oh My. In 30 minutes, this whips up the finest homemade ice cream ever. In all honesty, MMD, in one of our early conversations, inspired such a frivolous purchase. Any person in whom I would have the least bit of interest would need to demonstrate a true love of ice cream. Quite important research.

VST and I shared that love. As newlyweds, VST more than once went out at midnight for emergency hot fudge sundae supplies, coming home with all the trimmings. When things were just on the brink of falling apart at the ranch, a quick 25-minute drive into town to Baskin-Robbins would make things seem less dismal. The comfort in a cone would renew our resolve to fix our problems and move on. That never changed. Funny thing, we never invested in an ice cream maker. He would have loved this machine.

I discovered, on MMD’s last visit, that my recipe substituting Splenda is indeed a very good one. Perhaps now, Keto is back in my future. With this new recipe, the carbs will be very low, and the fat content very high. Again, VST is smiling for me.

With the ice cream problem fixed, I come to my next big appliance purchase of the month. The Ninja Foodi 5-in-1 Indoor Grill. Not 3-in-1 or 4-in-1. 5-in-1. It Sears. It Sizzles. It Air Fries. It Crisps. It Dehydrates. All with Cyclonic Grilling Technology. It is just flat-out amazing. So far, I have grilled steaks and hamburgers, both of which are delicious. I crisped a frozen quiche, and it, too, turned out wonderful. This is now on my favorite appliance list.

Cooking for one is nearly impossible and definitely not fun. With these two appliances, I am hoping that my diet will expand from 3″ Subway sandwiches 2x daily to some more interesting choices that are keto-friendly.

If you are thinking of trying Keto, be sure to consider the following.

1. Splenda substitutes for sugar pretty well in most recipes without too much change in taste or texture.
2. Almost every single recipe has a Keto adaptation online. Just Google what you want to make and look for a substitution.
3. Look for Sugar-Free condiments at the store. There is No-Sugar-Added Ketchup, Sugar-Free BBQ Sauce, and even Teriyaki Sauce, all of which are delicious.
4. Reece’s Sugar-Free Peanut Butter Cups are so satisfying. Just remember, the sweetener used has gastric consequences. Just sayin.

My favorite Peanut Butter Cookie recipe is the following.

1 cup of any peanut butter, 1 cup Splenda, 1 egg. Mix. Roll into balls and flatten with a fork. Bake at 350 for 10 minutes. Enjoy. They are also great if you add 1/3 cup of Hershey’s Sugar-Free Chocolate Chips. Yes, they have such a thing in the baking aisle.

Comfort foods. We need to find comfort where we can, when we can. Sometimes the extra pounds just need to be there for a bit while we find our way. Heck. Now that I remember the date, the diet can wait until TOMORROW!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!

Please indulge me with a horrifying bit of humor for the mind. Although Halloween was yesterday, as I write, we are technically still in Halloween night. The sun has yet to rise here in the Northwestern Nevadan Desert. Things are still creepy and eerie outside. The perfect setting for the story of ……………. The Rat.

It was just a year ago. VST and I had made a trip to the Central Coast in the rig. He was already acting a bit different, and I really personalized all the reasons that could be. We never expected there was a physical reason for the changes we both felt. I worried that we had entered a “30+ year curse” in which so many couples of our age found themselves. VST was clammy quiet but worried about everything.

VST’s favorite gadget was his Garmin navigation tools, having one in each vehicle. He would punch in every waypoint we intended on visiting, and home, as well. I sat in silent, hateful judgment of wires. I despise unsightly wires. He would drape them like party streamers until I finally just kept my disgust to myself. Behind his desk were balls of wires, all intertwined and covered with dust. They ran under his desk, between the television command center, and sometimes, right through the room.

On the dash of the RV, wires ran for the Blue Ox Braking system to the Jeep, following behind us. The satellite radio system had its own set of very long wires bringing us Willie’s Road House. Even the hand’s free phone system in the RV had wires. The Garmin completed this spaghetti-fied mess. I did my best to wrap and separate them until I decided I needed to contemplate why they bothered me so much. Probably a deeper psychological problem best left for another day.

When we arrived at our favorite coastal RV park the next day , we discovered that we had finally been awarded SPOT 1. Now, let me explain. SPOT 1 is the premium spot of the entire park. You are welcome to Google “Bella Vista by the Sea, Cayucos, Ca”. SPOT 1 is at the front of the park, with only a road and empty lot separating the camper from the entire magnificent view of the Pacific Ocean. SPOT 1 is the desire of all the other spots at this RV Park. It is randomly awarded based on empty status and your arrival date and time. We finally hit it right after three years. SPOT 1.

I happily set up shop while VST worked on water hoses and other things. More cords were inserted from plug to rig. Our satellite dish brought us Larame, Gunsmoke, Bonanza, and Channel 2 news from home. I set out hamburger to defrost, and in under an hour, we were living in SPOT 1. VST was still a ball of nerves after the long drive and offered to take Oliver for a walk on the pier. Ollie never turned down a walk, and off they went. VST with his braces, cowboy hat, and cane, and one very happy little dog. I can see them now on their jaunty way. Jaunty–expressing a lively, cheerful, self-confident manner. Boy does that word fit. I always smiled when I saw them head for the pier, which was right outside our window. Did I mention we were in SPOT 1?????????

That evening, VST started worrying in earnest. There was a storm on the horizon. A bad one. The first of the season. Although Cayucos was unbothered, the Eastern Sierras and Northwestern Nevada would be hit hard. High winds. Snow. We could be trapped like the Donner Party. The storm was predicted for the day after our plans would take us home. THE DAY AFTER!!!! Nestled into SPOT 1, it was a restless night of tossing and turning.

May I interject. VST and I had an ongoing difference about living in the moment. No matter how he tried, and try he did, VST could not enjoy the peaceful nature of an “in the moment” experience. He was always “HOPING FOR THE FUTURE AND WORRYING ABOUT THE PAST”, in Joni’s words. This could be so frustrating when driving through miles on U.S Route 395, through some of the most beautiful scenery in the entire US with antlered elk grazing along the road. VST would be mind-locked in worries about weather two weeks away.

On our first beach morning, breakfast was lacking energy. It was as if the miracle of SPOT 1 had an energy drain to it. The day was full of distractions and more weather talk. I was finding the trip tedious and stress producing, so I turned to my novel and the sunshine on the entire lawn we enjoyed because we had been given SPOT 1. Other campers would walk by with looks of disgust, thinking we had purchased our way into heaven. A couple actually stopped to ask how they could reserve such a spot. VST just worked Weather Bug with a worried face, noting the the predictions for the storm had been moved up. The storm would begin in 32 hours.

Moving the rig from VC to Cayucos and back involved four days: two going, two coming, and 1,200 miles of gas and money. It involved going over Tehachapi and Montgomery passes. It involved at least two RV parks, and lots of patience. It also involved 20 hours of driving on VST’s part. My point being, going to Cayucos was a commitment we liked to make for 10 days. Otherwise, the trip was just to involved.

The next morning, as soon as I opened my eyes, VST was looking into them.

“Honey, we need to leave tomorrow morning. As early as possible. The storm is huge.”

“Okay.” It was all that I could come up with at that moment.

When preparing to leave, I like to have a few hours ahead to slowly repack the rig and savour the memories made. So, Oliver and VST left for their walk and I started to bag laundry, and do a bit of cleaning to make negative energy productive. They returned sooner than I had expected.

“Honey, if we’re leaving tomorrow, can we leave today at noon?”

There were just no words. Use your imagination at my frustration and his hopefulness all rolled into one at this very moment.

I am a creature of habit, majorly OCD about some things. The rig was ready to go in no time, without my little routines included. With my irritation and his desire to get on the road, it actually went rather quickly. We were driving down the road to home around noon. On Hwy. 46, to Hwy. 41, to the road to Wasco, towards Bakersfield and beyond. I was looking at my phone. No longer in the moment, I was trying to divert angry steam to some sort of useful energy. Possible new Keto recipes? Christmas decorating tips? New emails?

When.

I.

Saw.

It.

THE. RAT.

YES. A FULL SIZED NORWEGIAN ROOF RAT.

SITTING ON OUR BEAUTIFUL DASH. WITH BLOOD COMING FROM THE NOSE.

STARING AT ME. IN THE EYES.

Horrified, I turned to see VST had seen it at exactly the same time I had. He was now looking just as horrified. My first thought was of his cat-like reflexes. He could jump to grab it, thereby causing our rig to roll out of control and wreck. We were both frozen and fixated on this creature from hell. Still traveling at 55 mph+, VST didn’t move, but pulled off at the service station found at the next intersection, driving us to the back of the lot. The rat didn’t move. Like a laser through my skull, his beady little eyes never let his gaze drift from mine. It just sat there staring at me.

“What do you have to remove it?” VST quietly asked, still clutching the steering wheel.

I found the following. A pan lid and a wooden spoon. He could slide the rodent onto the lid and whisk it out of the rig. VST could do this. He was the man of the moment and capable of such acts of heroism.

The door opened, with a swish, whisk, whoosh, and “OH #$$%^^^$$”, he missed. The rat didn’t. And was now hiding under my seat. The terror increased.

VST didn’t waver in his resolve.

“Don’t worry, Darlin. We’re going to Walmart for supplies.” And off we went.

Our trip to Walmart was straight from Comedy Central. Of course, no one there could have known the problem we were desperate to fix. We bought the following. Large, long cuffed, impenetrable, fireproof, leather gloves intended for cleaning out fireplace ashes. BBQ tongs of the extended variety with shiny spikes for grabbing meat on the ends. An exceptionally large rat trap. A smaller glue filled variety, which caused much debate about the cruelty of being stuck in glue, versus having your neck snapped instantly. One mirror on a stick, created for looking under automobiles. And, a bag of peanut M & M’s. Because, every one of our endeavors went better when we shared a bag of peanut M & M’s.

We went with purpose across the vast parking lot. Both deeply entrenched in the moment. Our ROCKY moment. Our moment of victory against a lowly rat. Our moment of complete partnership towards one end goal. Elimination of the rat in the most efficient and humane way possible.

Upon entering the rig, the silence was deafening. Oliver did not make a whimper. Nor did he ever “RAT OUT” the intruder through its entire tenure in our rolling home. We would speak about this, he and I, after the resolution of the problem at hand.

My seat was checked with the extended mirror. NO RAT. (NR)

The couch was checked. NR. Under the table. NR. Behind the Bed. NR. Under the Bed. NR. Under the frig. NR.

The last place it could be was in the bathroom. Slowly, gently, quietly, we stood. Tongs in one gloved hand. VST crouched. Ready to attack. I slowly opened the door. Ever. So. Slowly……….. And……… Then ……… I …………… Saw……… It………. And………..

SSSSSSSCCCCCCRRREEEEEEAAAAAAAMMMMMEEED.

VST SWOOPPEDGRABBEDRANANDFLUNGTHESQUEALINGRATOUTOFTHERIG.

A more perfectly executed athletic maneuver I have never witnessed in my life. We embraced, nearly in tears. The threat had been eliminated and we needed to get out of dodge. We were in California. There could be a RAT RESCUE group and we could be arrested for WHATEVER. It is California, folks.

The trip home was less tense. VST was definitely in the moment after that. The tension and anger of the earlier morning was gone as we relived the moment in laughter. For the tiniest time, the present outweighed the coming storm. It was one of our funniest and finest moments, never knowing it was next to the last time I would be his wingman on some fantastical journey taken by us. VST, are forever my hero. A shrine is almost finished in the garage to honor the day you took HERO to an entirely new level.

Daylight savings arrived like an abrupt door closing in my face. I wasn’t expecting it to affect me this much. The sunset was at 4:54 pm yesterday. Oliver was wondering why his dinner was one hour later. The total darkness after the blue moon of Halloween was startling. This isn’t what I have experienced in winters past.

VST and I had a running debate for all the years we were married. He was a spring summer person, enjoying the fast pace the ranch and life demanded. He loved preparing for harvest from bud break until leaf fall. His skin turned the most beautiful caramel color, and he lived for shorts and tees after working in shirt and tie all day. Even on the hottest of Fresno summer days, his smile said it all. He was summer’s boy.

I, on the other hand, waited for the time to change back, giving me one more hour of precious sleep on that first day of change. I loved having dinner ready as night fell. I felt the silence of the vineyard, grabbing a few days of peace between the last crop and preparations for the next. The greedy vines could sit for just a moment while they went to sleep for the winter. There were a few weeks when they were not demanding all our attention. Winter held more vacation days, letting me nest in my red and green home, while wrapping up in my favorite sweaters and Uggs..

Once we retired, winter was a time we would flee in the RV. A run to Cayucos. Walks on the beach. Visits with my God Mother, TJ, and her friends in Cambria. Delicious Thanksgiving Dinner home cooked with A Street Friends in VC. Christmas. New Years. All with VST and I planning where the rig would take us next. Sitting at Bubba Gumps overlooking the Colorado River in Laughlin? Or walking along the cliffs observing the varying antics of the elephant seals near San Simeon. We always had something chosen to avoid the winter snows of VC. Something warm and sunny. I guess in doing so, I never was hit with darkness at 4:54. For if I was, it was in warm surroundings with the man I loved.

Now, the house has a different feel. Last night, I couldn’t get the lighting bright enough. The shows on TV were not for someone who has working brain. Oliver went into his nighttime surrender to deep sleep, sensing it was 6:30 instead of 5:30. I was too bothered by the extreme dark to even begin to think of sleep. Strange, because the dark has never bothered me before now.

I often laughed at old people that went to sleep with the sun. I’m understanding their rationale more today. For, in dreams, one can still travel to sunny, bright, warm places. Strolling along Waikiki beach, the tradewinds still blow over brilliant seas. In dreams, I can be anything but the old widow I find myself today, bundled in sweats and waiting for the morning sunshine to arrive.

This new dilemma will give me challenges to overcome, but, they are not insurmountable. Crafts, DYI Projects, and new books await. There are plenty of things to do to fill up the night other than sleeping. I will discover new hobbies and find beauty in the night.

I just wasn’t ready for No Color, No Contrast, on this blackest of mornings awaiting sunrise.

For those of you who have a dog, you already know. One big expense in your budget is your furry friend, especially if you are a widow. Oliver is my link between the W’s. Wife. Widow. Woman. If you are not a pet owner, please indulge me and try to understand that, to NPOs, it must seem that we PO’s have lost our minds.

My discount puppy was quite possibly the most wonderful Christmas present VST ever gave in his life. Although Oliver wasn’t a present, because you cannot make a present of perfect and pure love and friendship, Oliver was delivered into my arms in a snowy parking lot at the Atlantic Casino in the middle of an intense snowstorm on Christmas morning, 2018. That, in and of itself, spoke to VST’s determination to fill my arms with this little ball of fluff. He drove us carefully off the mountain in a blizzard. We both noted that at 4 months, Oliver wasn’t very small. Abominable Snowman Feet. Not Dachshund-ish at all. Not in any way except the stubborn one. Oliver was a unique and special puppy.

It wasn’t many hours before VST was the one asking if Oliver had enough toys. Over the next few days, VST selected the station that played Oliver’s favorite music, which was left on when we went on errands. It was VST who set the surveillance camera at the right angle to watch him as we had lunch at our favorite restaurant, making sure the camera had speaking options to calm Oliver if he was scared. VST made sure Oliver had the best bed. The comfiest blankets. Throughout their time together, the best walks.

So, in my “Wife Life”, Oliver became a link we didn’t even know we needed. We BOTH doted on this dog. He drove us both nuts. Potty training was a joint effort. We became a little triangle of a family, exchanging love at every angle. Oliver was trained to the rig, and a Rig Dog he became. He was faster than I at gas-guzzling pit stops with his bathroom breaks. A clean pee pad and a closed door were his only requirements. Oliver loved the beach as much as our own living room.

If you are considering a pet, start saving now, because having one can be quite expensive. It depends on your willingness and need to find ways to spend money on them. Most things are NOT necessary. Your pet will never know they are deprived unless you tell them, unless you deprive them of their meals and love. The rest is gravy. Oliver gets lots of gravy.

Yesterday’s vet appointment is a perfect example. I could take Oliver to the local Humane Society on Thursday. There, they give shots for a nominal fee. A vet is present and will answer questions. The documents are proof, and you are good to go. I could do that. There is one very close to the vet we visited. Many people also leave their dogs at home when they travel, paying the neighborhood kid $ a day to feed and play with the pooch. I have two neighborhood kids who would happily oblige.

When needed, Oliver goes to Doggie Day Camp in Carson City. His Doggie Hotel is more than an hour from here. I justify this because the kennel is as clean as my house. The guests are quiet and content. It is not a jail, but a respite from owners that can be quite annoying. I know Oliver will be safe and happy when I pick him up; hence, I don’t worry when he is there, and I am elsewhere. There is one more reason. Oliver’s vet is in the same building. So, if there WERE a problem, they would contact me immediately and provide necessary care. To me, this is a huge comfort, even though Oliver is 2 years old, healthy, and won’t be getting sick any time soon. Just in case, I chose this place, because in 2020, I had to use up my “Just In Case”-s on many unexpected horrors.

Due to COVID, the vet experience in Nevada is as follows. You drive up and phone the vet’s office. They answer and ask you for the patient’s name and a car description. A tech arrives at your car at the scheduled appointment time and asks many questions about COVID and your possible exposure. They take the dog. You wait in the car. When the appointment is done, you have the option to FaceTime with the Vet on an iPad a tech will bring to you. The exam is discussed.

Results of Oliver’s exam.

1. He is overweight. Now, he devours 1/3 cup of food 2x a day. Then, he eats his daily 5-calorie treats, fallen apples, my solar pathway lights, any bones lying around, his disposable water dishes, blankets, envelopes that might have fallen on the ground, and dust bunnies for dessert. He is better than a vacuum. What will happen when I cut down the portion to 1/4 cup, which is about 10 pieces of kibble? I bet I will look pretty darn enticing to the little dog. No can do. Oliver has lost 2 pounds to have a current weight of 23 pounds. He is not losing anymore.

2. Oliver growled at the vet as she was staring into his eyes with a bright, blinding, irritating, nasty exam light. I don’t blame him. I say this as a retired teacher, with no disrespect intended. REALLY????? This would be like me finding a parent in the parking lot to tell them their child growled at me with attitude four hours earlier in the classroom. Deal with it, Ms. Vet. That is why you get the big bucks. Did he bite you????????? She blabbed on about how Oliver’s eyes were exactly the same shade of green as her dog’s, except her dog weighs 100 pounds. Hey, Ms. Vet. Diet? I suggest you put those chubs on a diet. Growl on puppy.

So, after all the driving and waiting, I get the bill before I get Oliver back. $70 for a healthy dog exam, including the actual vaccination fee of $17.85. Go figure.

Bottom line. Oliver has been a bridge from Wife to Widow to Woman. As a widow during the last seven months, he has been my constant companion and tear mitigator. He is my blog editor. He makes me laugh when it seems I have forgotten how, and he snuggles and listens to my deepest secrets, which he will never share with anyone unless, of course, I cut his food to 1/4 cup twice a day. We shook on that deal. Whatever he needs, I will provide until our days on Earth together finish.

If you have a pet, go out today and get them something unexpected. It will be great for you both. Dollar Store has a great selection of all kinds of goodies, and of course, the sky is the limit from there. Spend time outside, but watch the solar path lights. They can slowly disappear. I have now found that they are a three-step adventure. The top provides yummy wires. The supporting tube full of squishy deliciousness. Then, for a little digging fun, the yummy stake.

Oliver. VST, you fill my heart, still, through the best gift ever given. Sending love your way, VST. Your Darlin’, Mrs. H

Yesterday began as a hopeful election day. It ended late into the night, the darkness of winter a stark reality. Hopeful. Optimistic. Upbeat. Positive. All these traits naturally hang around me like colorful flags waving in the breeze of my life. Not much breeze or flag flying this morning. Read on.

Doctors are not part of my routine. Anyone who knows me knows I have little interest in hanging out in a doctor’s office complaining, to whoever will listen, about my lumbago (which I don’t suffer from). If I break a bone, I will go to urgent care and get it set. Otherwise, I’m not interested in wasting time listening to someone’s educated opinion about all the things that may or may not BE wrong or GO wrong with MY body. I am in tune with my daily aches and pains, and will accept the outcome of MY decision on this. It is non-negotiable. With that being said, one would be correct in deducing that I do not take medications or vaccinations. I fully embrace the fact that my life may be shortened or extended as a result of this, my own personal decision.

I have self-quarantined like the rest of the world, and during my grief, this has given me privacy to do all the things grieving widows do. Yesterday, I found the following quote by Franz Wright from his book “Walking to Martha’s Vineyard”.

“Death doesn’t prevent me from loving you… Besides, in my opinion, you aren’t dead. (I know dead people, and you are not dead.) VST understands this logic completely.

Yesterday, a dear girlfriend and I decided to share lunch on election day. It had started out that we would share an evening election party, but after thinking about a very long drive on the Loneliest Highway in America, we decided against it. Two babes jetting out into the night in a White Jeep Wrangler along such a deserted highway would be asking for trouble. Include the fact that black horses crossing a highway on a blacker night spells instant death, and a lunch date seemed far more appropriate. Over spaghetti and garlic bread, we remembered our dear husbands, who were dear friends with each other. Miss Firecracker (FC) is a more recent widow than I am, and we had lots to share about our guys.

When I got home, I felt an electrical, sunburn-ish sensation on my right cheek in a localized area near my eye. Hmmmmm. It was uncomfortable and not something I could just ignore. It then hit me. My aversion to doctors had left me without an office to call. This situation can escalate to the level of a broken bone very quickly. At 2:00 pm, I had little time to sit around and wonder just “What? Oh, what?” the problem could be.

I sprang into action, not waiting another minute. I had an educated guess about what this could be. SHINGLES. This topic had been discussed with two different girlfriends in the past few days, and now their voices rang clear. “If it happens to you, DON’T wait.” At this point, my skin looked normal. Nothing to see there. But the underlying pain was not anything to mess with.

My newly acquired health card, issued as I await my 65th birthday, was in my wallet. Luckily, my plan includes a Tele-Doc feature. I quickly downloaded the app and phoned in. In less than two hours, I had spoken to a lovely physician of my choosing, had an antiviral prescription phoned in to the local pharmacy, driven to retrieve the medication, stopped and picked up a Subway sandwich, eaten dinner, and taken my first pill. 1,000 mg, 3x a day for 7 days. According to the doctor, if I’m lucky, taking this medication might prevent me from getting any blisters at all.

Lucky?????????? In 2020??????? Lucky would mean VST would still be here. Lucky would mean we would be yelling at election results together and mourning the loss of so many beautiful things about our country that are vanishing as I write this. Lucky would mean that my face doesn’t feel like it is on fire, with a dose of electricity running through it. Luck doesn’t seem to be hanging around my door too often these days.

Wait. That thinking needed to change immediately. I rebooted my brain.

I am thankful for the beautiful physician who confirmed what I already knew. I am thankful that I have the resources and awareness to get on medication before this gets worse. I am thankful that I am a healthy woman with a common, quite treatable ailment. I am thankful I have great friends who gave me a heads-up. I am thankful for my new Cuisinart Ice Cream maker, because everything is better with ice cream on the side.  I am thankful for election texts from kids who are really adults, not kids. I am thankful that God doesn’t give me more than I can handle.

Miracle of miracles, I am the luckiest woman in the world flying the flag of hopeful optimism again, even if the breeze barely blows right now.

Gratitude. Embrace it today. These are the scariest of times. Be Grateful for the beauty of your moments.